Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  her shoulders.

  As soon as I was alongside the booth, Lorraine set

  down her lipstick-rimmed coffee cup and welcomed

  me with a smile. She looked wide-awake and dis

  gustingly chipper. ‘‘I hope this isn’t too early for you,’’

  she chirped, as I took a seat opposite her.

  ‘‘Oh, no. Not at all.’’ (I did mention before that I’m

  an accomplished liar, didn’t I?—something that should

  be a requirement in my profession.)

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  ‘‘That’s good.’’ Another smile, and then she turned

  serious. ‘‘Allison tells me I owe you an apology, that I really dissed you at the shower. The only defense I can offer is that I wasn’t myself. Bobbie Jean and I had quite a history—in case you haven’t already gath

  ered as much. And being in her company again—

  which I’d been able to avoid for many years until this

  past Sunday—was bad enough. But when she acted as

  though we were old friends, well, I went positively bonkers.’’

  I opted to be generous. ‘‘I understand.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Dez. Okay if I call you Dez?’’

  ‘‘Please do.’’

  ‘‘Listen, let’s have ourselves something to eat, huh?

  My treat.’’

  ‘‘Sounds like a good idea, but I’ll be doing the treat

  ing. I was the one who asked for this get-together, remember?’’

  Lorraine opened her mouth, obviously to protest,

  then shut it again and shrugged. After which she sig

  naled the waiter, a large, middle-aged man with a sub

  stantial stomach, a moon face, and about six strands of dyed black hair. He waddled over immediately.

  ‘‘How ya doin’, Lorraine?’’ He permitted himself a

  quick glance down the front of her dress. ‘‘Youse two

  know what you’re havin’, or you wanna see a menu?’’

  ‘‘I think we’d better see a menu, Rocky.’’

  ‘‘Sure thing.’’ And with this he removed the two

  menus that had been tucked under his arm and

  handed one to each of us. ‘‘Be back witcha in a few minutes,’’ he declared as he lumbered off.

  ‘‘What’ll it be, Dez?’’ Lorraine asked when I’d fin

  ished studying the breakfast specials.

  ‘‘I’m going to have number four.’’

  ‘‘Me, too.’’ She glanced around for Rocky, who was

  hovering next to an empty table not more than five

  or six feet behind us. A crook of her finger brought him over faster than I’d have thought possible. Lor

  raine gave him the order, and as soon as he left us she had a question, one I felt she could barely wait

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  to put to me. ‘‘I figure that if you wanted this meeting,

  you must be fairly certain that someone other than the

  Almighty sped Bobbie Jean on her way. Am I right?’’

  ‘‘Let’s just say I strongly suspect that to be true. Incidentally, on Sunday you said something about a

  rumor that Bobbie Jean had been poisoned. Who told

  you that?’’

  ‘‘Nobody, actually; I overheard two women talking.

  But no doubt they were merely speculating. Listen,

  those of us who really knew Bobbie Jean always fig

  ured that the chances of her dying in her sleep some

  day were pretty piss-poor.’’

  ‘‘Would you mind telling me who the women

  were anyway?’’

  ‘‘Not at all—only I have no idea.’’ My skepticism

  must have shown on my face. ‘‘Honestly,’’ Lorraine

  maintained, ‘‘I’d never set eyes on either of them

  before.’’

  ‘‘All right. Well, did you, by any chance, notice any

  thing suspicious that afternoon?’’

  ‘‘ ’Fraid not.’’

  ‘‘Let me ask you this: Who among your friends and

  acquaintances had cause to want Bobbie Jean dead?’’

  ‘‘Enough of them, trust me.’’

  ‘‘That would include Grace Banner and the Fre

  mont ladies.’’

  ‘‘That would include a lot of people,’’ Lorraine re

  sponded evasively.

  ‘‘Were any of the others at the shower?’’

  ‘‘Look, if you want me to supply you with names,

  forget it. All I’ll say is that Bobbie Jean spread her special brand of sweetness around. And if there wasn’t

  anyone besides me at that affair who’d have liked to see her laid out on a slab, I’d be very much surprised.’’

  ‘‘You hated her a great deal, didn’t you?’’

  ‘‘Like poison—if you’ll pardon the expression. If I’d

  had this same opportunity thirty-three years ago,

  which is when she screwed me over, I can’t swear

  I wouldn’t have been responsible for her consuming

  something lethal. As it is, though, while I’m still angry

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  67

  as hell when I think about what she did to me, I just don’t think about it that much anymore. And I can’t remember the last time I shed any tears over it.’’

  ‘‘I know this can’t be pleasant for you, but I’d ap

  preciate your filling me in on what happened between

  you and Bobbie Jean. All right?’’

  ‘‘That’s the reason I’m here, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘I hope so,’’ I responded with an insipid little

  chuckle.

  ‘‘Okay. I should begin by telling you that Allison

  and I were roommates at college—until Allie dropped

  out of school because she was with child. Mike, as it turned out.’’ Suddenly Lorraine’s eyes opened wide.

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  ‘‘Is anything wrong?’’

