Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  to talk.) ‘‘Dreher confirmed that he spotted Lorraine

  Corwin exiting the dining room some ten or fifteen

  minutes before the other guests went in for lunch. At any rate, we completed a search of her apartment

  about an hour ago.’’

  I was one short step from hyperventilating.

  ‘‘And—?’’

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  ‘‘And I have your gun and your handbag—along

  with a second topaz ring that the lady maintains be

  longs to you, as well. Incidentally, I expected we’d turn up those white gloves of hers. Only that didn’t happen. Ms. Corwin claims one ripped, and she had

  to toss them.’’

  It was a maximum effort to keep myself from

  shrieking the next words. ‘‘But the topaz ring? Her topaz ring, I mean. Do you have it?’’

  ‘‘I was getting to that. It was right there in a jewelry

  box on her dresser. And you were correct about one

  thing—the ring does open. But if it was used in the commission of this homicide—and I still regard it as a very big ‘if’—we can infer from its being left virtu

  ally out in the open that the woman was confident she

  was able to remove all evidence of the poison.’’

  ‘‘Also, she wasn’t aware that we had the slightest

  inkling as to what purpose that ring had served.’’

  ‘‘Mmm,’’ was the extent of Porchow’s response to

  this. Following which he cleared his throat. ‘‘By the way, the suspect gave me an earful regarding what

  occurred there last night. But we’ll leave that for an

  other time—when you can also tell me what the hell

  a citrine is.’’

  ‘‘Uh, when do you think you’ll be getting the toxi

  cologist’s report?’’ I put this to him quickly, before he

  could change his mind and insist that I provide him with every mortifying detail of that visit then and

  there.

  ‘‘I can’t say exactly. Most likely the latter part of next week.’’

  ‘‘You’ll call me—one way or the other?’’

  ‘‘I will. But about your property—it’s at the station house here. Aren’t you at all interested in retrieving it?’’

  My God! What was with me, anyway? I was so con

  sumed with seeing to it that Lorraine Corwin was ap

  prehended that everything else was taking a back seat

  to this. I mean, that bag contained my Social Security card, my checkbook, my credit cards, my driver’s li

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  cense, my cell phone, and my wallet (never mind that

  inside of this was the grand total of eleven dollars and

  ninety-six cents). And what about that other absolute essential: my makeup case? (I’d had to rely on my

  skimpy supply of emergency backup cosmetics today,

  and I swear that one of the law clerks at Gilbert and Sullivan took one look at my face and actually shud

  dered.) Also, let’s not forget those you-never-know

  when-you-might-need-it items that I always carry with

  me. Like cough syrup, Extra-Strength Tylenol, hairspray, a flashlight, a stapler (you’d be surprised at how often that’s come in handy), a metal tape measure,

  my Ivoire spray cologne—and I don’t remember what

  else. Plus, aside from the handbag, there was my gun. I certainly wasn’t crazy about having it sit around in the Forsythe police station. I wanted it where it be

  longed: buried at the bottom of my lingerie drawer.

  Well, it’s fortunate that I enjoy a little train trip now and then. Because with my driver’s license in

  temporary residence at the station house, that’s how

  I’d be schlepping out to Long Island to retrieve my treasures.

  ‘‘Would it be all right if I came by in the morning to pick up my stuff?’’

  ‘‘Of course. I’m off tomorrow, so ask for Detec

  tive Malloy.’’

  It was four very long days before I got the news.

  When the phone rang I was just returning from the

  ladies’ room—one foot hadn’t even made it inside my

  cubbyhole yet. Hurrying to my desk, I reached over

  and snatched up the receiver. ‘‘You got any bubbly at

  home?’’ Porchow hadn’t bothered to identify himself,

  but it was hardly necessary anymore.

  ‘‘Huh?’’ I responded, this not being one of my more

  intelligent moments.

  ‘‘You have something to celebrate.’’

  ‘‘And what’s that?’’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘‘The toxicology report is in. And there was evi

  dence that the ring had contained monkshood. In fact,

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  two tiny pieces of leaf were caught up in the compart

  ment’s hinges.’’

  At that instant I was so overcome that I had to plop

  down on the visitor’s chair alongside the desk, my legs

  no longer able to support me. I couldn’t even find

  my voice.

  ‘‘Ms. Shapiro?’’

  ‘‘I’m here,’’ I managed to squeak.

  ‘‘I’ll bet you feel like you’ve got an elephant off your back, huh? Me, too. Listen, while I admit that I resented your interference, I suppose I ultimately have

  to thank you for it.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’m certain you would have solved the thing

  yourself before long. Anyhow, I’m glad it all worked out.’’

