Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  really didn’t say anything that special, simply, ‘‘I look forward to our spending some time together soon.’’

  But it was enough for me.

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  I phoned Nick at around eight, figuring he’d be

  home by then. And he was.

  ‘‘Thank you! The flowers are gorgeous!’’

  He was obviously pleased. ‘‘I’m glad you like

  them,’’

  ‘‘You didn’t have to do that, you know.’’

  ‘‘But I wanted to. Uh, Dez, I hope that by making

  and then canceling our plans for this Saturday, I

  haven’t caused you to miss out on something else.’’

  Now, I don’t know for sure why I did it. I have a suspicion, though, that most women come into this

  world equipped with this special gene that prevents

  them from overlooking an opportunity like the one

  I’d just been handed. Anyhow, after a slight—but

  meaningful—pause, I proceeded to protest too much.

  ‘‘Oh, no. Don’t give it another thought. Please. I as

  sure you I didn’t pass up anything important.’’

  ‘‘That’s good,’’ Nick said evenly. But I have a feel

  ing this was because there really wasn’t much else he could say.

  The conversation ended with Nick’s promise to call

  the following week. He was anxious, he said, to set up another date as soon as he was certain his ex was, in fact, back in town.

  The grin was still on my face when I curled up in one of the living room chairs with a mystery by a

  ‘‘highly talented’’ new author. One of the attorneys at

  Gilbert and Sullivan had insisted on lending it to me.

  ‘‘You must read it. It’s absolutely wonderful,’’ she’d gushed. I swear, the woman practically had it winning

  the Edgar. Less than an hour later I put down the

  book in disgust. I didn’t object to all those dead bodies

  piling up, but the writer’s throwing in a dead animal?

  Well, that’s where I drew the line. (Okay, so I’m

  weird.)

  I was about to switch on the TV when the phone rang.

  ‘‘Ms. Desiree Shapiro?’’ an unfamiliar male voice

  inquired.

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  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘There’s something I need to ask you.’’

  ‘‘Who is this?’’

  ‘‘I can’t tell you that. Not until you answer a ques

  tion for me.’’

  ‘‘A question?’’ I repeated stupidly.

  ‘‘That’s right. Suppose I know something about

  what took place at Silver Oaks a couple of weeks ago.

  That’s not to say I actually do know anything. But, for argument’s sake, let’s say that I do. Understand?’’

  ‘‘Uh, sure, I understand. What’s your question?’’

  My heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear my own words.

  ‘‘If it so happened that I could provide you with that information, would you have to give the cops

  my name?’’

  Afraid of scaring the man off, I thought it best not to respond to this directly. ‘‘Are you in some sort of trouble with the law? Is that why you don’t want to identify yourself?’’ I was making these little clicking sounds when I spoke, the kind that come from your

  mouth’s being bone dry.

  My caller was indignant. ‘‘For your information,

  lady, I’ve never gotten so much as a parking ticket.’’

  ‘‘Well, why won’t you—? Wait. Are you in this

  country illegally or something? Is that it?’’

  ‘‘Do I sound like I am, for crying out loud?’’

  ‘‘No, but—’’

  ‘‘I was born in the good ole U.S. of America.’’ This

  proud declaration was followed by a short span of

  silence. Then: ‘‘But . . . well, there could be a problem

  about my girlfriend, who lives with me—we’ve been

  together over two years now. She’s an illegal. From

  Central America.’’

  ‘‘Listen, I’ll be honest with you. The police would require that I give them your name. In fact, they’d no

  doubt want to speak to you themselves. But they

  couldn’t be less interested in your girlfriend’s immigra

  tion status, honestly. Besides, I can’t see any reason for them to even learn she exists.’’

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  ‘‘But if they do find out about Marisol, would they report her to the INS?’’

  ‘‘Only if she robbed a bank.’’

  The man laughed halfheartedly. Following which

  there was another brief silence. Then he conceded

  with a certain amount of resignation, ‘‘I guess Domi

  nick had it straight after all—Dominick Gallo, I mean.

  The two of us are waiters at Silver Oaks, and Dom’s been on my case to do what he calls ‘the right thing’

  since this happened. ‘Maybe she put something in this

  Mrs. Morton’s water glass or fooled around with her

  salad,’ he said when I told him what I’d seen. But this

  was even before the police had any idea what caused her death. And then while he was away on vacation,

  Dom heard from one or two of the other waiters that

  Mrs. Morton really had been poisoned. And right

  away he got on the horn to bug me about spilling

  what I knew. But charity begins at home, correct?’’

  ‘‘Yes, but your coming forward won’t affect your

  home situation. Anyway, I’m glad you finally got in

  touch with me.’’

