(And not these past few weeks, either, for that matter—
when I’d handled a grand total of one lousy insurance investigation.)
‘‘You’re jumping the gun a little, Dez,’’ I was re
minded. ‘‘I’m not family yet.’’
‘‘And you’re splitting hairs, Mike Lynton. Look, I have every intention of learning what happened to
Bobbie Jean. The only thing is, if you insist on bugging
me about taking money, I won’t keep you posted on
my progress.’’
‘‘Okay, okay, you win,’’ Mike conceded with an ane
mic little chuckle.
I grinned at the receiver. ‘‘Of course I do. But you said that your aunt had done some terrible things to people. What people? And what things?’’
‘‘I’m not sure exactly what transpired with every
one. My mother could undoubtedly fill you in on the
details. But there was something with Carla Fremont.
And I seem to remember that prior to this, Bobbie
Jean had some sort of altercation with Robin, Carla’s mother. There was also some nasty business with Lor
raine Corwin. And a Grace somebody-or-other. And
I don’t know who else.’’
‘‘Those women you mentioned—are you aware that
they were all at the shower?’’
‘‘Yes,’’ Mike said gravely. ‘‘That’s what’s so
troubling.’’
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Selma Eichler
At this precise moment I realized that the surprising
thing wasn’t that Mike’s aunt had died today.
It was that Bobbie Jean Morton, formerly Connell
fomerly Polansky formerly Lynton, had lived as long
as she did.
Chapter 5
When I walked through the office door on Monday
morning, I was all but accosted by Jackie, my one-third secretary. (I share her services with the two principals of—are you ready?—Gilbert and Sullivan, the law firm
that rents me my space here.) ‘‘Well? How did every
thing go yesterday?’’ she demanded. Unfortunately—or
fortunately for Jackie, as it turned out—a cousin’s
wedding had prevented her from attending Ellen’s
shower.
‘‘It wound up being a real surprise.’’
‘‘I don’t like the way you said that. What hap
pened?’’
‘‘Mike’s aunt—the one who arranged for the affair
to be held at her country club? She became ill—
deathly ill—while eating her salad. The paramedics were called, and they rushed her to the hospital. But she was gone by the time they got her there.’’
‘‘Oh, no, how terrible! Heart?’’
‘‘My guess would be poison. Although right now
that’s all it is: a guess.’’
‘‘But you believe that somebody slipped something into her salad.’’ (Jackie is nothing if not persistent.) I hunched my shoulders. ‘‘Or possibly her drink.
Who knows? I doubt if the cause of death has been
established yet, though. So it could turn out to be her
heart or her liver—or whatever—after all. But I’ll tell you this: That lady would never have won a popularity
contest—even if no one was competing against her.’’
‘‘Do you suspect anybody in particular?’’
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Selma Eichler
‘‘Christ, Jackie! Give me a break, will you? The
body’s hardly cold yet.’’
‘‘But you do have a tendency to jump to conclu
sions,’’ Jackie very thoughtfully pointed out. Suddenly
her eyes narrowed. ‘‘Say, did you telephone your den
tist on Friday? That was the third reminder you’ve
gotten from him.’’
‘‘I intended to, honestly. But it slipped my mind.’’
From the expression on her face I could tell that
Jackie wasn’t buying into this little falsehood. The fact
is, I was really in no mad rush to schedule an appoint
ment to have someone poke away at my gums until
they bled. ‘‘I’ll get to it later, I promise.’’
‘‘You are so lax, Desiree. Right this minute I’m pic
turing you without a tooth in your head, and take my word for it, you could give someone nightmares. If
you don’t call—and today—I’ll call for you. I’m not
kidding.’’
Is it any wonder that I frequently have trouble re
membering who works for whom?
Nevertheless, while Jackie can be so overbearing
that at times I’ve daydreamed about stapling her lips together, at other times I realize how important she is to me. And not only in her capacity as my onethird secretary, either. She’s also a valued friend. I had already started to head for my little cubicle, but Jackie wasn’t through with me. ‘‘Why don’t you
phone the dentist as soon as you get to your office?
That way you won’t forget.’’
I pretended I didn’t hear her.
As soon as I sat down at my desk I proceeded to set up a folder on Bobbie Jean. It was a pathetically thin folder, of course. I started by typing up a brief descrip
tion of her sudden illness. And then I added what I could remember of the remarks made about her at
the shower by the four women who so obviously—and
passionately—despised her.
Following this, I went through my overdue bills and
wrote out checks to those companies that seemed
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
31
most likely to either cut off an essential service or send somebody over to break my kneecaps.
These things having been dealt with, I went to
lunch. Now, in view of yesterday’s trauma, I felt enti
tled to a little treat. So I made a beeline for Little Angie’s, where you can gorge yourself on the most delectable toppings on the world’s thinnest, crispiest pizza crust. Exactly how good are those pies? All I can tell you is that if I should ever get the death penalty (for murdering my sister-in-law, Margot,
maybe?), my last meal will be a slice or four of Little Angie’s pizza. Probably with anchovies.
