Grainger’s voice, my heart resumed its proper place
in my anatomy.
‘‘Yes, it is.’’
‘‘This is Chief Porchow over in Forsythe, Ms. Sha
piro. We’ve gotten the autopsy results on Ms. Mor
ton.’’ His tone became almost confidential. ‘‘She was
poisoned. But maybe you’ve already heard.’’
‘‘As a matter of fact, I did hear. Mrs. Morton’s
sister-in-law—Allison Lynton—told me.’’
‘‘I’d like to check out a couple of points with you, if you don’t mind. According to the information you
provided to Officer Smilowitz, you barely knew the
deceased.’’
‘‘That’s right.’’
‘‘Could you elaborate a little on the ‘barely’?’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
121
‘‘Well, Mrs. Lynton and I were the ones who gave
that bridal shower; it was for my niece, who’s engaged
to Mrs. Lynton’s son. Bobbie Jean—Mrs. Morton—
was a member at Silver Oaks, and she arranged for
the affair to be held there. She met us up at the club twice to help us organize things.’’
‘‘And those were the only times you were in her
company?’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘So I don’t suppose you could have had much of a
motive for wanting her dead.’’
‘‘None at all,’’ I said flatly.
‘‘Would you have any idea who might have had ill
feelings toward the victim?’’
Well, since Wes had already fingered Allison’s four
buddies for the chief, I figured there was no reason for a lie here. (Which is something I only resort to out
of absolute necessity—or, on occasion, compassion.)
‘‘Actually, from what I’ve gathered, there was an un
pleasant history of some sort between Mrs. Morton
and some of Allison Lynton’s close friends.’’
‘‘And who would those friends be?’’
I ticked off the names.
‘‘Anyone else, Ms. Shapiro?’’
‘‘No one I’m aware of.’’
‘‘I have just one more question for you.’’ Now,
where have I heard that before? ‘‘Did you see anyone going in or out of the dining room prior to lunch being
served?’’ God, it felt strange listening to my own words coming out of someone else’s mouth.
‘‘No, no one.’’
‘‘Then let me ask you this. Did you notice anything
at all of a suspicious nature that day?’’
This made it two questions, but I should talk. I really felt for the man at having to give him another no, but
what could I do? ‘‘Umm, no,’’ I admitted sheepishly. He seemed to take this in stride. Obviously, it was a response he’d become pretty much accustomed to
with this case. And, boy, could I empathize with that!
The brief interrogation concluded with Chief Por
122
Selma Eichler
chow’s extracting my promise to contact him if any
thing pertinent should occur to me.
I’d fallen asleep watching television (that’s how
stimulating a show it was) when the telephone jarred me awake.
Nick! I thought, ever hopeful.
It was Ellen.
‘‘I just got a call from the Forsythe chief of police,’’
she said anxiously.
‘‘I’m certain he’s getting in touch with everyone
who was at the shower,’’ I assured her.
‘‘Honestly?’’
‘‘Honestly.’’ I wasn’t positive, but I imagined I
heard a sigh of relief. ‘‘You weren’t concerned that he might consider you a suspect, were you?’’
‘‘Of course not.’’ But my niece isn’t nearly as ac
complished a liar as I am.
‘‘He phoned me this evening, too,’’ I informed her.
‘‘Oh.’’ And this time I knew I heard a sigh of relief.
‘‘Did you mention that you’ve been investigating the
murder on your own?’’
‘‘Uh-uh. I didn’t see any point in it. Besides, I hated
to ruin what was left of the man’s day. So I decided to keep my mouth shut—for the present, at least.’’
‘‘You think he would object to your looking into
things?’’
‘‘What do you think?’’ I countered.
‘‘I think he wouldn’t have been overjoyed by the
news.’’ And she giggled. Well, Ellen’s infectious little giggle hadn’t punctuated a conversation of ours since Bobbie Jean’s death. And I was inordinately pleased
that it was making its return.
‘‘How’s Mike?’’ I asked then.
‘‘Pretty good—considering.’’
‘‘And his parents?’’
‘‘Allison’s okay, but Wes is still very depressed.
He’s going in to the office tomorrow, though. He says
if he doesn’t get back to work he’ll drive himself and Allison crazy.’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
123
He was probably right, too.
Soon after Ellen and I finished talking, the phone
rang for the third time that evening. It was past ten by now, and having been wrong twice already, I
wouldn’t even let the name ‘‘Nick’’ enter my head. So
I wasn’t that disappointed to find my friend Pat on
the other end of the line.
She and Burton had come home from the movies a
couple of minutes ago, she reported, and there was a message from the Forsythe Police Department on her
machine. She was asked to contact Chief Porchow in
the morning. ‘‘I was wondering what it could be about.
Any ideas?’’