  ‘‘Hey, after you convinced my buddy that the dead

  lady practically walked on water, forget about it. He wouldn’t let up. I used to be married to this incredible

  nag, Ms. Shapiro, but trust me, these last coupla days Dom’s been making her look like a mute. Anyway,

  he kept yammering at me that I was worrying for

  nothing. And I did feel bad that, in a way, I was allowing somebody to get away with murder—particu

  larly once I found out that the victim was such a good

  person. Dom finally persuaded me to at least give you

  a call and talk to you.’’

  ‘‘I hope I’ve managed to reassure you.’’

  To my surprise, there was no further hesitation. At

  this point the man simply went into his story. ‘‘On the

  day of the murder, I was just walking into the dining room with the condiments when I saw somebody

  ducking out the side door—the staff uses the back

  entrance. I didn’t get a look at the woman’s face, but she was tall—very tall—and she was wearing a black

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  and-white outfit with a real short skirt. And oh, yeah, she had on this huge black hat.’’

  ‘‘And this was after the salads had been

  distributed?’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Maybe five, ten minutes later. To be on the

  safe side, though, I’d put the time I spotted her as between one o’clock, which is approximately when we

  finished laying out the salads, and one fifteen or even one twenty—that’s about when everyone came in to

  lunch.’’

  Hallelujah! I could have kissed the guy—whoever he was. Which reminded me: Who was he?

  ‘‘Uh, I can’t thank you enough for your help,

  Mr.—?’’

  ‘‘Dreher. Frank Dreher. And listen, I’m really sorry

  for not leveling with you when you questioned all of us at the club that day.
I didn’t like lying like that, but well, there was the situation with Marisol and—’’

  ‘‘The important thing,’’ I said, only too happy to

  give him absolution, ‘‘is that you made up for it

  tonight.’’

  Well, here it was. The confirmation I needed.

  I felt like singing at the top of my lungs. I felt like twirling around the room until I collapsed from ex

  haustion. But since I happen to be a tone-deaf klutz, I remained seated and picked up the phone instead.

  It was very unlikely Porchow would still be at the

  station, but certainly somebody there could get in

  touch with him and have him contact me.

  I laid the phone back down.

  What if the chief didn’t consider the evidence of

  that sterling American citizen Frank Dreher up to his standards, either?

  I mean, he could always cite an innocent reason for

  Lorraine’s having been in the dining room then. Like maybe she’d merely stepped in for a second to check on the seating arrangements.

  And this is when I realized there was no other way.

  I had to get my hands on that topaz ring.

  Chapter 39

  In view of the fact that I was about to embark

  on a mission, I didn’t go into the office on Wednes

  day. I did, however, remember to notify Jackie of

  my intention to play hooky. (I like to think I

  reported in to her because this was the courteous

  thing to do—and not a result of my being just plain chicken.)

  At any rate, I phoned Lorraine Corwin at her office

  at about ten, and she acted as if we’d been in touch on a regular basis.

  ‘‘Hi, Dez,’’ she said casually, ‘‘what’s up?’’

  ‘‘I have to see you, Lorraine.’’

  ‘‘Sounds serious. Can you give me a little hint as to

  what it’s about?’’

  ‘‘Allison.’’

  ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

  ‘‘I suppose you’re aware that the police are now

  looking at Allison for her sister-in-law’s murder.’’

  But she wasn’t. Aware, I mean. Apparently—and

  understandably—Allison hadn’t been too anxious to

  disclose the reason she’d come under suspicion, not

  even to her closest friends.

  ‘‘Oh, my God,’’ Lorraine whispered. And then she all

  but bellowed, ‘‘How the hell did they come up with that, for Christ’s sake! Never mind. When do you want to

  get together? I could meet you after work, say about five, five thirty?’’

  Well, that wouldn’t do at all. ‘‘I can’t make it then. I have an appointment that should last until eight

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  o’clock. I could stop off at your apartment at around eight thirty, though, if that’s okay with you.’’

  ‘‘Then eight thirty, it is.’’

  In the early afternoon I went down to the jewelry

  district on West Forty-seventh Street and canvassed

  the stores for a very large topaz ring. At the fifth shop

  I found one of fairly decent dimensions—although not

  quite in the category of Lorraine’s colossus. But I fig

  ured that if a person wasn’t really that focused on the

  ring, it just might serve my purpose. Anyhow, after a great deal of haggling, I got the price reduced to three

  hundred ten dollars.

  When I left with my new acquisition, the merchant’s

  thundering voice followed me out onto the sidewalk.

  ‘‘You’re a thief, lady, you know that? You committed

  highway robbery here today!’’

  Sitting in the taxi that evening, on my quest to ‘‘bor

  row’’ the murder ring, I was about as nervous as I’ve ever been in my life. I patted my handbag. Nestled

  inside, ready for action (heaven forbid!), was my

  trusty little .32-caliber security blanket, which I almost

  never carry and would probably faint if I had to fire. Still, it was a comfort to know it was there.

