from the deceased they’d be standing on line at a soup
kitchen anytime soon.
Right after this it dawned on me that Allison wasn’t
the only one at that shower who would be benefiting
financially from Bobbie Jean’s demise. That is, once
the ‘‘I-do’s’’ had been taken care of. Of course, it was
extremely unlikely that Ellen was aware at the time
that Bobbie Jean had been so generous with Mike.
Besides, the very notion of my nervous Nellie of a
niece poisoning anybody was so ludicrous that an ab
breviated laugh escaped before I could squelch it.
Allison sounded perplexed. ‘‘Has something funny
occurred to you?’’
‘‘Oh, no. I wasn’t laughing. I was . . . umm, trying
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91
to clear this frog in my throat.’’ And to prove it, I treated her to a couple of insincere little coughs.
The conversation ended moments later—but not be
fore Allison brought up the country club again.
‘‘I realize you believe that one of my friends was
responsible for Bobbie Jean’s death. But you will in
vestigate the people at Silver Oaks with an open mind,
won’t you?’’
‘‘Naturally I will.’’
‘‘After all,’’ she asserted, ‘‘you never know.’’
A statement that, in a way, proved prophetic.
Chapter 14
Practically everything in my refrigerator had gone bad
at once: The milk had turned sour. The bread was
stale. The peaches were rotten. The onions were
squishy. And there were ugly green molds floating
around in the applesauce. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. My quart of Haägen-Dazs macadamia brittle
was now dangerously close to empty. So after slaving over the computer for a good six hours on Friday—
and still not managing to transcribe all of my notes—
on the way home from work I had to stop in at my neighborhood D’Agostino’s to do some replenishing.
I’d just closed the door to the freezer, after uncov
ering the one remaining container of macadamia brit
tle in the supermarket, when I turned around to find guess-who standing right behind me. ‘‘Hi, Desiree,’’
said Nick Grainger. ‘‘I see we have the same taste in flavors.’’ He gave me a buck-toothed (but very attrac
tively so) grin, and as is usual in his presence, my knees became totally untrustworthy.
Why, oh why, hadn’t I applied fresh lipstick before leaving the office? ‘‘I’m afraid this is the last of the macadamia brittle,’’ I informed him, while simultane
ously wishing I could kick myself all the way to the Bronx.
Nick made a face. After which he demanded in
mock—or maybe not so mock—despair, ‘‘Please say
you’re joking.’’
‘‘I wish I were,’’ I responded as I tossed the ice cream into my shopping cart. ‘‘Well, I’d better be
going. It was nice—’’
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93
I was interrupted by my extremely irritated inner
voice. You idiot, you! When opportunity knocks, you suddenly go deaf.
It—my inner voice—had a point there.
‘‘Look,’’ I told Nick, ‘‘I’m willing to share. Why
don’t you stop down for dessert later?’’
Nick’s face went crimson. ‘‘I have these . . . uh . . . these plans for tonight. But thanks for the invitation. And . . . er, have a good evening.’’ Then he promptly,
well, fled would be the most accurate description of his leave-taking.
At that moment I came dangerously close to bawl
ing—and in the middle of D’Agostino’s, too. The man
I’d been having all these stupid daydreams about had just reacted like I was an infectious disease. And I really don’t take rejection very well. But then, show me somebody who does, and I’ll show you a great
big liar.
The telephone was ringing when I walked into the
apartment. I quickly snatched up the receiver. Fortu
nately I was in time to prevent the answering machine
from kicking in, something that always makes me
crazy. I mean, whenever I hear that recorded voice of
mine, I’m in trauma. Listen, you would be, too, if you
sounded like Minnie Mouse. (I keep telling myself that
some glitch in the equipment is warping the sound.
But I suppose it’s possible that I’m rationalizing.)
Anyhow, after the usual amenities, my friend the
former Pat Martucci, now Mrs. Burton Wizniak, got
to the reason for her call. ‘‘Have they found out yet what that woman—Bobbie Jean—died of?’’
‘‘Monkshood,’’ I told her.
‘‘Monks what? ’’
‘‘Monkshood,’’ I repeated. ‘‘It’s some sort of poi
sonous plant. The murderer put the leaves in Bobbie
Jean’s salad.’’
‘‘Then she was poisoned? ’’
‘‘That’s right.’’
‘‘Are there any suspects?’’
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Selma Eichler
‘‘There are four that I’m concentrating on at
present.’’
‘‘ You’re concentrating on? Don’t tell me you’re in
vestigating this.’’ And then, not waiting for an answer:
‘‘I hope you’re at least getting paid for your efforts. Are you?’’ Pat demanded.
I danced around the question. ‘‘Why would I work
for nothing?’’
‘‘Yeah, just as I thought. You’re a real sucker, De
siree Shapiro. Do you know that?’’ I didn’t consider this worthy of a response. ‘‘And what happens when
you can’t afford to pay your rent?’’
