Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  Lorraine commented.

  I think I may have turned red, and I also forgot

  to breathe for a second. ‘‘I’ve never seen anything

  like it.’’

  ‘‘You never will, either. I designed it myself and

  had it made up a couple of years ago.’’

  ‘‘It’s really something.’’

  She smiled. ‘‘Isn’t it?’’

  Lorraine had excused herself to get us some refresh

  ments, instructing me to make myself comfortable in

  the meantime. Considering the state of my nerves, this

  was not as easy as it sounds. I took a seat on one of the armchairs (which was in the style of some Louis or other—I have no idea of his Roman numeral), posi

  tioning myself on the very edge as if poised for flight. My hostess soon returned with a large silver tray

  that held all the items for our little repast—including an elegant silver coffee service and a platter filled with

  an assortment of pastries. Setting the tray on the mar

  ble cocktail table that stood between the couch and

  the chairs, she devoted the next couple of minutes to dispensing the coffee. Following which she sat down

  on the sofa, her legs curled up under her. Putting her

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  cup to a pair of very red lips, she took only two or three sips before placing the delicate porcelain cup

  and saucer on the cocktail table.

  ‘‘Talk to me about Allie,’’ she said, looking at me earnestly.

  I chose my words carefully. ‘‘Not very long ago—

  earlier this year, I believe—she and Bobbie Jean had some sort of argument. I don’t know what it was

  about—Allison didn’t tell me—but anyway, right af

  terward, Bobbie Jean went to Hawaii on vacation.’’ I helped myself to a baba au rhum now, merely to col

  lect my thoughts (I swear!). But in spite of the pastry’s

  being quite delicious, I barely managed to swallow a bite of it. Which should give you a pretty good indica

  tion of how tense I was.

  ‘‘Well,’’ I continued a moment later, ‘‘for some rea

  son Allison wrote to her sister-in-law while she was away on that trip, kind of rehashing their dispute.

  They eventually straightened things out between them,

  but when the police were going through Bobbie Jean’s

  things, they came across the letter.’’

  ‘‘And that’s why Allie’s under suspicion?’’ Lorraine exploded. ‘‘Those ignorant bastards! Pardon my

  French. But after all, who didn’t have something against Bobbie Jean, for Christ’s sake!’’ She picked

  up her coffee cup and took a few more swallows.

  ‘‘Chief Porchow evidently feels that Allison is the

  only one with a motive that doesn’t date back years.’’

  ‘‘Big effing deal.’’

  ‘‘Apparently he puts a lot of stock in the fact that it occurred fairly recently. Plus, he has this witness. One of the guests spotted Allison coming down the

  hall that leads to the side entrance to the dining

  room—and this was around the time Bobbie Jean’s

  salad must have been doctored.’’

  Lorraine came close to dropping her cup. ‘‘Christ!’’

  she shouted. ‘‘So what? So she visited the little girls’

  room.’’ I winced. (Don’t you hate that expression?)

  ‘‘Allie couldn’t have been the only one who had to

  empty her bladder within those ten or fifteen minutes

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  or whatever. My God! What do you have to do to

  become the Forsythe chief of police—pass a test to

  prove that you’re the biggest dimwit on the eastern

  seaboard? Anyway, is that all the man’s got?’’

  ‘‘As far as I can gather. But there might be more. I honestly couldn’t say.’’

  ‘‘I’m absolutely stunned that Allie’s never mentioned

  a single word to me about what’s been going on.’’

  ‘‘Most likely that’s because she doesn’t want to

  worry any of her friends.’’

  ‘‘She talked to you, though,’’ Lorraine reminded me, making it sound like an accusation.

  ‘‘Only because I’m investigating the case, and it’s

  necessary that I be informed of something like that.’’

  ‘‘I presume I’m not supposed to let on that you

  repeated this to me.’’

  ‘‘It would probably be better if you didn’t.’’

  Lorraine nodded. ‘‘All right.’’ Then she said softly,

  ‘‘Allison must be terribly upset. And I can’t imagine what this must be doing to Wes. Mike, too.’’

  ‘‘Mike doesn’t know anything about it, but Wes

  is . . . he’s sick over it.’’

  Lorraine looked so stricken that for a fleeting mo

  ment I got the feeling she might be about to confess all and save me the trouble I’d scheduled for myself that night. But then she remarked, ‘‘I’m pleased that you decided to confide in me, but I’m not clear about

  what your purpose could be.’’

  ‘‘I’m hoping that if you have so much as the slight

  est suspicion regarding who really did poison Bobbie Jean, what’s happening to Allison will convince you

  to tell me about it.’’

  ‘‘You think I might be protecting somebody? Hon

  estly, Dez, I haven’t a clue who messed with that bitch’s

  food. But if Allie should ever be arrested—please, God,

  no’’—and she held up two crossed fingers—‘‘it wouldn’t

  shock me if the guilty party came forward.’’

  Was she speaking for herself? I wondered.

  It was very possible. But I wasn’t prepared to wait and find out if she’d deliver.

