with her at work.’’
‘‘Thanks,’’ I mouthed, as she went back to hanging
Derwin out to dry.
‘‘Do you really want me to tell you what to do with
those tickets?’’ she put to him just before I was out of earshot.
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
73
*
*
*
Ellen’s voice crackled with excitement. ‘‘They came
last night!’’
‘‘What did?’’
‘‘My shower gifts,’’ she responded, not quite able to
conceal her impatience. From her tone, she might just
as well have added, ‘‘Dummy.’’
‘‘But you were at the funeral home last night.’’
‘‘I gave the keys to Ginger.’’
I couldn’t resist. ‘‘ ‘. . . who lives in my building,’ ’’
I finished for her.
‘‘Huh?’’ She obviously didn’t get it.
‘‘Never mind.’’ But I could feel the grin spreading
over my face.
‘‘Anyway, I spoke to this woman from Silver Oaks
yesterday, and she asked if it would be okay if some
body dropped off the packages that evening. It was
really nice that they were willing to do a thing like that, and I didn’t want to make things difficult for whoever was doing the delivering. Also, I could hardly
wait to see the gifts. So I said for the man to ring Ginger’s bell, and then she let him into my apartment.
‘‘Listen, Aunt Dez, I am thrilled with the china. But you’ve gotta be crazy, springing for anything that ex
pensive with all you must have spent on the shower. My God! That was present enough.’’
‘‘Yes, especially since it was such a pleasurable ex
perience,’’ I said dryly.
‘‘But that wasn’t your fault.’’
‘‘At any rate, Allison and I—your mother, too,’’ I
included with a grimace, ‘‘decided it would be nice to start you off with a few place settings.’’
Now, Ellen had really startled everybody when she
selected a dinnerware pattern. I mean, while she’s
been known to whip up a very decent breakfast, after
twelve noon her culinary talents come to a screeching
halt. (Don’t ask me to explain it, either.) Ellen’s idea of preparing dinner is to reheat the Chinese takeout. Well, I suppose even moo goo gai pan seems a little more gourmetish on Limoges.
74
Selma Eichler
‘‘What were some of your other presents?’’ I was
foolish enough to inquire.
I expected to hear about the half dozen or so items
she was most enthusiastic about. Instead, my niece
proceeded to enumerate around fifty, describing some
of them in great detail. I probably should have been thankful that a number of the gifts were from more
than one guest.
‘‘Barbara and Harriet from your building? They
gave us a beautiful crystal vase,’’ she began. ‘‘And we
got the most gorgeous silver tray from my friends at work. It came from Tiffany’s,’’ she added, sounding
suitably impressed. ‘‘Somebody else—I forget who—
gave us . . .’’ And she went on. And on. And on.
‘‘. . . Plus, we got three toaster ovens,’’ she finally concluded. But not before relating the specific features
of each.
The conversation ended with Ellen’s extracting my
promise to stop by for a look at her bounty as soon as I had a chance.
Something I was eager to do anyway.
The phone rang as I was reaching to turn on my
Mac.
‘‘It’s Allison, Desiree. Chief Porchow just tele
phoned. The autopsy report has come in.’’ Every mus
cle in my body tensed. ‘‘He’ll be over at four to talk to us.’’
‘‘He didn’t give you any idea of the results?’’
‘‘None. But I’m feeling very uneasy about this.
After all, if Bobbie Jean died of natural causes, why wouldn’t he just say that then and there? Why would he want to see us?’’
‘‘I’m afraid you’re right. You’ll let me know as soon
as he leaves, won’t you.’’ I didn’t put it as a question. Forcing Allison’s news from my mind, I spent the
next few hours transcribing my notes on this morning’s
interrogation of Lorraine Corwin. I didn’t even break to go out to lunch. This, however, is not to imply
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
75
that I skipped a meal—which is practically against my
religion. In between the struggle to decipher my hand
writing and the determination to type at a speed that would not cause your average snail any embar
rassment, I managed to consume a BLT (minus the
L) and a Coke at my desk.
In spite of my diligence, though, I still wasn’t able to
finish the job. Because before you could say, ‘‘Grace Banner,’’ three thirty had sneaked up on me.
And minutes later the second of my suspects
arrived.
Chapter 12
Grace Banner collapsed in the chair.
If anything, she looked even more waiflike than she
had on Sunday. Her lightweight cotton dress was suf
fering the effects of some determined store-to-store
shopping, coupled with a temperature that when I last
heard—and this was hours ago—was eighty-nine de
grees and climbing. The wilted blue-and-yellow print
garment clung stubbornly to her thin, boyish frame,
broadcasting the absence of even the most miniscule
swelling in the chest area. The woman’s plain brown
hair was in an equally sad state, plastered against her head and hanging in moist clumps to the middle of
her neck.