‘‘I’ll move in with you and Burton, of course.’’
‘‘Smart ass,’’ Pat grumbled. ‘‘Well, take care of
yourself, okay? Just don’t pull any heroics.’’
Which was pretty funny, because I don’t do heroics.
I was putting away the groceries when I heard from
Ellen. ‘‘M-Mike just told me. About the monkshood,
I m-m-mean. Who do you think could have done a
thing like that? Do you think it was one of the ladies who sounded off about her on Sunday?’’
‘‘So far they’re at the top of my list.’’
‘‘That p-poor woman,’’ Ellen murmured, starting to
choke up.
‘‘Listen, Ellen, I don’t approve of murder—you
know that. But ‘poor woman’ hardly describes Bobbie
Jean Morton. Your almost-future-aunt was a sexual
predator who didn’t mind messing up somebody’s life
in order to get what—or I should say who—she wanted.’’
‘‘I’m aware of that. Still, I kind of liked her those two times I met her. And Mike really cared for her. Maybe she just couldn’t help herself.’’ Before I could argue this point, Ellen added, ‘‘Anyway, I know you’ll
be investigating her death, so please promise me you’ll
be careful. Very careful.’’
‘‘I promise.’’
And now she shifted gears. ‘‘I haven’t had any din
ner yet, Aunt Dez. Have you?’’
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95
Well, I’d been trying to make up my mind between
an omelette, a ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwich, and
that onion tart I’d returned to the freezer after Al
li
son’s visit. None of which I was especially excited
about. And besides, if I stayed home I’d spend my
time alternating between cursing Nick Grainger and
licking my wounds. And those were a couple of other
things that didn’t appeal to me much. So I told Ellen that, no, I hadn’t eaten yet, either.
‘‘Good. You’ll have something here. Mike’s at the
hospital, and I could use the company. Besides, I’m
dying for you to see my gifts.’’
‘‘Oh, then you’re home. I thought you were calling
from Macy’s.’’
‘‘I left work early—an upset stomach.’’
Since dinner at Ellen’s invariably means Chinese
food, I was taken aback. ‘‘You just told me you have an upset stomach.’’
‘‘ Had. I’m fine now.’’
‘‘Still, I think it would be better if you limited your
self to tea and toast tonight. And maybe some Camp
bell’s chicken noodle soup.’’
‘‘Believe me, Aunt Dez, I’m feeling much, much
better. And whether you join me or not, I’m going to be ordering from Mandarin Joy.’’ Mandarin Joy being
Ellen’s local Chinese restaurant, which would very
likely be facing bankruptcy if she ever moved out of the neighborhood.
I allowed myself to be convinced. ‘‘Okay,’’ I said,
‘‘if you’re certain you’re up to it.’’
We settled on the menu over the phone. And after
that I hurriedly put on some lipstick—which wound
up so far outside my natural lip line that it looked as if I’d gone to the Lorraine Corwin school of mouth
extension. Then I practically had a fight to the death with my hair, and as it unfailingly does on humid days,
my hair won. Luckily I had a fallback position: a wig that looks exactly like my own glorious hennaed
tresses but is far better behaved.
Twenty minutes later I was on my way out the door.
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Selma Eichler
Then I remembered.
I all but ran back to the kitchen and grabbed the
macadamia brittle from the freezer. I was going to be sharing it tonight after all.
Eat your heart out, Nick Grainger. At some point during the thirty-five-minute cab ride
from East Eighty-second Street to Ellen’s place on
West Nineteenth, I thought about the fact that Mike
would soon be coming into what his mother had re
ferred to as ‘‘a fairly substantial sum of money.’’ And
I wondered if I should tell Ellen what I’d learned. I immediately decided against it. It was up to Mike to inform his future bride about a thing like that. Maybe
he already had, for all I knew—although this I seri
ously doubted. I mean, my niece does a lot of things very well. But keeping secrets from her dear old Aunt
Dez is not one of them.
Anyway, we had a delicious—and huge—dinner:
dim sum, Chung King spare ribs, shrimp with garlic
sauce, and lemon chicken. And if Ellen had even the remnants of an upset stomach, she hid it admirably.
Once we’d cleared away the dishes, we settled down
with our ice cream and coffee. (There’s no law that says you have to have tea with Chinese food, you
know.) Now, I’d intended to stop off for Haägen Dazs
Belgian chocolate—Ellen’s favorite—before coming
here. But the instant I got downstairs it started to rain,
and half a dozen people were already jockeying for
taxis. Then out of nowhere this beat-up relic with a noisy muffler sputtered to a stop directly in front of me to let out a passenger. And who am I to ignore kismet? Besides, macadamia brittle is Ellen’s second
favorite flavor. Or so she claims.
At any rate, after gorging ourselves on the ice
cream, it was time to look at the shower gifts, which were presently occupying so much of Ellen’s small liv
ing room that you had to be extra cautious about
where you placed your feet. I have to tell you, though,
that she’d made quite a haul. Everything from the
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97
practical (see ‘‘three toaster ovens’’) to the exotic (how does a mother-of-pearl caviar spoon strike
you?).