As soon as I got back from lunch I stopped off at the water cooler. (Anchovies will do it to you every time.) Elliot Gilbert—one of the partners in the afore
mentioned Gilbert and Sullivan—was just tossing
away his paper cup. I noticed instantly that this sweet
heart of a man didn’t look like himself today. The
usual smile was absent from his cherubic face, and his
eyelids were almost at half-mast.
‘‘Are you okay?’’ I asked.
Elliot managed to spread his lips in a smile. ‘‘It’s that obvious, huh? The truth is, my daughter and sonin-law dropped off their three kids at our house on Friday—they had some kind of function in Maine this
weekend. And much as I love them, those grandchildren
of mine are a handful. On Saturday morning Mitchell, one of the twins—they’re two—drank some dishwashing
detergent and we rushed him to emergency.’’
‘‘Dishwashing detergent?’’
‘‘I know. What can I say? The boy has lousy taste.’’
He grinned, then followed this up with a yawn.
‘‘Thank God he’s all right, though.’’
‘‘Still, that must have taken a lot out of you.’’
‘‘Oh, that wasn’t even the half of it. Bradley, the eleven-year-old, is suddenly into music—drums, with
our luck. And he brought his set along so he could practice. And practice he did, day and night and night
and day.’’ Ell
iot grimaced as he said this. ‘‘You may
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Selma Eichler
not believe it, Desiree, but those sounds are still rever
berating in my head.’’ I was about to offer a few words
of commiseration at that point, but Elliot hadn’t
wound down yet. ‘‘And then poor Florence, our
cocker spaniel, began acting strangely—she went
around whimpering all the time. We still wouldn’t
have any idea what the problem was if my wife hadn’t
caught Mitchell shooing Florence away from her dish
this morning and then polishing off the rest of her Alpo himself. And’’—suddenly Elliot brightened—‘‘I
almost forgot,’’ he said. ‘‘Jackie told me the other day
that you were giving your niece a shower on Sunday.’’
‘‘Uh, that’s right.’’
He forced another smile. ‘‘Well, I’m glad somebody
had a pleasant weekend, anyway.’’
Chapter 6
Call it self-defense.
I didn’t have a smidgen of a doubt that Jackie would
make good on her threat to get in touch with my
dentist herself if I let things slide any longer. So before
leaving work on Monday, I contacted Dr. Lutz’s office
to arrange for an appointment. At least this way I’d have some input about the scheduling. Anyhow, I was
in luck. There were no openings before three weeks
from this coming Wednesday. Figuring I owed myself
a two-day grace period, I set something up for that following Friday.
Ellen phoned after ten p.m. She’d gotten home only
a short while ago, having taken time off from Macy’s so she could spend the day in Connecticut with Mike and his parents.
‘‘How is Mike’s father?’’ I asked.
‘‘Not too good. Wes is finding it very hard to accept
that Bobbie Jean went just like that—out of the blue. He kept shaking his head and saying over and over
again that she’d been in perfect health. Mike told his dad that he, of all people—he was referring to Wes’s being a physician—had to be aware of how often men
and women die without any warning. I’m not sure
Mike actually believes that that’s true in this case, though. But he realizes how m-m-much more p-painful
the alternative would be for his father.’’ Ellen’s voice caught in her throat. ‘‘I mean, that someone . . . that someone . . . p-p-p-purposely took her life.’’
Anxious to pull Ellen away from the topic of mur
der, I hastily moved on. ‘‘What kind of service are
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Selma Eichler
they having for Bobbie Jean? Do you know?’’ I was
aware at once that I might have picked a less emotion
ally charged option.
‘‘I understand Bobbie Jean always said she wanted
to be cremated,’’ Ellen responed tremulously. ‘‘But
before they do . . . that to her, the family’s arranged for a viewing. That is what it’s called, isn’t it—a view
ing?’’ She didn’t seem too interested in having this confirmed, however, because she went on without tak
ing a breath. ‘‘It’s going to be at the Frank E. Camp
bell Funeral Home here in Manhattan on Wednesday
evening, and then the cremation will take place on
Thursday morning. You’ll be coming to the viewing,
won’t you?’’
‘‘Of course.’’ After all, in December Bobbie Jean
and I would have become practically related.
‘‘Uh, Aunt Dez?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘Do you really, honestly agree with Mike—about what caused Bobbie Jean’s death? Because the more
I think about it, the more skeptical I am. Look, I can see how he’d decide that Bobbie Jean’s dying of a
heart attack or something would be a lot easier for his father to cope with than her having been mur
dered. But Mike’s been giving me the same story—
that’s how I’ve begun to look at it, incidentally, as a story. And I’ve been thinking that he may not want
to level with me unless it should become necessary
because he considers me so fragile.’’ And now, her
tone defiant: ‘‘But I’m no shrinking pansy, Aunt Dez.’’