‘‘They simply want to verify the information you
gave Officer Smilowitz. For instance, they’ll probably
ask you again how well you knew the victim. And
now that it’s been established that a murder was com
mitted, they’ll naturally want to find out if you spotted
anything out of the ordinary that day. That kind of thing.’’
‘‘Just what I figured,’’ Pat declared, although I’d
definitely detected a hint of uneasiness in her voice. And believe me, Pat Wizniak’s nerves are a whole lot
steadier than Ellen’s.
But it’s a funny thing. It seems that even when peo
ple are innocent and have nothing whatever to hide,
getting questioned by the police is liable to make them
squirm a little. I probably shouldn’t admit this, being a PI and all, but under other circumstances that call from Chief Porchow might have made me the slightest
bit jumpy, too.
As it was, though, I was too depressed to let it
affect me.
Chapter 19
When I woke up on Monday I immediately convinced
myself to wait until after tonight’s seven p.m. meeting
with Carla Fremont before sticking my head in the
gas oven. And once again I began looking to this last of my suspects to provide some encouraging input.
Listen, I was trying really hard for optimism.
Anyhow, in the meantime I had a one-third-decent
day. The decent part being that I was unusually pro
ductive, transcribing a large portion of my notes. As for the two-thirds that weren’t so decent, first, Jackie and I had lunch at a new Italian restaurant that really
showed some promise—until a damn fly did a damn
swan dive into my mi
nestrone. Then, when we were
walking back to the office, I succumbed to a silk scarf
that seemed to wink at me from the window of this
little boutique. Even on sale—a nonrefundable sale—
that scarf was ridiculously expensive. But I was a hun
dred percent positive it would be perfect with my light
blue suit—only to discover later that it did not go with
the suit at all. Or with anything else in my closet, for that matter.
But about that get-together with Carla . . .
On the way home from work I did some shopping
in preparation for her visit. Remembering Robin’s re
mark about her daughter’s penchant for celery and
carrots, I marched right past the cheese store in favor
of the greengrocer’s, where I painstakingly selected
the freshest and most appetizing assortment of
vegetables.
When I got upstairs I made some dip—and then
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
125
suddenly my poor excuse for a brain actually started to function. I mean, hadn’t I speculated on Saturday that Carla’s rejection of her mother’s cooking might
not have been attributable to a diet at all—but to an innate desire for self-preservation? I hastily took the onion tart out of the freezer—you know, that same
onion tart that had so obviously failed to impress Alli
son last week.
I’d just removed it from the oven when the doorbell
sounded. It was seven o’clock on the button.
As soon as she walked in, Carla Fremont reinforced
what I’d concluded at the shower: She was definitely
no slave to fashion. The faded navy sweatshirt she
wore was at least two sizes too large for her skin-and
bones figure. (Compared to Carla, my niece Ellen was
a candidate for Weight Watchers.) Also, the girl’s tan chinos were frayed at the bottom, and there was a
large spot in the middle of the left leg. They did fit okay, though, being only slightly baggy. (In my book, slightly baggy is definitely preferable to slacks so tight
you don’t have to wonder about what type of panties a person has on underneath—assuming a person is
even wearing panties, that is.)
Carla obviously didn’t patronize the cosmetics
counters any too often, either. Her only makeup was
a touch of lipstick—although skin as pasty as Carla’s practically cries out for some camouflage. And it
pained me to think of what a little long-lash mascara could have done for those short, next-to-invisible
eyelashes.
However, Carla’s biggest mistake—looks-wise, I’m
talking about—was her hair. Kind of greasy, and a
nondescript shade of brown, it just hung there, com
pletely limp. Trust me, this wasn’t the best style for anyone. Even Heather Locklear might have had trou
ble pulling off a hairdo like that. But what made it such a disaster for Carla was how it accentuated her too-thin face—and the somewhat prominent nose in
the middle of it.
126
Selma Eichler
And then there were those yellow teeth of hers.
Now, all this may sound pretty catty to you. But
seeing her again, I realized that Carla’s neglect in the appearance department might have facilitated Bobbie
Jean’s getting her hooks into Roy Connell. And I
found myself disturbed by the possibility that Carla’s new guy—this Len that Robin had mentioned—could
someday be faced with the same sort of temptation
her ex was. And could prove to be every bit as
shallow.
Anyhow, as soon as my visitor had made herself
comfortable on the sofa, I asked what I could get her to drink, and she said she’d love some red wine if I had it. I did.
After pouring two glasses of Beaujolais, I took a
chair opposite her and waved at the food on the coffee
table. ‘‘Help yourself,’’ I invited. And Carla did. To
tally ignoring the platter displaying those lovely vege
tables I’d so carefully picked over at the greengrocer’s,
she cut herself a slice of onion tart. And shortly after this, another.
The zeal with which Carla was attacking that tart
led me to conclude that if there was even a shred of hope there’d be any of it left over for my supper, I’d better restrict myself to the crudite´s. Which have
never been my hors d’oeuvre of choice.