‘‘Allison offered to let us keep the presents at her house for a while,’’ Ellen told me once I’d finished oohing and ahhing. ‘‘We have to wait until Mike has a chance to drop them off there, though.’’ And then right out of left field: ‘‘She must have used the side door.’’
Well, although I manage to decipher Ellen’s non
sequiturs at least sixty percent of the time—after all, I’ve had plenty of practice—just then I was stumped.
‘‘Okay, I give up. Who and what are we talking
about?’’
My niece looked at me pityingly, as if I was no
longer as sharp as I once was. ‘‘The killer. Listen, Madam X had to . . . to doctor that salad before we were called in to eat, right? Well, I can’t imagine her being able to sneak in and out of the dining room
unnoticed if she used the double doors in the front—
not with all of us milling around like that. And since the back entrance is almost directly opposite the
kitchen, she’d also have run a pretty big risk of being spotted if she tried slipping in that way. So what does
that leave?’’
This was how I had it figured, too. ‘‘The side door,’’
I said, nodding in agreement. It was really the murder
er’s only sensible choice.
Follow me for a minute.
At one end of the Minerva Room (you know, where
we’d had our cocktails and hors d’oeuvres) a left turn
brings you to a hallway that provides access to the dining room via a side entrance. Across from this en
trance and about six or seven feet beyond it is the ladies’ room. So about five minutes (more or less)
before lunch was scheduled to be served, Bobbie
Jean’s killer could—and no doubt did—sashay down
that corridor looking to all the world as if she had nothing more sinister in mind than powdering her
nose.
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Selma Eichler
Door to
Hallway
Ladies Room
to Parking Lot
Exit
Room
va Room
Hallway
Dining
Miner
Doors to Kitchen
Hallway
to seating area
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
99
I’ve done a very rough sketch to make it easier for you to visualize the layout. Keep in mind, though, that
my skill at drawing fits right in with my talent for the piano and my proficiency at Rollerblading.
I had just gotten to my feet preparatory to leaving when Ellen suddenly turned somber. ‘‘Something just
occurred to me,’’ she murmured. ‘‘If it hadn’t been
for my shower, maybe she would be here today. What
I’m saying is, the shower presented one of the people who hated Bobbie Jean with an opportunity to poi
son her.’’
‘‘You could be right, Ellen. It’s possible that if not for the shower Bobbie Jean would still be with us. But if so, that would almost certainly not hold true for very long. Listen, considering the way that woman
lived her life, she practically asked to be murdered. And sooner or later, whoever did the job on Sunday
would have had another chance to accommodate her.’’
E
llen appeared to relax a bit.
‘‘Trust me,’’ I assured her, hammering the message
home. ‘‘The only thing in doubt here is when.’’
Chapter 15
I’d been advised that, traffic permitting, Saturday’s
drive to Greenwich, Connecticut, should take slightly
under an hour. So just to be sure I’d make that twelve
thirty lunch at Robin Fremont’s, I’d left my apartment
at ten thirty. And no, my math may not be anything to brag about, but it isn’t that bad. First, there was that ‘‘traffic permitting’’ business to allow for. And then, my sense of direction being what it is, I had to tack on some additional time for an unintentional de
tour or two.
Still, I was late. Extremely late. If ever you could legitimately lay the blame on an act of God, however,
this was it.
I’d no sooner picked up my Chevy at the garage
than it started to drizzle. And before long, those gen
tle little drops morphed into a genuine torrent. Which,
I suppose, was nifty for our reservoirs, but it was hell on all of us who were behind the wheel that morning.
I mean, I can’t even count how often I had to pull onto the shoulder of the parkway because I couldn’t
see a foot in front of me. And thank you, WLTW, for that ‘‘sunny and 78 degrees with a chance of showers toward evening’’ weather prediction of yours. At noon I called Robin from my cell phone to ap
prise her of my whereabouts and suggest that she eat without me. But she insisted on waiting until I got there.
‘‘Listen, I love to cook, and I rarely have a chance to fix anything for anyone these days,’’ she told me.
‘‘Whenever Carla—my daughter—visits, she’s on an
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other silly diet, so she seldom has more than a couple
of carrots and a stalk of celery here.’’
Well, since the woman put it that way. . . .
It was past two before Robin and I finally sat down
in her lovely pink-and-white circular dining alcove—
and I valiantly attempted to get down a lunch the
memory of which still makes my stomach turn over.
Somehow the woman had managed to screw up
chicken salad, which I regard as a real challenge.
Never before, however, have I tasted so much dressing
on so little poultry. I mean, that poor bird’s parts were
drowning in a sea of wine vinegar. Plus, the chicken chunks, while few in number, were extra-large—and
so tough that my teeth started to ache. But it wasn’t only the salad that was a minus 10. The accompanying
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