MURDER
CAN RAIN
ON YOUR
SHOWER
A Desiree Shapiro Mystery
Selma Eichler
A SIGNET BOOK
‘‘Tired of glamorous private investigators so svelte they could be fashion models?
Has author Selma Eichler got a heroine for you.’’
— South Florida Sun-Sentinel
Raves for Selma Eichler and the Desiree Shapiro mysteries
Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair
‘‘A laugh-out-loud riot. I love Desiree’s sense of
humor.’’
— Mystery News
Murder Can Upset Your Mother
‘‘Eichler scores again. . . . [A] delicious cozy.’’
— Publishers Weekly
Murder Can Spoil Your Appetite
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— Romantic Times
Murder Can Singe Your Old Flame
‘‘Witty dialogue . . . charming New York setting . . . hilarious characters.’’
— Publishers Weekly
continued . . .
Murder Can Spook Your Cat
‘‘A very realistic character. . . . [T]he mystery is cre
atively drawn and well-plotted.’’
—Painted Rock Reviews
Murder Can Wreck Your Reunion
‘‘Another wildly hilarious mystery.’’ — The Snooper
Murder Can Stunt Your Growth
‘‘Poignant and satisfying. . . . [T]he real pleasure of this book is spending time with Desiree Shapiro . . . just plain fun to read.’’
—I Love a Mystery
Murder Can Ruin Your Looks
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—Grounds for Murder (San Diego)
Murder Can Kill Your Social Life
‘‘Full of food, fun, and a fast-paced plot . . . Selma Eichler’s debut novel is a sure winner.’’
—Tamar Myers
MURDER
CAN RAIN
ON YOUR
SHOWER
A Desiree Shapiro Mystery
Selma Eichler
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,
London WC2R ORL, England
Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,
Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2
Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.
ISBN: 1-4362-7898-8
Copyright © Selma Eichler, 2003
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To my husband, Lloyd Eichler,
who contributed greatly to this book
with his helpful critiques, constant encouragement,
and willingness to eat leftovers.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to:
Major Alan G. Martin of the New York State Po
lice, whose willingness to answer a million questions on law enforcement continues to lend authenticity to
my story lines.
Martin Turkish, MD, for helping me see to it that
my dying victim received the proper medical care.
David Gruber, Esq., of Lehman and Gruber, who
provided important legal information.
My editor, Ellen Edwards, who read this manuscript
with such a perceptive eyes.
Prologue
Ellen’s bridal shower.
It has to be really, really special, I’d been reminding myself from the instant the planning began. After all, this was a very important day in the life of my favorite
(and only) niece.
And special it was.
This, however, had nothing to do with the ambi
ence—although you couldn’t have asked for a setting
lovelier than the Silver Oaks Country Club. With its stately Colonial-style mansion set high up on a sweep
ing, impeccably groomed front lawn, the place looked
like something straight out of Gone with the Wind, for heaven’s sake.
It had nothing to do with the food, either. Even
though my cohostess and I had agonized over the
menu options for hours. And every dish—from the
filet mignon and salmon Florentine to the three des
sert choices—was, I expect, very tastefully prepared.
The fact is, as it turned out, our painstaking efforts and the kitchen’s expertise went equally unappre
ciated.
And it certainly wasn’t the gifts that made this event
so memorable. All of that extravagant silver and china
and crystal, in company with the requisite cookware
and toaster ovens (there were three of these), re
mained in their beribboned wrappings, unopened. Not
destined to catch so much as a single light ray on this sunshiney mid-August afternoon.
No.
What did make this an affair that no one who at
2
Selma Eichler
tended is likely to forget was something horrific, chill
ing— unimaginable.
It happened right in the middle of the salad course.
Suddenly, the woman seated directly across from me
dropped her fork and pitched forward on her elegant,
damask-covered chair, uttering strange, guttural sounds and snatching frantically at her throat.
And at that moment Ellen’s bridal shower turned
into a death watch.
Chapter 1
I’d been practically wired on my way over to Ellen’s that Sunday morning. I mean, I wanted so much for
her to be surprised by the bridal shower that Allison Lynton—mother of the bridegroom—and I were
throwing for her. And of course, there was a better than even chance that some blabbermouth had already
managed to give the whole thing away.
As soon as Ellen got in the car, though, I could tell
from her expression, which was more or less placid—
for Ellen, anyway—that she had no idea what had
been planned.
