quietly for the past five minutes.
‘‘I understand Ms. Morton was your husband’s
sister.’’
‘‘Yes, that’s right.’’ There was a barely perceptible quaver in her voice.
‘‘What about other close relatives? Was she
married?’’
‘‘Widowed.’’
The questioning continued for a brief time: Had the
dead woman currently been living with anyone? Did
she have any children? Were her parents still alive?
Allison answered with a string of no’s.
‘‘Well, are you at all familiar with her medical history?’’
‘‘I am. And she’d always been in very good health.’’
‘‘Would you, by any chance, have the name of her
physician?’’ Porchow put to her then.
‘‘Bobbie Jean and I have—we had—the same pri
mary physician. His name is Dr. Anders Krauss. His
practice is in Connecticut—Greenwich. I can give you
the phone number, if you like.’’
‘‘I’d appreciate it.’’
His interrogation of Allison concluded, Chief Por
chow spoke to the room in general. ‘‘There’s a possi
bility I may need to talk to all of you again. But right
now you’re free to leave. And drive carefully, ya
hear?’’
Allison, Ellen, and I waited at the front door to see
to it that everyone got off okay. There were plenty of
hugs, some tears, and a lot of words of sympathy
exchanged.
Grace Banner seemed to be riddled with embar
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
19
rassment when she took Allison’s hand and told her,
‘‘I despised Bobbie Jean. I won’t deny it. But I hope you don’t think I wanted something like this to
happen.’’
‘‘No, of course not.’’
‘‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Allie,’’ Grace said softly,
looking grateful. ‘‘In the meantime, if you need any
thing, give me a call. Will you do that?’’
‘‘You can count on it,’’ Allison assured her.
‘‘Good. And please extend my condolences to
Wes.’’ Grace bussed her friend on the cheek, standing
on tiptoe in order to accomplish this—a requirement
that at a scant five-two I could definitely relate to. A few minutes later Allison’s friend Lorraine en
tered the vestibule. Predictably, she made no such at
tempt at civility. A small smile played at the corners of her crimson-colored mouth. Peering up at her, I
observed that the lipstick extended well beyond the
natural contours of her too-thin lips in an attempt to make them appear fuller. Which only served to remind
you of just how thin they actually were. Still, there was something quite attractive about this Lorraine—
maybe part of it being that there was so much of her.
‘‘So Bobbie Jean finally got hers,’’ she proclaimed.
‘‘She just died, Lorraine,’’ Allison scolded mildly.
‘‘And it couldn’t have happened to anyone more
worthy.’’ Lorraine turned to Ellen. Reaching over, she
brushed my niece’s face with long, slim fingers, the
topaz ring leaving a bright red mark on Ellen’s cheek.
‘‘But it’s a shame that whoever did this decided to extract her pound of flesh at your shower, little Ellen.’’
Lorraine had removed the white gloves, probably
when she sat down to eat. And now I took note of
the woman’s nails. Painted the same shade as her
mouth, they were so long and pointy as to qualify as lethal weapons. Assuming they were the real thing—
and I had serious reservations there—this sweet lady
must consume enough calcium to keep the milk com
panies in business.
20
Selma Eichler
Ellen was stoical. ‘‘Under the circumstances, my
shower isn’t that important.’’
Lorraine scowled. ‘‘Don’t be silly. Of course it is.’’
‘‘Wait a minute,’’ Allison commanded. ‘‘Did I hear
you right? What do you mean, ‘Whoever did this’?
What makes you think anyone did anything?’’
‘‘There’s this rumor going around that your beloved
sister-in-law was poisoned.’’
‘‘ Poisoned? I don’t believe it.’’
‘‘Then we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’’
Lorraine turned to Ellen again. ‘‘Anyhow, I hope you
made out like a bandit with your gifts. Where are
they, by the way?’’
It was Allison who answered. ‘‘They’re still in the
dining room. I imagine we’ll be able to pick them up during the week sometime.’’ She glanced in my direc
tion. ‘‘Oh, and Lorraine, this is—’’
‘‘I hope there are lots and lots of Tiffany boxes,’’
Lorraine told Ellen.
Well, how do you like that! I mean, the woman was starting to make me feel invisible, for crying out loud.
And I’m much too big—width-wise, at any rate—to
even come close.
‘‘I guess I’ll be on my way,’’ she was saying. ‘‘As soon as I get home, I’m going to haul some Brie out of the refrigerator and pour myself a king-size shot of
bourbon. I feel I should do something to commemo
rate Bobbie Jean’s passing. Oh, and you will let me know when the funeral will be. That’s one event I
don’t intend to miss.’’
Allison’s eyes were shooting curare-dipped darts at
her friend. ‘‘Listen, I understand why you feel the way
you do. But I wish you’d try to exercise some restraint
right now. This is my husband’s sister you’re referring to. And as you’re aware, he happened to love her.’’
A chastised Lorraine didn’t respond immediately.