‘‘Violet. Shrinking violet,’’ I automatically corrected—
only silently. Then aloud: ‘‘No, you’re not.’’ As you can gather, I don’t consider it any crime to fudge the truth a bit when warranted.
‘‘Maybe you have your doubts, too, though, about
my being able to handle things,’’ Ellen accused.
‘‘Maybe that’s why you told me the same thing
Mike did.’’
‘‘That isn’t the case at all. So far there’s been noth
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
35
ing to indicate that a crime was committed,’’ I pointed
out. ‘‘And—’’
‘‘But the thing is, Bobbie Jean had been in very good health. And in light of the way those women
spoke about her at the shower—they seemed to have
so much hatred toward her—well, I’m finding it harder
and harder to accept that one of them didn’t, umm,
you know. . . .’’ It was obvious she found the thought too disturbing to complete.
‘‘Bobbie Jean could have been as robust a specimen
as . . . as Xena, Warrior Princess, and it still wouldn’t rule out a sudden, fatal heart attack.’’
‘‘You’re not just trying to spare me?’’
It was time for a bit more truth-fudging. ‘‘If I
thought Bobbie Jean had been murdered, I’d say so,
Ellen.’’
Now, I was expecting her to demand that I swear
to this—my niece being very big on oaths—but, to my
surprise, she let it go at that. No doubt because I was so convincing. (Listen, it wasn’t for nothing that I was
the shining light of my high school thespian society.) I was about to attempt to wind up the conversation
when she asked, ‘‘When do you think they’ll get the autopsy report?’’
‘‘There’s no way to be sure.’’
‘‘I hope they find out she died of natural causes,’’
Ellen said almost prayerfully.
‘‘So do I, Ellen. So do I.’’ But the small knot that, as of yesterday, had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach disputed the likelihood of this.
The phone was barely back in its cradle when it
rang again.
I glanced at my watch: ten fifty. Now, who could be calling at this hour?
The voice was accusatory. ‘‘I just spoke to my
daughter.’’
Crap! My sister-in-law, Margot!
‘‘I’d been trying to reach Ellen since last night,’’
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Selma Eichler
Margot went on. ‘‘I couldn’t wait to find out about all the lovely gifts she’d received. And here she tells me that she hasn’t even seen them yet. She informs me that they’re still sitting at that Silver Oaks Country Club’’—
with the tone she employed, Margot might have been
talking about some rat-infested hovel—‘‘because one
of the guests died in the middle of the shower.’’
I have no idea how she managed it, but Margot
made it sound as though Bobbie Jean’s death were
my fault. Worse yet, she even had me experiencing
guilt pangs about it.
‘‘Uh, how are you feeling, Margot? How’s the
ankle?’’ I inquired politely. The truth is, I was hoping
/>
to hear that she was in a lot of pain.
‘‘That’s not important now. I’m terribly sorry about
the dead woman, of course.’’ ( What a crock! ) ‘‘But unfortunately there’s nothing I can do about that. The
reason I’m calling is that somebody has to check and find out when Ellen will be able to retrieve her pres
ents. You wouldn’t mind following up on that, would
you? You know how busy Ellen is at the store.’’
And I suppose I spend my time glued to the TV
watching all those judge shows. That is, when I’m not lunching at Le Cirque and exchanging snippets of gos
sip with ladies decked out in Armani. I bit back this snotty retort, however, which was on
the very edge of my tongue, substituting a bland,
‘‘She’ll be able to get them anyday, I’m sure.’’
The fact is that I hadn’t given a thought to those gifts since yesterday. Not with a probable murder to occupy my mind.
‘‘I’d like to think I can count on you to make certain
of that,’’ Margot persisted.
‘‘All right,’’ I told her resignedly.
‘‘Good. I’ll take you at your word then. Well, see
you at the wedding.’’
‘‘I’ve been just fine, Margot,’’ I grumbled, slamming
down the dead receiver in my hand. ‘‘Thank you ever
so much for asking.’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
37
As is usual following one of my infrequent chats
with Ellen’s mother, it took me a few minutes to calm
myself. Which is ridiculous. I should have been able to just shrug her off—her and these irritating little conversations she never fails to initiate. After all, ours
is a contentious relationship of many years’ standing. Listen, from the second she first took a look at me—
no, even before that face-to-face meeting—Margot
was not pleased with Ed’s selection of a future spouse.
And she didn’t do a helluva lot to conceal it, either. Mostly her antagonism stemmed from the very strong
feelings she held about the members of her family
marrying within their religion. Her expectations of her
brother’s swapping vows with a nice, Jewish girl, how
ever, wound up in the junk heap when he told her
about his (nonpracticing) Catholic fianceé.
So why, you might ask, had she refrained from
throwing a few tantrums over Ellen’s choosing a Prot
estant for a mate?
Murder Can Rain on Your Shower Page 4