Weeks ago Allison’s future sister-in-law, Bobbie
Jean—a member of Silver Oaks—had telephoned her,
ostensibly to extend an invitation to lunch at her club.
‘‘We have to start getting to know each other,’’ the woman had declared—they’d met only once before at
a gathering of some kind. ‘‘
After all, in a few months we’ll be family. And speaking of family, your future mother-in-law—she’ll be there, too, of course—tells
me you have an aunt in Manhattan you’re very close
to—a private investigator, she said. I’d like to have her join us if she can make it.’’
And now, here we were, driving out to Forsythe,
Long Island—and Ellen’s surprise.
In spite of her comparative equanimity when we’d
greeted each other, it didn’t take long before she
began to fret. Which was predictable. I swear, Ellen wouldn’t be Ellen if she didn’t continually find ways of inflicting herself with agita. ‘‘I hope Bobbie Jean
4
Selma Eichler
likes me—she’s Mike’s only aunt,’’ she murmured,
Mike being Ellen’s almost-husband.
‘‘Why wouldn’t she like you?’’ I countered.
‘‘I don’t know—chemistry maybe. You never can
tell about those things.’’ After about five seconds of silence, which were accompanied by a couple of barely
audible sighs, she was able to find something else to pick away at. (And believe it or not, Ellen is really much less of a worrywart than she’d been before love
came into her life.) ‘‘Maybe I should have stuck with the brown.’’
‘‘What brown?’’
‘‘The brown two-piece linen,’’ she responded in a
voice that told me she’d expected me to divine what brown. ‘‘I tried it on before the turquoise this morn
ing. And I really liked the way it looked on me—
when I first get into it, anyway. But then five minutes later, you would have thought I’d been sleeping in it for a week.’’
Oh, I see. We’re talking about a dress. ‘‘What you’re wearing is perfect,’’ I responded, reaching over and
patting the cotton suit skirt. ‘‘Turquoise is a wonderful
color for you.’’
‘‘Do you really think so?’’
‘‘Absolutely.’’
‘‘It’s as flattering as the brown?’’
I gritted my teeth. ‘‘More so.’’
Now, why my niece is so unsure of herself I’ll never
be able to figure out. Listen, if I were the one who looked like Audrey Hepburn I’d thumb my nose at
the world and wear orange with purple polka dots if I felt like it.
As it was, though, I had on a conservative powderblue A–line. I mean, not having been blessed with Ellen’s bone structure and being a little more than a little overweight, I consider it only prudent to forgo orange outfits with purple polka dots.
A good ten seconds passed before Ellen became
anxious again. ‘‘I really don’t know Allison—Mike’s
mother—all that well, either.’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
5
‘‘But you did say that she’s a very nice woman.’’
‘‘She seems to be. Still . . .’’
‘‘And I’m sure she is a very nice woman. So will you please relax for a few minutes and stop driving us both crazy?’’
‘‘I’m sorry. It’s only that I do want Mike’s family to like me.’’
‘‘And they will.’’ I smiled encouragement. ‘‘How
can they help it?’’
For most of the rest of the trip Ellen was pretty
quiet. While it couldn’t have been easy for her, I think
she finally ran out of nervous-making material. At any
rate, it was just past noon when we drove up the mag
nificent front driveway of the Silver Oaks Country
Club.
‘‘Wow,’’ Ellen murmured, craning her neck to take
in all she could. ‘‘Wow,’’ she said again.
A minute or two later the parking attendant re
lieved us of my Chevy. Ellen was still glancing around
as we walked toward the front door. There was some
thing akin to reverence in her tone when she mur
mured, ‘‘What a beautiful place. I’ll bet lunch here will be quite an experience.’’
How right she was.
Chapter 2
I was reaching for the doorknob when the door swung
open from the inside.
‘‘We’re joining Mrs. Morton for lunch,’’ I told the
smiling, well-groomed strawberry blonde with her
hand on the knob.
‘‘Of course. Right this way, please.’’
We followed the woman down a winding corridor,
at the end of which was a richly burnished wooden
door. She pulled it open, then stepped aside. I gave Ellen a little push over the threshold.
‘‘SURPRISE!’’ exploded around us.