And when she did, her voice was so low you had to strain to catch the words. ‘‘I’m sorry, Allie. I can be such an ass sometimes. Forgive me?’’
‘‘You’re forgiven,’’ Allison replied good-naturedly.
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
21
‘‘I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’’
The two women embraced, following which Lor
raine adjusted her umbrella-size hat and tottered out of the building on those skyscraper heels of hers—
without, of course, having uttered one word to me.
Robin and Carla Fremont were among the last to
leave. ‘‘What can I say, Allison?’’ Robin murmured.
‘‘It’s terrible. Just terrible.’’
‘‘You’re sounding hypocritical, Mother,’’ Carla
pointed out dryly.
Robin flushed. ‘‘Carla, please,’’ she snapped. ‘‘Stop
always passing judgment on me. I’m not saying I feel bad about Bobbie Jean. But it’s awful that something like this occurred on what was supposed to be such a lovely occasion for Ellen here. To say nothing of what
his only sister’s death will probably do to Wes. You understood how that was meant, didn’t you, Allison?’’
‘‘Yes, I did.’’
‘‘I had no doubt you would.’’ And to Carla: ‘‘Come
on. I’ll call you in a day or two, Allison.’’
As they headed for the exit, Robin went back to
chastising her daughter. ‘‘And for your information,
Miss Mouth, even if I were being hypocritical—which I wasn’t—it’s in very poor taste to . . .’’ The door c
losing behind them muted the rest of the lecture.
Ellen and I were both concerned about Allison’s
driving home to Connecticut alone. After all, she had just lost a family member. But she insisted she’d be fine. ‘‘If you want me to be perfectly honest, it hasn’t actually sunk in yet that Bobbie Jean is gone, so I’m pretty numb on that score. What really does bother
me is having to break the news to Wes.’’
‘‘I gather your husband and his sister were close,’’
I said.
‘‘Very. In spite of the fact that over the years she’d
lived abroad a great deal of the time.’’ And now, her eyes filling up, Allison added, ‘‘Bobbie Jean mattered very much to Wes.’’
22
Selma Eichler
‘‘Umm . . . about Mike,’’ Ellen brought up here,
her voice tentative. ‘‘Would you like me to tell him, or would you rather do it yourself?’’
‘‘I’m not going to put that on you. I think it’s only right that I do it. I’ll call him as soon as I get to the house.’’
We walked outside then, and Allison put her arms
around Ellen. ‘‘I’m so sorry, dear. Your aunt and I wanted this to be such a special day for you, too. I’ll make it up to you, though.’’
‘‘There’s nothing to—’’
‘‘Don’t argue with your future mother-in-law,’’ her
future mother-in-law commanded. Then she sighed.
‘‘Well, I can’t speak for the two of you, but I’ve had enough of this place to last me forever. So what do you say we get our cars and get the hell out of here?’’
Chapter 4
Over Ellen’s protests, we stopped off at a diner on the way home.
‘‘I couldn’t eat a thing, Aunt Dez,’’ she’d insisted.
‘‘Not after what happened. Do you think Bobbie Jean
might actually have been . . . that somebody p-p-p
poisoned her?’’
Now, it is only when Ellen’s nervous system is on
the verge of collapse that she begins to stutter. Of course, it seems to me that witnessing a death, espe
cially the death of someone you’re acquainted with—
your almost-aunt, no less—can do that to you as well as anything. The truth is, I wasn’t exactly in control of my emotions, either. Anyhow, at that point I really
couldn’t say whether Bobbie Jean was a murder victim
or not. But in deference to my niece’s nervous system,
I answered with, ‘‘Well, I suppose it’s possible, but it’s
far more likely that she suffered a heart attack. Or maybe a stroke.’’
‘‘D-d-do you honestly think so?’’
‘‘Yes, I do.’’
But I didn’t. I mean, there were at least four ladies at the Silver Oaks Country Club that afternoon who
would be very unlikely to carry a hankie to the dead woman’s funeral. More than that, though, from the
depth of the hatred she seemed to inspire, there was a better than even chance that someone at that shower
had seen to it that Bobbie Jean would soon be en
joying the peace and quiet of Shady Lawn. Still, she could have died of natural causes. But I was defi
nitely skeptical.
24
Selma Eichler
At any rate, once I persuaded Ellen that she’d feel better if she got some food in her—and God knows
I’d feel better if we both had a little sustenance—she did herself proud. I swear, Ellen doesn’t eat like a truck driver; she packs it in like a pair of them. And where she manages to hide it all is the million-dollar question. The truth is, my thumb is bigger than that girl’s waist.
Just listen to this. We both started the meal with
good-size shrimp cocktails. These were followed by
hot open roast-beef sandwiches served with carrots
and mashed potatoes, with Ellen ordering a humon
gous salad on the side. For dessert, I had a slice (more
like a sliver, really) of rhubarb pie, while my niece elected to have a hot fudge sundae, with three—count
’em, three—scoops of ice cream. And don’t forget she was off her feed at the time.