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  Well, I suppose I should just get it over with. I tried to keep my voice from quivering, and to some extent,

  I think I succeeded. ‘‘Uh, may I use your bathroom, Lorraine?’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ she responded, absently reaching for

  a pecan square.

  Snatching up my shoulder bag from the floor, I went

  quickly down that hall. After noisily opening and clos

  ing the bathroom door, I headed for the bedroom—

  and Lorraine Corwin’s jewelry box.

  I took a fast peek in the top drawer. Damn! Ear

  rings! But on the next try I hit pay dirt. The second drawer held the rings, each in its own little plushlined compartment. I had no trouble spotting the one I wanted in the third row—it was so much larger than

  the rings surrounding it. With shaking hands, I fum

  bled in my bag for the surrogate topaz and made the switch. It really wasn’t a bad replacement, I decided, taking a split second to appraise my purchase. And at

  least when the woman opened the drawer she

  wouldn’t be confronted with an empty space.

  And now I stealthily slipped down the hall to the

  bathroom. To authenticate my visit here, I hurriedly

  repaired my lipstick and combed my hair. I even

  flushed the toilet for good measure.

  A short while later I was back in the living room. I had to make a concentrated effort to avert my eyes from the shoulder bag, which I’d plunked down only

  inches from my chair.

  After spending the next few minutes fidgeting in my

  seat and listening to Lorraine heap impassioned curses

  on Porchow et al., I prepared to leave. ‘‘Thanks for seeing me, Lorraine. And if you should suddenly re

  member somet
hing . . .’’

  ‘‘You don’t have to say it.’’

  I stood up then, and in my haste (call it panic) to get out of there, tripped over my handbag.

  I didn’t wind up on the floor, but that would have

  been preferable to what did: half the stuff in the bag—

  including Lorraine’s ring and my .32.

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  What followed next seemed to take place in slow

  motion. I looked at the aforementioned items in hor

  ror. Lorraine looked at them in shock. Then, coming

  to life again, I scooped up the ring—there was no

  possibility of retrieving the gun; it was lying practically

  at Lorraine’s feet. And now I made a dash for the

  door. Yes, a dash. (It’s amazing what a little adrena

  line can do for your physical prowess.) But a loud

  ‘‘Hold it!’’ aborted my flight.

  I whirled around. Lorraine’s expression was grim—

  and she was pointing my own gun at me!

  ‘‘Give me the ring,’’ she said, oh-so-quietly. Ap

  proaching me, she held out her hand—the one that

  wasn’t otherwise occupied.

  ‘‘No,’’ I responded firmly. It just came out, believe me. Listen, there is absolutely no possibility of my ever receiving a medal for bravery.

  ‘‘Give it to me!’’ Lorraine repeated, more forcefully

  this time.

  I was about to comply (I told you I wasn’t very

  brave) when suddenly she peered down at the gun

  and shook her head. Then, to my amazement, she

  slipped the weapon into the pocket of her pajamas.

  ‘‘Shit. I can’t do this,’’ she muttered.

  And now she stared at me in wonder. ‘‘I thought I saw you ogling that ring when we had breakfast to

  gether that morning. But I never imagined I had let a goddamn kleptomaniac into my home. All right, De

  siree, take the damn ring if you like it so much. Al

  though why you’d pick on the citrine when I have so many other pieces that are worth far more doesn’t say

  a helluva lot for your savvy.’’

  The citrine? I unclenched my fist and stared into my palm. Sure enough, I’d helped myself to the wrong

  ring! (Well, it wasn’t as if I’d had all the time in the world, you know. And the bedroom light was pretty dim, and the two stones do resemble each other.) Tossing the ring onto a nearby table, I ran to the door as fast as these seldom-tested legs would permit.

  Chapter 40

  It was past ten when I arrived home. The first thing I did was to pour myself some wine—for medicinal

  purposes. To give you an idea of the shape I was in, I could almost hear my nerves jangle.

  I mean, it had been absolutely vital that I leave

  Lorraine’s with what I’d come there for. But I’d man

  aged to screw up. And it wasn’t easy, either. No mat

  ter how poor the bedroom lighting was and how

  rushed I felt, I still should have been able to identify the right ring. Listen, even in that brief look I’d had of the citrine later on, I could see that it wasn’t nearly

  as large as the topaz and, if I remembered correctly, it was quite a bit paler in color, too.

  God! What good was I if I couldn’t carry out a

  simple little crime like that!

  I had to concede, though, that there was one amus

  ing note in my confrontation with Lorraine: her as

  sumption that I’d coveted the citrine ever since our get-together at the coffee shop. She’d been wearing

  six rings that day, for heaven’s sake! Who could even sort them all out?

  At any rate, it was imperative that I get in touch with Porchow immediately. But it wasn’t until I’d

  drunk about half a glass of the merlot that I had the courage to make the call.

  I assumed he was long gone for the day, but I dialed

  the station house anyway, hoping to get a message to him. And guess what? Either he was working overtime

  or the guy had assigned himself to night duty again.

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  ‘‘This is Desiree Shapiro,’’ I said when he came on the line. ‘‘Uh, how are you, Chief Porchow?’’