  I suppose it would have been smart to review my

  strategy. Only I didn’t exactly have one. The extent of my plan had been, first, to gain access to Lorraine’s

  apartment, which I was about to do. Then I’d have to

  learn where she kept her jewelry and somehow man

  age to substitute today’s purchase for the real thing in order to delay the woman’s discovering that her

  own ring was missing. These matters accomplished,

  I’d do my damnedest to persuade Porchow to submit

  Lorraine’s weapon of choice to toxicology.

  Now, as to explaining to him how the ring had come

  into my possession, the truth is, I hadn’t an idea in my head. At that point I also refused to contemplate any of the other issues that, sooner or later, could be staring me in the face. Such as what I’d do if I was

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  unable to locate the thing or if the good chief declined

  to have it tested or if the toxicologists failed to find any evidence of monkshood on it. I did concede, how

  ever, that in the latter two instances I’d have to dream

  up some sneaky way to return the ring—and, with any

  luck, before Lorraine realized that it wasn’t the genu

  ine article lying there in her jewelry box or drawer or wherever.

  But I’d worry about all that stuff when I had to. I mean, that ring was my one shot at apprehending Bob

  bie Jean’s killer. So I was going to get ahold of it—

  or die trying. (Although, hopefully, only in a manner of speaking.)

  The cab pulled up in front of one of those stately old buildings on the Upper West Side that, with some

  help from Publishers Clearing House, I’m looking for

  ward to living in one day. The doorman advised me

  that Ms. Corwin was expecting me and indicated the

  way to the wood-paneled elevator that would be deliv

  ering me to the twelfth floor.

  When I exited the car Lorraine was standing in her

  doorway, a few yards down the hall.

  Her height helped me identify her. I mean, I’d never

  seen the woman without a hat before.

  Anyhow, I noted that Lorraine Corwin had really

  lovely light brown hair, which tonight she was wearing

  down—parted in the middle and turned under at the

  shoulder. She was decked out in red satin lounging

  pajamas—low-cut, of course—and matching sky-high

  mules. To jazz up the outfit a bit, she sported a ruby ring the size of a doorknob on her left hand, three smaller rings on the other hand, and a wide gold cuff on her right upper arm. That’s not all, either. She also

  had on long, long gold earrings, and strategically placed to draw attention to her de´colletage (which

  hardly needed drawing attention to), was a large goldand-ruby brooch. All that was missing from tonight’s little ensemble was a feather boa.

  She bent down and gave me a hug. ‘‘Desiree, how

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  nice you look!’’ she exclaimed. Which was baloney. My lipstick had to be pretty much gone, considering all the lip gnawing I’d been doing on the ride over here. Plus, my hair was practically begging for its periodic rehennaing, and I was wearing an old and not particularly flattering gray dress with the hem coming down. (Klutz

  like, I’d caught my heel in it getting out of the cab.) I followed Lorraine into a large, high-ceilinged liv

  ing room dominated by a magnificent grand piano.

  And while the remainder of the furnishings
appeared

  to be antiques, for as much as I know they were just as likely decent reproductions. The upholstered pieces

  were covered in exactly the type of fabrics I would have anticipated that Lorraine would choose: velvets

  and brocades and damasks with a touch of faux suede

  thrown in—each in a different vibrant color. Instead

  of clashing, as I would have expected, however, this hodgepodge of color imparted a sense of exuberance

  to the space.

  ‘‘This is such a striking room,’’ I remarked. Lorraine beamed. ‘‘Would you care to see the rest

  of the apartment?’’

  I’d been spared the asking. ‘‘I would love to.’’

  She walked me through the adjoining dining room,

  then led the way into what was a very decent-size

  kitchen (particularly when you compared it to youknow-whose). After this, she steered me down a short corridor. On one wall was the bathroom and facing

  us, at the end of the hall, the bedroom.

  You would have had to see that room to believe

  it—it was so Lorraine. There was an ornate, king-size four-poster—the bedspread, canopy, and curtains of

  which were fashioned of the same purple chintz with

  enormous shocking-pink flowers. This same print was

  repeated in the window drapes and in the two pillows

  that adorned the pale pink moire´ chaise longue. And while you couldn’t really ignore de´cor like that, I didn’t pay that much attention to it, either. There was

  only one item here that was of interest to me then, and it was sitting atop the mahogany triple dresser.

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  Lorraine’s jewelry box.

  I’d been counting on its being out in the open like this. I mean, it has been my experience that the major

  ity of women do leave those things in plain sight—

  although they might hide their more costly pieces in a drawer or stash them away in a safe. From what I’d

  seen of Lorraine Corwin, however, I didn’t figure that

  there would be much she’d choose to keep hidden,

  jewelry-wise or otherwise. (Her recent little foray into

  murder excepted, naturally.)

  The one surprise was the jewelry box itself. Mahog

  any, like the bedroom furniture, with an inlaid motherof-pearl top, it must have been over a foot high. And—get this—it covered more than half the length

  of the dresser.

  ‘‘My jewel box seems to have caught your eye,’’