neers. I got the impression, however, that it probably wouldn’t have made any difference if they had. Judg
ing from her rumpled yellow cotton dress and crinkled
stockings, Carla wasn’t really that into appearances.
Robin, on the other hand, was fashionably turned
out in an obviously expensive black moire´ suit. Large boned and very substantially built, Robin Fremont
wore her thick salt-and-pepper hair brushed away
from a face that vaguely resembled Allison’s but
lacked the other’s delicate features. (Have I men
tioned how lovely Ellen’s prospective mother-in-law
is—with a slim figure, beautiful silver hair, and the most gorgeous green eyes?)
At any rate, in between bites of stuffed mushrooms
and sips of champagne, Allison and I chatted with
mother and daughter for a short time. After which we
were off for more introductions.
Even from a distance I’d been intrigued by one of
the women I met—well, almost met, if you want to
be technical—this almost-meeting captured on film by
our zealous, although now very unobtrusive photogra
pher, Ginger. Anyhow, the lady was tall to begin with.
And in her skinny spiked heels she had to be well
over six feet, towering above everyone else in sight. She was dressed entirely in black and white, in a toolow-cut print top and matching too-short skirt. She had on white gloves that reached midway up her fore
arms, the left-hand pinkie of which was adorned by a huge—and I mean huge—topaz ring. When it came to
jewelry, though, this woman didn’t seem to know the
meaning of restraint. In addition to the ring, she
sported long topaz earrings and three gold neck
chains, plus a very large gold, sapphire, and pearl pen
dant, which I believe was supposed to be an abstract representation of some kind of flower. (Trust me,
‘‘hideous’’ would not have been too strong a word to describe that piece.) An enormous black picture hat
that managed to conceal about half her face com
pleted the outlandish outfit.
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Selma Eichler
Before Allison had a chance to get out so much as
a single syllable, the woman confronted her. I might as well not have been there. ‘‘Did you see her come up to me before?’’ she demanded, viciously spearing
a cucumber canape´ from the tray of a haughty-looking
waiter and popping it into her vivid red mouth. And now, her voice still more strident: ‘‘Well, did you?’’
‘‘No, I didn’t,’’ Allison responded softly.
‘‘She was actually trying to make nice to me!’’
‘‘Uh, listen, Lorraine, it’s been so many years, and I—’’
At that moment an elderly lady leaning heavily on
an ornate cane stopped to speak to us, and Allison
broke off abruptly. Then while Lorraine was occupied
with the newcomer, Allison took the opportunity to
slip away, yours truly in tow.
‘‘Don’t mind Lorraine,’’ she said. ‘‘She’s really a
very good person. It’s just that there’s someone here today that she’s terribly upset with—and understand
ably so. Pretty paper, isn’t it?’’ she observed almost in the same breath, most probably in order to change the subject.
‘‘Very.’’ The wallpaper rising above the four-foot
high wooden wainscoting that encircled the room was
a floral in beautiful, muted pastels reminiscent of a Monet painting.
Allison took a brief detour to the powder room at
this juncture, following which she was back to deter
minedly squiring me around to acquaint me with the
other guests. We paused to greet a pair of late arrivals,
and then we walked over to a short, waiflike woman
with dark, lifeless hair and a sallow complexion. Like Lorraine, she also appeared to have an archenemy at
the shower. I got the idea that it could be the same archenemy, too.
‘‘I figured that I’d be able to handle seeing her
again,’’ she said, frowning. ‘‘But when she came over to me before and acted as if nothing had happened . . .
well . . . that was too much.’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
11
‘‘I wish I could have spared you this, but—’’
‘‘I didn’t mean . . . It’s certainly not your fault, Allison.’’ Suddenly the woman became aware of her
failure to acknowledge me. ‘‘Oh, I’m so sorry. My
manners are as rotten as my disposition is today. I’m Grace Banner.’’
‘‘And I’m Desiree Shapiro.’’ I took the hand she
held out. It was icy cold.
What was going on here anyway?
‘‘You’re Ellen’s aunt!’’ The tone had me feeling like
a minor celebrity. ‘‘I’ve heard so many nice things
about your niece. I’m looking forward to getting to
know her. Ellen’s mother—is she here, too?’’
‘‘No, she’d planned to come—she’s living in Florida
now—but two days ago she broke her ankle, so she
wasn’t able to make the trip.’’
‘‘That’s a shame.’’
‘‘Yes, isn’t it?’’ I agreed, hypocrite that I am. What else could I say though? That I was delighted that an act of God—Margot had fallen off her kitchen step
stool—had spared me her company today?
‘‘Ellen must be so distressed that her mother isn’t
able to share such a happy occasion with her.’’
I bristled inwardly at the observation. After all, it wasn’t as if I’d willed Margot to take the header, for heaven’s sake. (This sister of my much-loved late hus
band, Ed, was, as you must have gathered, not exactly
dear to my heart.) I was spared any further need to defend myself to myself, however, because just then
the double doors that led into the adjoining dining
room opened wide.