I dropped Ellen off at her apartment around seven,
then headed back to my own place.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t bothered to put on fresh
lipstick before leaving the diner. Also, by the time I arrived home, my dress could have matched Carla
Fremont’s wrinkle for wrinkle. Plus, my glorious hen
naed hair looked like I hadn’t run a comb through it that entire day. Which I hadn’t. So who was coming
out of the elevator at the precise moment I was about
to get in?
Nick Grainger.
That same Nick Grainger who had recently moved
into my building, and who, every time I saw him,
caused my knees to buckle under me—just like I was
a damn teenager!
Now, before I go into any physical description of
Nick, I suppose I should prepare you by admitting
that my taste in members of the masculine persuasion
is slightly on the unconventional side. In fact, it’s been
rudely suggested—and by more than one person—that
it’s just plain weird. You see, I have this thing for pathetic-looking little guys, the kind who give the im
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
25
pression that they’re in desperate need of plenty of good home cooking accompanied by a generous share
of TLC. It’s been further suggested that I gravitate toward men like this because I have this nurturing
nature and Ed and I never had any children. Anyhow,
I have no more idea of the reason for my preference than the next person. Besides, it doesn’t really matter,
does it?
I was going to tell you about Nick, though. . . .
As you’ve no doubt already surmised, a Mr. Macho
he isn’t. What he is is small and skinny and slightly balding. On the pale side, too. Plus—and be still my heart—his teeth are slightly bucked. I mean, Nick
Grainger is so much my type that I might have had
him made to order—appearance-wise, at any rate. I
was, however, still trying to figure out how to actually
get to know the man. And so far I’d made zero
progress.
He was looking particularly dapper just then—even
today’s tragedy couldn’t prevent me from noticing
that. (After all, it’s not as if I’d suddenly gone blind.) And it didn’t take an Einstein to conclude that dressed
as he was in a navy blazer, white shirt, and red-and
navy polka-dot tie, Nick was not on his way to a poker
game with the boys. ‘‘Hi, Desiree,’’ he said, holding the elevator door for me. ‘‘Haven’t seen you in a
while.’’
And whose fault is that? I challenged. But only to myself. Aloud, I was a tad less combative. ‘‘Uh, yes, I suppose it has been some time.’’
He smiled warmly. ‘‘Well, it’s always nice to run
into you.’’
It’s always nice to run into you, I mouthed as soon as the elevator door clanked shut. I couldn’t stop my
self from giving that door a little kick. And naturally, I hurt my toe.
Practically the first thing I saw when I walked into my apartment was the flashing light on the answering
machine. I had one message.
26
Selma Eichler
‘‘Hi, Dez, it’s Mike. Please give me a call at Ellen’s
when you come in.’’
I got back to him immediately.
‘‘I spoke to my mother this afternoon,’’ Mike said
softly. �
��‘She phoned about . . . about my aunt.’’
‘‘Yes, she wanted to be the one to break the news
to you. I’m so sorry, Mike.’’
‘‘Thank you.’’
‘‘How is your dad taking it?’’
‘‘I’ll soon find out for myself. Ellen and I are driving
up to Greenwich a little later on this evening. I don’t expect him to be in very good shape, though. Bobbie Jean was his only sibling. Also, her death has to be an awful shock to him. She was a very healthy
woman—at least, we all assumed she was. Besides, she
was considerably younger than my dad is. And for this
to— Well, it must have knocked him for a loop.’’
‘‘I’m sure your presence there will help.’’
‘‘Luckily, I’m working nights all of next week’’—
Mike’s an MD, a resident at St. Gregory’s—‘‘so I’ll
be able to spend most of tomorrow with my folks,
too. But tell me something. I understand Bobbie Jean
became fatally ill at the table while she was eating her salad.’’
‘‘That’s right.’’
‘‘Did she appear to be okay earlier?’’
‘‘As far as I could see, she appeared to be fine.’’
Now, as the conversation progressed, Mike’s tone
had more or less returned to its normal level. At this point, however, he lowered his voice again. ‘‘Do you suspect that . . . and I hate to even think this might be the case . . . but do you suspect she may have been
poisoned? Ellen says you told her it was most likely a heart attack, but I figured that might have been just
to reassure her.’’
‘‘You figured right. Which doesn’t mean that I’m
right. We may learn that Bobbie Jean died of a heart attack after all.’’
‘‘Maybe. Uh, listen, Dez, my aunt had her share of
faults, probably more than her share. She did some
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
27
things to people that were . . . that I consider . . . that I imagine most people would consider just about unforgivable. But while I didn’t always approve of her
actions, I was fond of her. Even if I hadn’t been, though, I wouldn’t want anyone to get away with mur
dering her—if that’s what happened. So—and please
don’t take this wrong—what I’m trying to say is, I’d like to hire you.’’
‘‘To hire me? You want to pay me to check into your aunt’s death?’’
‘‘Yes, I want to pay you. That’s how you earn your living, isn’t it?’’
‘‘Not by taking money from my family, I don’t.’’
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