  ‘‘That makes two of us. Nevertheless, I have a favor

  to ask of you.’’

  ‘‘Sure. What kind of a favor?’’

  ‘‘Next time, try to find yourself a murder in your

  own backyard. I realize I sound like an ingrate, but the

  truth is, Ms. Shapiro, you are a very trying woman.’’

  Epilogue

  It’s been almost a month since I had that conversation

  with Chief Porchow.

  Naturally, everyone concerned is relieved that the

  investigation is over. Nobody, however, is dancing in the streets to celebrate its outcome. I suppose that in some secret recess of their hearts, and against all logic,

  most of those involved in the case had been holding out a tiny sliver of hope that the perpetrator would wind up being someone out of left field. You know,

  like a psychotic chef or a vengeful busboy or

  something.

  As for me, I don’t deny that I’m pleased I was able

  to identify Bobbie Jean’s killer. But I’m not too

  thrilled myself that it turned out to be Lorraine Corwin. The thing is, I’d developed a certain fondness for Lorraine—once I got over our initial meeting, when

  she’d made me feel like the Invisible Woman. Sure,

  she’s eccentric. Listen, the very first thing out of her mouth when the police came to arrest her wasn’t ‘‘I didn’t do it’’ or ‘‘You’ve got the wrong woman.’’

  Nothing like that. She just demanded that someone

  tell her how to get in touch with Johnnie Cochran! At

  any rate, she may be a little over the top, but she’s also warm and friendly and outgoing, kind of like a puppy. A very large puppy. Plus, I really appreciate her having elected not to shoot me.

  As you might have imagined, though, it’s Allison

  who is finding it hardest to come to terms with the fact that it was Lorraine who poisoned Bobbie Jean.

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  I have an idea that of all her friends, Lorraine is the one she had most hoped would prove to be innocent.

  When I’d called to notify Allison of the arrest, she ex
claimed, ‘‘Oh, no, not Lorraine!’’ and burst into

  tears. ‘‘May I tell you something?’’ she said on re

  gaining her composure. ‘‘You may not understand

  this—particularly in view of your profession—but

  when I contemplate all that Lorraine’s been through

  courtesy of my sister-in-law, it’s difficult for me to blame her for doing what she did.’’

  ‘‘Murder is never the right solution to anything,’’ I countered. The instant I uttered this pronouncement,

  however, I wanted to pull it back. I mean, I sounded just like Barbara at her most pedantic. At any rate, at this point I attempted to make it a little easier for Allison to accept her old roommate’s being hauled off

  to jail. ‘‘Don’t forget that Lorraine’s actions put you in jeopardy, too,’’ I reminded her. ‘‘The way the police

  had this doped out, you might have been the one to end up paying for Bobbie Jean’s death.’’

  ‘‘You’re wrong, Desiree,’’ Allison asserted quietly.

  ‘‘I don’t have a single doubt that if it ever came to that, Lorraine would have confessed.’’

  I didn’t argue. The reason being that I figured this was probably true.

  Well, at least things have recently begun to look

  better for Allison on the home front. A few days ago she came into the city to do some shopping, and we met for lunch. ‘‘How is Wes?’’ I asked soon after she joined me at the table.

  ‘‘He’s very grateful to you, Desiree. We both are.

  Although I wish—’’ She broke off here, and I could

  tell she was thinking about Lorraine. Then she re

  peated, ‘‘We both are,’’ smiled wistfully and, leaning across the table, squeezed my hand. ‘‘Naturally, Wes

  is still very saddened by the loss of his sister,’’ she continued. ‘‘But it appears that learning the truth has allowed him to move forward with his life.’’ Two or three seconds later, to my surprise, Allison volun

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  teered, ‘‘And Desiree? Our relationship, Wes’s and

  mine, is much improved, too.’’

  ‘‘I’m so glad to hear that,’’ I enthused.

  ‘‘Oh, I’m not claiming that suddenly everything is

  just dandy. Although he does his best to conceal it, I’m certain Wes is still hurt and angry—as he has

  every right to be. And perhaps he won’t ever trust me

  again. For my part, that terrible feeling of guilt is al

  ways present, and I may never be able to shake it. But while things aren’t as they once were, there’s been

  a kind of easiness between us these last two weeks or so that hasn’t been there since he discovered that

  I’d . . . since he found out about Justin.’’

  Which brings me to my own situation with Nick.