Lunch was about to be served.
Entering the spacious, high-ceilinged room, I
glanced around me with a deep sense of satisfaction. The ten round tables were covered with white lace
cloths and set with white-and-gold china, gleaming
gold-and-silver flatware, and sparkling glassware. Each
table had a different floral arrangement as a center
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Selma Eichler
piece, all of them quite magnificent. A bottle of red wine and a bottle of white had been placed on either side of the centerpieces.
It was really more like a wedding than a shower, I decided happily. And so what if, even sharing the ex
penses with Allison, I could conceivably be in hock
for the rest of my natural life. I mean, how often did my only niece get married? Besides, if I didn’t spend the money on this I’d just wind up wasting it on things
that would give me a lot less pleasure—like rent and utility bills.
I crossed the room to the table closest to the front, which a small white sign identified as table #1 and
which I would be occupying along with Ellen, Allison,
Bobbie Jean, and three of Allison’s young cousins,
sisters from Connecticut. I located my place card; it was between Ellen’s and one of the Connecticut sis
ters’. But before my bottom even touched the chair,
I checked out the corner a few yards to my left, where
the gifts had been stacked. There was a veritable
mountain of packages here, I was gratified to note,
each
one more extravagantly wrapped than the next.
Our salads were already awaiting us when we sat
down, so everyone began to eat pretty much at once. I don’t believe I’d had more than four or five bites when I happened to look over at Bobbie Jean. I could
tell immediately from the way her eyes bulged that
she was in great distress. A second later, her fork clat
tering onto the table, she grabbed for her throat. She attempted to speak, but all she was able to produce were the god-awful gurgling sounds of utter des
peration.
I half-rose, thinking she could be in need of the
Heimlich maneuver.
Allison put a hand on my shoulder, restraining me.
‘‘Where’s Karen?’’ she shrieked. ‘‘We need a doctor
here!’’
A cacophony of nervous babble ensued, the collec
tive outpouring of just about everyone present. Then, from somewhere behind me, a commanding voice cut
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
13
through the clamor. ‘‘I’m coming! Please, everybody,
stay where you are.’’ A scowling, matronly-type indi
vidual marched quickly over to Allison. ‘‘What’s
wrong?’’
‘‘Oh, Karen, thank heaven.’’ Allison nodded in Bob
bie Jean’s direction. ‘‘It’s my sister-in-law. She . . . you’d better see to her.’’ But Karen was already crouching beside the stricken woman. ‘‘Karen’s a physician—my
neighbor,’’ Allison murmured to me.
‘‘Move away, will you?’’ the doctor snapped to
those of us sharing the table with Bobbie Jean. And as we hastily vacated our seats and scurried off to the
side: ‘‘Somebody call 9-1-1!’’
‘‘I’ll do it,’’ Amy, one of the Connecticut sisters, volunteered, fishing her cell phone from her purse.
‘‘I’m going to need help getting her on the floor!’’
Karen hollered.
A nearby waiter, who must have weighed upward
of two-hundred-fifty pounds hustled over. ‘‘I’ll take
care of it.’’
With Karen barking instructions, he effortlessly
lifted the petite victim from her chair and carefully laid her on the floor, placing her on her left side. And now, as the physician knelt alongside her pa
tient, a hush descended on the room, with only the
terrible sounds of Bobbie Jean’s retching intruding on
the silence.
Swiftly, Karen unhooked Bobbie Jean’s bra, loos
ened her clothes, and pulled off her panty hose. Then,
taking Bobbie Jean’s pulse, she called out, ‘‘Allison, does your sister-in-law have any sort of health prob
lems? Epilepsy, diabetes, severe allergies—anything
that could account for this?’’
‘‘No, nothing.’’
I suddenly realized that I was holding my breath,
in apparent empathy with Bobbie Jean’s respiratory
difficulties. As I began to breathe normally, I glanced at the doctor’s face.
What I saw there sent a chill through me.
At this point, obviously alerted by one of the staff,
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Selma Eichler
the smiling strawberry blonde who’d greeted us at the
door rushed in. But she wasn’t smiling anymore.
‘‘How is she?’’ the strawberry blonde asked Karen.
‘‘Not good, I’m afraid,’’ the doctor replied grimly.
‘‘Not good at all.’’
Chapter 3
‘‘Gangway!’’ one of the paramedics shouted.
As they propelled the gurney out of the rear door,
they were only a few feet in front of me. And I caught
a glimpse of Bobbie Jean lying there motionless, the only sign of life the rapid blinking of her eyes.
I reached for Allison’s hand and squeezed it. She
acknowledged the gesture with a small, sad smile.