Seated alongside my desk in the only visitor’s chair my cigar-box-of-an-office can accommodate, she was
soon busily engaged in searching through her purse.
She finally pulled out a tissue and hastily wiped her damp forehead. Then she eked out a halfhearted
smile. ‘‘I’m exhausted. Shopping isn’t easy.’’
‘‘Well, at least you accomplished something.’’ There
were three bags at her feet—from Lord & Taylor,
Bloomingdale’s, and Saks Fifth Avenue.
‘‘I hope so. But once I get home, my family—which
includes two very finicky daughters—could decide that
they hate everything I’ve bought, and I’ll have to come
back and return all of this.’’ Biting her lip, she ges
tured toward her purchases. ‘‘To tell you the truth, I’m
already having second thoughts about the cashmere
sweater I picked out for Karl—that’s my husband. It’s
apricot, and I’m not sure how he’ll feel about apricot.’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
77
And now, wincing, she inquired shyly, ‘‘I hate to ask, but would you mind very much if I slipped off my
shoes? I’m . . . well, I’m in agony.’’
‘‘Please. Be my guest. I’ve been there myself.’’ (I
almost said—unintentionally, I swear—‘‘I’ve been in
your shoes myself.’’ But I bit back the unforgivable pun just in time.)
Grace removed her sensible bone-colored oxfords
(which evidently weren’t sensible enough) and, bend
ing down, placed them neatly under the chair. She
sighed with relief, then fixed me with forthri
ght brown
eyes. ‘‘You wanted to talk to me about Bobbie Jean.’’
‘‘I did—that is, I do. But first, would you like me to
order up a soda for you? Or how about an iced tea?’’
‘‘Nothing, thank you. I had a cold drink a few min
utes ago, right before I came up here.’’
‘‘Well, suppose we get started then. I’d like you to tell me what occurred between you and Bobbie Jean.’’
‘‘All right.’’ And leaning back in her seat now,
Grace cleared her throat. After which she began to
lay out the details of her feud with the victim, her voice low and even.
‘‘Karl and I became partners in a restaurant with
her.’’
‘‘When was this?’’ I asked before she could go on.
‘‘Close to ten years ago. Back then it seemed as if it could turn out to be a lucrative undertaking for all three of us. Bobbie Jean had more money than she
knew what to do with, and she was looking to invest in a promising business. And Karl had had a great
deal of restaurant experience—he’d managed a num
ber of extremely successful establishments. Also, we
were able to find decent space in a good location at a very fair price. And—’’
‘‘Had you previously worked in that field, too?’’
‘‘No, but I was more than willing to do whatever
had to be done to help make a go of the place. And if I have any talent whatsoever, Desiree, it’s for fol
lowing instructions. In other words, I was the ideal fill-in. One day I would act as hostess. The next I
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Selma Eichler
might be chopping vegetables or waiting on tables. I even went to bartender school for a few weeks—just
in case. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted one of my pin˜ a coladas,’’ she bragged with a little laugh.
‘‘And what was Bobbie Jean’s contribution, other
than monetary?’’
‘‘None. It had been agreed that her participation
would be limited to the financing, while Karl and I, who were investing much less, would be responsible
for the actual operation of BanJean’s—that was the
name of the restaurant. It’s a combination of Banner and Bobbie Jean. We—’’
I jumped in again. ‘‘BanJean’s was located in
Connecticut?’’
‘‘Yes, in Greenwich. Just seven blocks from our
house.’’ And here Grace paused, apparently anticipat
ing another interruption. But a few seconds of silence
convinced her that it was safe to continue. ‘‘BanJean’s
really wasn’t doing at all badly. Not when you consider
that it had been in existence less than a year. But Bobbie Jean had expected that it would be like an
instant magnet for everyone in the area with an Amer
ican Express card. And when that didn’t happen, she
took Karl and me to court, claiming that we’d been
defrauding her. Or anyway, that was one reason for
the law suit.’’
‘‘What do you mean ‘ one reason’?’’
Grace flushed. ‘‘I should tell you that Bobbie Jean
wasn’t a very moral person. In fact, she was almost notorious for her, um, sexual doings. And she devel
oped this . . . these feelings for Karl.’’ The flush deep
ened. ‘‘I’m not sure exactly when she decided that she
had to have him—you know what I mean—but six or
seven months after BanJean’s opened, she suddenly
began stopping in for lunch several days a week. And
by herself, too.’’
‘‘She hadn’t done that before?’’
‘‘No. She lived on Long Island, and while the res
taurant wasn’t terribly far from her home, it wasn’t right around the corner, either. So previously she
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
79
would just come in sporadically, mostly for dinner.
And always with some gentleman friend.’’
‘‘What makes you think your husband was the rea
son for this change in pattern?’’
‘‘Because she propositioned him one afternoon
when I was out with the flu,’’ Grace said matter-of
factly.