  ‘‘Maybe Allie would have preferred me to keep that

  to myself. It was ages ago, though. Besides, she and Wes were already gaga about each other by then, and

  they had every intention of getting married way before

  she became pregnant.’’

  At this point our food arrived, courtesy of Rocky.

  We continued to talk about the dead woman while we

  ate, Lorraine having vetoed my suggestion to table

  any further discussion about Bobbie Jean until we fin

  ished breakfast. ‘‘I can’t stay long,’’ she’d apprised me.

  ‘‘Something came up after we spoke yesterday, and I

  have to be at work soon.’’

  Well, this is the kind of thing I try to avoid. I’m referring to having murder-related conversations dur

  ing a meal (even if, as in this instance, murder is only a strong—albeit a really strong—possibility). I mean,

  they certainly don’t do much for a person’s appetite. But what choice did I have?

  ‘‘Allison and I have been the best of friends since our Radcliffe days,’’ Lorraine was saying now. ‘‘So I got to know Bobbie Jean early on—in fact, while she was still a teenager. In the event you haven’t been informed, she went to live with Allison and Wes when

  her father died, which was soon after they were mar

  ried. At any rate, when I visited them, Bobbie Jean

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  would frequently be there, too. And we became pretty

  close, Bobbie Jean and I. That’s what makes me re

  gard what she did as such a betrayal. I actually saw myself as a sort of big sister to the fucking little bitch.’’

  She interrupted her narrative to ask whether I wasr />
  offended by her language.

  To make her feel comfortable, I assured her that

  when the occasion warranted, I’d been known to use

  a few expletives that could induce a longshoreman to put his fingers in his ears.

  Lorraine grinned. ‘‘Listen, I’m always interested in

  expanding my vocabulary, so maybe you could teach

  them to me sometime, okay? Unless, of course, they’re

  already a part of my everyday speech—which is more

  than likely. But to go on . . .

  ‘‘During my senior year in college, I fell completely,

  insanely, stupidly in love with a man named Kevin Moore, and within three months we were engaged.

  Then right after the engagement, Kevin’s firm trans

  ferred him to San Francisco, and in June, with college

  over, I got a job out there to be with him. We in

  tended to make it legal in the fall—until Bobbie Jean showed up.’’

  ‘‘Just like that?’’

  ‘‘Oh, no, I invited her—her and a girlfriend of hers.

  Bobbie Jean had just graduated from high school, and

  she wrote to tell me that in August she and this Mi

  chelle would be coming to California for a month. For

  most of the vacation they’d be bunking with an aunt of Michelle’s living in Oakland, which, as you’re no doubt aware, is just outside Frisco. Anyhow, in her

  letter Bobbie Jean asked if it would be all right if she stopped by to say hello. And I—being totally non

  compos mentis—practically insisted the two of them

  spend a few days with Kevin and me. And that’s all that goddamned nymph needed—a few days.’’

  Pressing her lips together, Lorraine shook her head.

  Even after all these years, it appeared that she still hadn’t forgiven herself for this unfortunate gesture of hospitality. ‘‘I suppose I have to take my share of the

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  blame for what happened that summer. The truth is,

  I’d heard plenty of gossip about Bobbie Jean by then;

  I just hadn’t wanted to believe it.

  ‘‘But don’t get me wrong. I’m not excusing Kevin

  for having his brains between his legs. Not for a min

  ute. I’d bet my last dollar, though, that Bobbie Jean was the one to seduce him, something I base on her extensive history of similar situations.

  ‘‘At any rate, to sum it all up, the engagement went

  pfft. Less than a week after the girls went back to stay with Michelle’s aunt, I came in from work one evening

  to find Kevin—and all his stuff—gone. There was a

  note on the kitchen table informing me that it was

  over between us and that he’d gotten his own place. Down the line I discovered that Bobbie Jean had

  moved in with him the day he left me.’’

  ‘‘Were they together long—Kevin and Bobbie

  Jean?’’

  ‘‘Don’t be silly. She dumped him three weeks later

  and went home to Allison and her brother, Wes, both

  of whom had been under the impression she and Mi

  chelle were on an extended visit with Michelle’s aunt all that time she’d been playing house with Kevin.’’

  ‘‘When did they learn the truth?’’

  ‘‘When I did. A mutual acquaintance of Kevin’s and

  mine laid the whole thing on me when I ran into her at the beginning of September. Until then I hadn’t a clue that while that little nymph was my guest, she’d been out to hook the man I was planning to marry.’’

  ‘‘And you let Allison know about this?’’

  ‘‘You betcha.’’

  ‘‘I imagine she must have been terribly disturbed

  by what Bobbie Jean did to you.’’

  ‘‘She was. From what Allie said, even Wes—who’s

  always been so damn protective of Sister Dearest—

  reamed her out pretty good. And she acted terribly remorseful—although the way she told it, she’d been a victim herself, Kevin being so much older and more

  sophisticated than she was. How’s that for chutzpah?