At any rate, after we’d spent about ten minutes sip
ping and chewing and engaging in a fair amount of
polite conversation, I figured it was time to get down to business.
‘‘Tell me about your relationship with Bobbie Jean,
Ms. Fremont,’’ I began.
‘‘We didn’t have a relationship. And the name’s Carla, Desiree.’’
I nodded. ‘‘I understand she married your former
husband.’’
‘‘That’s right. She worked him pretty good, you
know—this, in case nobody told you, was while Roy
and I were still husband and wife. And then all of a sudden, before I was aware of what was happening,
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
127
we weren’t anything to each other anymore.’’ Carla
brushed something—very likely a tear—from just
below her left eye before going on. ‘‘Bobbie Jean was
so much older than Roy, too,’’ she grumbled. ‘‘She
was past forty, for crying out loud. What could he
possibly have seen in a woman that age?’’ I winced. (I have a tendency to take comments of this nature
personally.) ‘‘And why would she have wanted him, for that matter? He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t really what
you’d call good-looking. And to be honest, he wasn’t even that bright.’’
‘‘Umm, you and Roy had been happy together be
fore Bobbie Jean entered the picture?’’
‘‘Yes, we were.’’ She sounded as if she was daring
me to challenge this.
‘‘I heard that less than a year after Roy and Bobbie
Jean were married, he died in an automobile
accident.’’
‘‘That’s right. And I hold Bobbie Jean responsible.’’
‘‘Why is that?’’
‘‘He had started to drink—quite a bit, too. Which
should give you some idea of how blissful he was with
his new little wifey. Roy seldom had more than one
glass of beer when he was living with me. Anyhow,
from what everyone said, Bobbie Jean did nothing
whatsoever to persuade him to cut down.’’
‘‘Maybe everyone was mistaken,’’ I ventured.
‘‘Maybe she tried, but she wasn’t successful.’’
Carla glared at me. ‘‘She actually encouraged his
drinking.’’
‘‘Are you saying Bobbie Jean wanted him to get
into an accident?’’
‘‘I wouldn’t go that far. But she enjoyed getting
crocked herself on occasion—ask Allison—and she
liked having Roy join her. The thing is, though, Bob
bie Jean was able to control the habit while Roy ap
parently wasn’t. And she just didn’t care enough about
him to see to it he went on the wagon—or, at the very
least, to make sure that he didn’t drive when he had a snootful.’’
128
Selma Eichler
‘‘You’re certain she didn’t make the attempt?’’
Carla snappe
d out the next words. ‘‘Has anyone
bothered to fill you in on what happened that night—
the night he died?’’
‘‘All I was told is that your former husband was in a fatal car crash.’’
‘‘Then allow me to enlighten you. My ex and his
dear wife had been out to dinner with another couple,
and both Roy and Bobbie Jean had tossed back quite
a few. Well, when it came time to leave, Bobbie Jean informed Roy that he wasn’t in any condition to get behind the wheel and that she’d have Bill and Mau
reen O’Grady—the other couple—drop her off.’’
‘‘So she did try to talk him out of driving.’’
Carla’s voice rose. ‘‘Aren’t you paying attention?
She made a statement—that was all. According to the O’Gradys, she didn’t even suggest to Roy that he go with them, too.’’
‘‘Didn’t they—the O’Gradys—speak to Roy about
letting them take him home?’’
‘‘Of course. But he wouldn’t listen. And before they
could stop him, he just sped away. He might have
listened to his wife, though—if she’d taken the trouble
to reason with him.’’ Carla didn’t say anything more for a while, and I was about to break the silence when
she blurted out, ‘‘Look, if not for that ho he left me for, Roy Connell would be alive today. I don’t have the slightest doubt of that.’’
‘‘You sound like you still have a great deal of bitter
ness toward Bobbie Jean.’’
‘‘You’d better believe I do! And the fact that she’s gone doesn’t make me loathe the woman any less,
either. She not only wrecked my marriage, she was
also responsible for Roy’s death. And, God help me,
I really loved the man. But that all happened a long time ago. Too long ago, I should point out, for me to suddenly decide to take my revenge at your niece’s
shower. Besides, I’d been very involved with someone
else until recently—until this past weekend, to be
precise.’’
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
129
I was genuinely saddened by this revelation. Consid
ering all she’d been through courtesy of the victim, the girl certainly deserved some happiness in her life. Unless, of course, she’d had a hand in Bobbie Jean’s demise. (As I’ve said before, I don’t condone mur
der—no matter what.) But anyway, I didn’t quite
know how to respond—after all, I had no clue as to how Carla herself felt about the breakup. So out came
the old standby. ‘‘Oh,’’ I murmured.
Murder Can Rain on Your Shower Page 14