We were in a long, somewhat narrow rectangular
space just off the closed dining room. And seventythree enthusiastic ladies with good, strong voices had gathered here to fete my niece. But it took some time
before this registered on Ellen. I could almost hear her thinking Surprise? What surprise? Then Allison rushed over to embrace her, and after that a pretty fair portion of the other women present closed in on her, pecking away at her cheeks and squeezing various
parts of her person and demanding to know if she’d
suspected anything. And somewhere along the line she
got the message that she was the guest of honor, that this was her surprise.
Ellen was still attempting to collect herself when
her mother-in-law-to-be removed a glass of cham
pagne from the tray of a passing waiter and pressed it into her hand. ‘‘You look like you can use this,’’
she announced. ‘‘You, too, Desiree.’’ She snatched up
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
7
a second glass for me and then one for herself. ‘‘Let’s
not forget the mother of the groom.’’
For a few minutes Ellen continued to hold court,
although her loyal subjects were already proving
themselves to be not all that loyal. Doubtless because in addition to the champagne, there were now trays
laden with mini crabcakes, tiny potato puffs, and bitesize quiches to compete for one’s attention. A number of Ellen’s friends and coworkers at the store—Ellen’s a buyer at Macy’s—had just disengaged themselves
from the group when Bobbie Jean joined us.
An attractive, if somewhat flashy platinum blonde,
Bobbie Jean was on the short side and quite thin, al
though very buxom, her stretchy lime green V-necked
top barely managing to make it across her chest. I
wondered idly what kind of bra she had on. I mean, the thing pushed her breasts up practically to her chin.
Obviously, Bobbie Jean didn’t have any qualms when
it came to showing off her gift from Mother Nature. Which, I conjectured, might have contributed in some
small way to the lady’s having acquired three hus
bands—so far.
‘‘Bobbie Jean—who’s soon to be your Aunt Bobbie
Jean—worked very hard to make today a success,’’
Allison apprised Ellen.
Ellen gushed her thanks, and the four of us visited for a couple of minutes. Suddenly Ellen was enveloped
in an enthusiastic bear hug, courtesy of the good
buddy she always refers to as ‘‘Ginger, who lives in my building.’’ (I don’t recall my niece’s ever men
tioning Ginger without tagging on that part about the building; it appears to have replaced the girl’s last name.) Anyhow, it seemed that Ginger had appointed
herself the event’s unofficial photographer, and she
quickly began clicking away and barking commands at
our little foursome as if she were Steven Spielberg
or somebody. After about half a dozen photos—and with
no end in sight—Ellen and I tried to persuade her
that she had enough pictures of us. Whereupon Bob
8
Selma Eichler
bie Jean, taking advantage of this slight delay in the action, made her escape. Two more photos followed,
and then Ginger finally marched off to spread her tal
ent around—but not before we’d extracted her prom
ise to restrict herself to candid shots from now on. Moments later I had a chance to exchange brief
pleasantries with a few friends of my own: Pat Mar
tucci (only she’s not Pat Martucci anymore, having
recently become Mrs. Burton Wizniak) and my neigh
bors Barbara Gleason and Harriet Gould. All of
whom have known Ellen for years.
Allison must have been waiting for me to free up,
because the instant I became available she took my
arm. ‘‘C’mon, Desiree, there are a few people I want to introduce you to.’’
She propelled me toward two women who were
standing and whispering together a short distance
away. My first thought was that they seemed almost
conspiratorial, which I considered more or less borne out when, on seeing us approach, they stepped quickly
apart. And if that wasn’t telling enough, two bright red spots put in an immediate appearance on the
cheeks of the younger of the pair.
‘‘Meet my good friends Robin Fremont and her
daughter, Carla Fremont. Robin and I also live next
door to each other,’’ Allison informed me.
‘‘ And we’re cousins—if a few times removed,’’
Robin interjected.
‘‘That’s true, too. This is Ellen’s aunt Desiree,’’ Alli
son went on. ‘‘Mike raves so much about this future aunt of his that I’m getting a little jealous. In fact, I seriously considered slipping some arsenic in her drink
before.’’ Both Fremonts tittered politely, and Robin
extended her hand to me. It would have been quite a feat, however, if Carla had managed to do the same, considering that she was presently holding a glass of champagne in her right hand and a napkin with a
small stash of hors d’oeuvres in her left. She smiled apologetically. It wasn’t much of a smile, because
Carla, poor thing, had large yellow teeth. Maybe
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
9
someone should have clued her in on porcelain ve
Murder Can Rain on Your Shower Page 1