Our entire party was presently clustered at the back
of the room, politely ordered there by the young po
liceman (and I’m talking barely old enough to have
acquired peach fuzz, for heaven’s sake), who had
shown up immediately following the arrival of the
EMS. And now, almost simultaneously, Allison and I
swiveled our heads in his direction. We watched Baby
Face hold a whispered consultation with the straw
berry blonde, then secure both the rear and side en
trances to the dining room. After which he shifted his
attention to the shower guests.
‘‘We’re going to need some information from all of
you,’’ he announced in a nervous, high-pitched voice.
‘‘So please, everyone, take your belongings and follow
Ms. Kramer. And please don’t touch anything, okay?
I’ll be with you as soon as I take care of a coupla things.’’
Ms. Kramer, a.k.a. the strawberry blonde, shep
herded us through the double doors that led into the rectangular space—the Minerva Room, it was called—
where this ill-fated party had originated.
‘‘The police would like to keep this section of the house cordoned off,’’ she explained, ‘‘so please, come
16
Selma Eichler
with me.’’ She led us through an archway at the far end of the room, then down a long hallway to a large,
open sitting area. It was furnished with some hand
some, highly polished mahogany tables, a number of
which displayed a selection of magazines, with two
of the tables containing a telephone, as well. Most
prominent here, however, were the upholstered pieces,
which consisted of half a dozen overstuffed chairs and
three plump sofas, all covered in the same fabric—a
cheerful, floral chintz that contrasted sharply with the mood of our gloomy little gathering.
Ms. Kramer addressed us somberly. ‘‘I can’t even
express to you how sorry I am that Ms. Morton has
been taken ill like this. She’s such a lovely person—
all of us at Silver Oaks are extremely fond of her. I know our entire staff will be praying for her speedy and complete recovery.
‘‘I do apologize that there isn’t enough seating in
here to accommodate everyone, but this is the best
option we have available right now. Please make your
selves as comfortable as you can. The police officer
will be with you in a few minutes, and he assured me you won’t be detained for very long. I’m going to have
to leave you, but if I can be of assistance to anyone, just pick up one of the phones. I’m on extension five—
Janice Kramer.’’ And now, true to her word, the
woman, after favoring us with a faint smile, turned
and left.
The available seats were instantly preempted by the
swiftest of our company. Naturally, I remained a
standee. I was leaning against a table, absently riffling
through an Architectural Digest, my mind occupied with unwanted thoughts about the improbability of
our ever seeing Bobbie Jean again, when Harriet
Gould came up alongside me and touched my arm.
‘‘Do you think she’ll make it?’’
I censored myself. ‘‘I hope so,’’ was as much as
I said.
At that moment we were joined by the rookie cop,
who immediately busied himself with taking down
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
17
names, addresses, and telephone numbers, at the same
time establishing everyone’s relationship to the victim.
A little more than a half hour after Bobbie Jean
had been dispatched to the hospital—and only a few
minutes after the young policeman had finished col
lecting his information—we were joined by the For
sythe chief of police himself, along with another of his officers.
The chief was rather attractive. I mean, he had good
features, a full head of wavy gray hair, and a tall, lanky physique. His tan uniform was neatly pressed
and an excellent fit. In fact, only a slight potbelly—
and it was borderline, at that—disqualified him from
being considered a hunk. Presupposing, of course, that
you’d rate anyone a hunk who was most likely on the
less desirable side of fifty.
‘‘I’m Chief Porchow,’’ he apprised us, ‘‘and this is Sergeant Block.’’ He indicated the short, portly man
who’d accompanied him and who was standing with
arms folded and feet apart, gazing ceilingward with a scowl that appeared to be a permanent part of his face.
‘‘I assume you’ve already met Officer Smilowitz.’’ The chief inclined his head toward the rookie. A pause fol
lowed, after which Porchow cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m very
sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. Morton was pro
nounced dead on arrival at the hospital.’’
There were gasps and outcries and murmurs of sor
row from the assemblage.
‘‘Can any of you shed some light on what happened
here this afternoon?’’ he asked. ‘‘How did the de
ceased seem earlier today?’’
A mingled response of ‘‘fine,’’ ‘‘okay,’’ ‘‘good,’’
‘‘all right.’’
One of the women inquired about the cause of Bob
bie Jean’s demise.
‘‘We don’t know yet,’’ he said tersely. ‘‘Anyone
have any idea if she’d been ill recently?’’
The replies included a lot of head shaking and a
smattering of negatives.
18
Selma Eichler
At this point Officer Smilowitz came over to confer
with his superior, handing him a notebook and jabbing
his finger at one of the entries, which prompted Por
chow to call out, ‘‘Where is Ms. Allison Lynton?’’
Allison held up her arm. ‘‘Here I am.’’ The chief
nodded and walked toward the back of the room,
where a very unnerved Allison and I had been talking
Murder Can Rain on Your Shower Page 2