‘‘He told you about this?’’
‘‘Oh, not right away. And only under pressure. I
noticed that Karl had suddenly begun acting very cool
toward Bobbie Jean, even attempting to avoid her.
And for her part, after increasing her visits to the restaurant like that, all of a sudden she cut way back on them. Also, she practically ignored Karl when she did show up. I questioned him about it, but he insisted
I was imagining things. Eventually, though, I became
positive that my imagination had nothing to do with
it, and I confronted him. Karl did a lot of hemming and hawing, but like any good wife’’—a small smile
here—‘‘I nagged the life out of him. And he finally
came clean.’’
Well, I wasn’t too surprised to learn that Bobbie
Jean’s sexual aggressiveness had entered into her
falling-out with Grace. The fact is, when Allison had omitted this element from her abbreviated version of
the hostilities between the two women, it had crossed my mind that at least this was one feud the deceased had been involved in where she’d kept her panties on.
Evidently, however, that had not been from choice.
‘‘Did you ever confront Bobbie Jean about this?’’
‘‘Not until she slapped us with that law suit—which
was soon afterward. Before then, I was too concerned
about what it could do to BanJean’s if I brought things
out in the open. Anyway, Bobbie Jean denied
everything.’’
‘‘And you think she filed that suit because she was
a woman scorned?’’
‘‘I certainly think that entered into it,’’ Grace de
clared. ‘‘And I would guess that what she found partic
ularly disturbing about her failure to seduce Karl was
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Selma Eichler
that he was my husband. Let’s face it, I’m no Pa
mela Anderson.
‘‘Incidentally, Desiree, I happen to be married to a very handsome fellow. Wait.’’ And unclasping the
purse in her lap, she extracted a bulky brown wallet and flipped it open to a photograph. Then leaning
across the desk, she handed me the wallet. ‘‘And by the way, he’s a terrific person, as well,’’ she in
formed me.
The headshot was of a fair-haired man with a daz
zling smile and dark, piercing eyes above thick, dark eyebrows. ‘‘He is good-looking,’’ I agreed, returning the wallet. But the skeptical part of my brain alerted me to the possibility that the photo could be twenty years old or more.
Obviously the possessor of psychic powers, Grace
said, ‘‘That was taken last year.
‘‘I recall the first time Karl asked me out,’’ she
mused. ‘‘I was almost convinced that I’d misunder
stood him. But I hadn’t. I was the one he wanted
when we were in our twenties. And fortunately, I’m
still the one he wants. I’m sure a great many people don’t understand it, and I don’t blame them. Heck,
even I don’t understand it.’’ At that moment she
grinned, a sweet, shy kind of grin. And all at once I could understand it. I mean, there was something very
vulnerable, very endearing about that expression—and
something ver
y appealing about this woman.
Don’t go overboard! I quickly cautioned myself. Which was definitely sound advice. After all, there was
a one in four chance (or so I persisted in regarding it) that this timid, self-deprecating little lady here had just treated her former partner to a lethal dose of poison.
Grace was now sitting there stock-still, with a far
away look in her eyes, so I prompted, ‘‘You were
telling me what motivated Bobbie Jean’s lawsuit.’’
‘‘Yes. As I see it, she had been completely trauma
tized by Karl’s rejection. I realize I’m not a psychia
trist, Desiree. I did get to know her fairly well, though,
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
81
and it’s my opinion that Bobbie Jean measured her
worth as a human being by her success with men. But
anyhow, that suit gave her the opportunity to humili
ate my husband— and me, for that matter—as she felt she’d been humiliated.
‘‘While it’s true that she did have very unrealistic expectations for the restaurant,’’ Grace added, ‘‘I
don’t think she ever believed deep-down that we’d
been defrauding her. She let herself believe it because she wanted to.’’
‘‘Precisely what is it you and your husband were
supposed to have done?’’
‘‘She accused us of falsifying the purchase receipts, which she based on the word of an ex-employee—Ty
Gregory—who had a grievance against us. Ty had
been a waiter at BanJean’s since we opened. He was
quite attractive, and for a while there was some talk at the restaurant about him and Bobbie Jean being
lovers. From what I gathered, the affair was over be
fore she made that play for Karl, but it’s very possible
it resumed after Ty was let go—or maybe even be
fore that.’’
‘‘Why did you get rid of Ty?’’
‘‘Karl and I didn’t want to, honestly. But we had
no choice. From the beginning there were complaints
from our customers about his attitude, and we kept
warning him that he’d have to be more pleasant to
people. But it didn’t do the least bit of good. And so about nine months after he started with us, we had to
terminate him.
‘‘Well, it wasn’t too much later that Ty told Bobbie
Jean we were in cahoots with some of our suppliers
to deny her her fair share of the profits. The story he gave her was that we purchased inferior meats and
produce for the restaurant but that these suppliers
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