  ‘‘Tolerable.’’ And then, an ample helping of sarcasm

  in his tone: ‘‘Just what is it you’d like me to do for you this time, Ms. Shapiro?’’

  Now, I’ve already mentioned my concerns about

  using Frank Dreher’s statement to induce the police

  to obtain a search warrant. But I had to give it a try. After all, in light of tonight’s fiasco, what were the chances I’d be able to latch onto that topaz ring my

  self? ‘‘Uh, I wanted you to know that there’s a witness

  who spotted Lorraine Corwin leaving the crime scene

  soon after the salads were put on the tables.’’

  A long, drawn-out silence followed. ‘‘And who is

  this witness?’’

  ‘‘He’s a waiter at Silver Oaks.’’

  ‘‘Correct me if I’m mistaken, Ms. Shapiro, but I

  thought we’d agreed that you’d back off this thing.’’

  What does he mean—‘‘agreed’’? Porchow was mak

  ing it sound as if it had been a mutual decision, for heaven’s sake. However, if there was a single worst

  moment to antagonize the man, this was that moment.

  ‘‘Oh, we did. And I have. But this one waiter was on vacation when I interviewed the staff at the club, so I left a message on his answering machine asking that

  he phone me when he returned from his trip. Of

  course, this was before you and I had our discussion.’’

  ‘‘And this individual has now admitted to you that

  he can place Ms. Corwin in the dining room just prior

  to lunch?’’

  ‘‘Well, no. Actually, when he called back he con

  vinced me that he hadn’t noticed anything of signifi

  cance that afternoon. But then we started to chat. And

  I got kind of preachy about how important it was that

  we all do everything we can to make certain that

  somebody who commits a crime like that is brought to justice. Evidently it struck a chord, because he badgered

  another waiter—his friend—into coming forward.’’

  ‘‘The friend, I take it, was the actual witness.’’

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  ‘‘Yes.’’

  ‘‘And he was obviously advised to contact you,

  rather than the law enforcement officials in charge of the investigation,’’ Porchow observed sourly. ‘‘At any rate, I presume you have the fellow’s name.’’

  ‘‘Frank Dreher.’’

  ‘‘Dreher . . . Dreher . . . That’s familiar. Hold on.’’

  For about a minute the only sound to reach my ears

  was that of papers rustling. Then the policeman got

  on the line again. ‘‘We spoke to Mr. Dreher shortly after it was determined that we had a homicide on

  our hands, and he denied seeing anything, hearing

  anything, knowing anything.’’

  I responded to this with an empathetic expression

  and a shrug—until I realized that these didn’t commu

  nicate too well over the telephone. ‘‘Initially he didn’t

  want to get involved. I run into that sort of thinking on a pretty regular basis. I would imagine you do,

  too.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Listen, I’ll have to question the guy myself to verify what you’re telling me. But keep in mind that

  even if we’re satisfied that Dreher saw Ms. Corwin on

  her way out of the
dining room within the critical time

  frame, this doesn’t prove she did the job on the Mor

  ton woman’s salad.’’ See? That was exactly what I was afraid Porchow would hand me! I almost fell off my chair when he added, ‘‘It should be enough to get us a search warrant, however.’’

  Now doesn’t that beat all!

  ‘‘Just so you understand, though, Ms. Lynton was—

  and still is—our prime suspect. I’m proceeding with

  this not because I give your theory a helluva lot of weight, but because I feel that it’s incumbent upon me

  as an officer of the law to explore every possibility. At any rate, I’ll keep you advised.’’

  ‘‘Wait! Don’t hang up yet.’’

  ‘‘Is there something else, Ms. Shapiro?’’

  ‘‘Yes, there is,’’ I admitted sheepishly. ‘‘When you

  go through Miss Corwin’s apartment? Uh, maybe you

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  could keep an eye out for my shoulder bag and my

  gun. It’s a thirty-two caliber and—’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe this! Did you actually say what I think you did?’’ Porchow was speaking so loudly that I had to hold the receiver at arm’s length. ‘‘I hope you have a good explanation as to how those things

  got into her possession.’’

  As far away as that phone was, I was able to catch every syllable. ‘‘I . . . I left them at her place.’’

  ‘‘When was this?’’

  ‘‘It was . . . before. That is . . . earlier tonight.’’

  ‘‘ Tonight! What in hell were you doing there, anyway?’’

  ‘‘I . . . umm, I thought that maybe I could persuade

  her to confess.’’

  ‘‘So much for keeping your promise. But never

  mind that now. If you’re right about Ms. Corwin, what

  you did was foolish and dangerous. You should be

  locked up for your own protection—do you know

  that?’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ I took another sip of wine at this point—I needed it.

  ‘‘You still haven’t told me how you came to leave

  your pocketbook and weapon behind.’’

  ‘‘I was—’’

  ‘‘Never mind,’’ Porchow broke in testily. ‘‘On sec

  ond thought, I’d rather not hear it.’’

  It was well after nine when Chief Porchow phoned

  the next evening. ‘‘Sergeant Block had a conversation

  with your Mr. Dreher this morning,’’ he told me. (I’d had my doubts about Sergeant Block’s even being able