  I ask you. At any rate, she claimed—tearfully, of

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  course—that he’d refused to leave her alone, phoning

  her day and night when she returned to Oakland. Ac

  cording to Bobbie Jean, that awful man had been so

  persistent that for a while he’d had her convinced that

  this was true love. She came up with another doozie, too. Supposedly Kevin confided to her that he and I

  had been having problems well before she entered the

  picture and that he’d been trying to work up to calling

  it quits with me anyhow.’’

  ‘‘ Had you been having problems?’’

  ‘‘That was plain bullshit,’’ Lorraine said heatedly.

  ‘‘Either Kevin lied to Bobbie Jean about us or—and

  this is far more probable—Bobbie Jean lied to Allison

  and Wes. It really didn’t matter to me what the truth was, though. The only thing that mattered was that

  my fiance´ had suddenly become my ex-fiance´.’’

  ‘‘Uh, did you ever see or hear from him again?’’

  ‘‘I got a brief letter from him sometime in October saying that he was sorry— sorry! —and that his lawyer would be contacting me about his financial obliga

  tions—you know, with regard to the apartment lease,

  things like that.’’

  ‘‘You never considered calling him? ’’

  ‘‘In the first place, I didn’t have any idea how to reach him. Not initially. But more than that, I was too

  anguished, too raw to even think about picking up a phone—especially once I got wind of the Bobbie Jean

  connection. The only way I could deal with the situa

  tion was to convince myself that I was better off with

  out the louse—which was undoubtedly true. A couple

  of years later, though, I went to a concert with a girl

  friend. I spied Kevin in the lobby at intermission, and

  I’m sure he spotted me, too. He was with another

  man, and I debated with myself about going over to

  him. But while I was still trying to make up my mind,

  he turned his head, whispered something to his buddy,

  and they both walked away.’’

  ‘‘You’re positive he saw you?’’

  ‘‘ Absolutely positive.’’ Lorraine had a bite of toast and washed it down with a sip of coffee before con

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  71

  cluding with a lopsided smile, ‘‘So that was the end of that.’’ And picking up a piece of bacon with her fingers, she nibbled on it slowly.

  I didn’t know what to say. I could have cried for

  the woman. I was searching my sluggish brain for an

  other topic when she took me off the hook. ‘‘You

  want to hear what finally got me past the Kevin/

  Bobbie Jean thing, Dez? My job.’’

  ‘‘What is it you do?’’

  ‘‘I’m a talent agent. I changed careers and went into

  the biz eighteen years ago, getting my feet wet with a small outfit in San Francisco. My work gives me a

  tremendous amount of satisfaction. And I’m good at it, too—I opened my own office a year ago, six months

  after moving back to New York.’’

  ‘‘Who do you represent? Anyone I’d know?’’

  ‘‘I would hope so. My clients include the cream of

  today’s rock artists. People like the Spastics, Irish Ra

  chel Bernstein, and the Head Cases,’’ Lorraine an

  nounced
proudly.

  I tried to sound impressed. ‘‘No kidding.’’

  ‘‘I assume you’ve heard of them, then.’’

  ‘‘Uh, hasn’t everybody?’’ I equivocated.

  ‘‘Listen, I’d better shake my keister and get on over

  to the office.’’ And before I could stop her, she

  grabbed the check that Rocky had deposited on the

  table moments earlier (at the same time—as long as

  he was in the neighborhood—taking another peek

  down her dress). Seconds later Lorraine lowered her

  voice to the point where I had trouble making out the

  words. ‘‘I’m expecting a call this morning from the

  manager of a big-name group—and I’m talking really big. They’re thinking about switching agents, and it

  looks as if I’m in the running. I’ll tell you who they are, but this is top secret, understand?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  She leaned so far across the table our noses practi

  cally touched. ‘‘Three Hams on a Roll.’’

  Three Hams on a Roll?

  Christ! Whatever happened to Donnie and Marie?

  Chapter 11

  ‘‘For this Saturday night? Oh, that’s terrific.’’ Then, with a trace of suspicion: ‘‘Where are the seats?’’

  I had just arrived at work after my meeting with

  Lorraine Corwin. And overhearing that short snatch

  of dialogue when I walked in, I figured it likely that the person Jackie was talking to on the phone was

  Derwin. Derwin being her on-again off-again guy for

  a number of years now.

  ‘‘ Where? ’’ she shrieked into the receiver. ‘‘Listen, Mr. Sport, if you think I’m going to sit in the next-to

  the-last-row balcony one more time and try to imagine

  what’s happening on that stage . . .’’

  She was talking to Derwin, all right.

  ‘‘Don’t give me that. A couple of months ago you

  fed me the same baloney about those being the only

  two seats available, and the theater was half empty

  when we got there. You must—’’ She broke off.

  ‘‘Wait, Dez!’’ she called after me as I headed for my cubbyhole.

  ‘‘Hold it, Derwin,’’ she instructed, putting her hand over the mouthpiece while I backtracked. She waved

  a pink message slip in my direction and, as she so frequently does, spared me the bother of reading it.

  ‘‘Ellen just called. She wants you to get in touch