  Sad to say, we haven’t exactly been steaming up any mirrors. But that would have been tough to do, be

  cause I’ve only seen him once since that memorable

  meal at the Chinese restaurant. And this was a couple

  of weeks back, over breakfast at a neighborhood cof

  fee shop—hardly the setting for indulging one’s libido.

  But then, our options for socializing had been pretty limited. You see, Nick’s ex-wife didn’t return to New York that following Sunday, as promised. The fact is, Tiffany is still in Vegas with the boy rocker. And con

  sidering that she’d quit her part-time job at the tan

  ning salon just prior to her trip, Nick suspects—and I’m reasonably sure he’s got it pegged right—that

  she’d been planning an extended stay out there from

  the beginning.

  Anyway, Nick had been reluctant to employ a babysitter, which put the kibosh on our getting together once the sun went down. He explained that because

  he had to leave Derek in the care of a nanny during the day, it was all the more important that he be there

  in case his son should wake up at night. (Something, by the way, that in all the weeks he’s been staying with his father, the nine-year-old has yet to do.) Now,

  however, in view of a growing conviction that his ex won’t be heading home until God-knows-when, Nick’s

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  decided to hire a sitter after all. And we’ll be going out to dinner on Saturday. Which occasion, I believe, calls for a new dress—preferably something in blue

  that’s incredibly flattering.

  I’d like to share one last thing with you.

  Yesterday afternoon Ellen called to inform me that

  Bobbie Jean left Mike a very handsome sum in her

  will.

  I exhibited the proper amount of astonishment be

  fore asking, ‘‘And you just found out about this?’’

  ‘‘Yes. Mike had postponed telling me. He was con

  cerned about how I’d react to what he has in mind. His own parents don’t even know about that yet.’’

  ‘‘What do you mean, ‘has in mind’?’’

  ‘‘He wants to donate most of the inheritance to St. Gregory’s and have the hospital name a wing for Bob

  bie Jean. He was extremely fond of her, Aunt Dez.

  Not that he condoned the sort of stuff she pulled—

  although he probably never realized the extent of it.’’

  ‘‘His giving up so much money is okay with you?’’

  ‘‘Definitely. Mike said that he wouldn’t do it with

  out my approval, and I think it’s a wonderful idea. He

  feels—and I agree—that it’s the only way we can

  make something good come out of all this.’’

  In spite of Ellen’s news, I have to admit that like virtually all murder stories, this one doesn’t exactly have a happy ending, either.

  But thanks to Ellen’s generous almost-husband—

  and to my big-hearted niece, as well—it’s as close to one as you’re ever likely to get.

  Desiree’s Wild Mushroom

  Croustades

  For toast shells:

  15 slices white bread

  butter

  Lightly flatten bread slices with palm of hand, then

  trim away crusts. Using a cutter about 21⁄2 inches in diameter, cut 2 rounds in each slice. Coat cups of a mini muffin pan with butter, and press bread rounds

  into cups. Bake at 400° for 8–10 minutes or until shells

  turn a little golden. Set aside to cool.

  For filling:

  4T butter

  1 cup heavy cream

  3T shallots, finely

  1⁄2 tsp. salt or to taste chopped

  pinch of cayenne

  21⁄2 cups stemmed

  11⁄2T chopped chives

  shiitake mushrooms

  1T chopped parsley

  (approx. 9 oz.),

  1⁄2 tsp. lemon juice

  finely chopped

  grated Parmesan cheese

  2 level T flour

  Melt butter in skillet and add shallots. Cook, stirring constantly, for about four minutes without allowing

  shallots to brown. Add mushrooms and mix well.

  Cook for ten minutes, stirring frequently.

  Remove from heat. Add the flour and mix thor

  oughly. Stir in the cream. Return to heat and, stirring continuously, bring to a boil. Allow to boil for a min

  ute or two before removing from heat. Then add the

  salt, cayenne, chives, parsley, and lemon juice.

  Transfer mixture to a covered bowl and refrigerate

  until shortly before serving time. Stir mixture, fill toast

  cups, and sprinkle with Parmesan. Bake at 350° for

  ten minutes. Serve hot.

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  NOTE: The toast shells freeze well for filling at a late
r

  date. The filled, baked croustades can also be frozen. Reheat these at 350° for 10–15 minutes just before

  serving.

  Makes 30

  Document Outline

  Cover Page

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication Page

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Desiree's Wild Mushroom Croustades

  Table of Contents

  A SIGNET BOOK

  A SIGNET BOOK