Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  ‘‘I can only pray that you’re right,’’ she responded quietly. ‘‘Do you have any idea yet who did kill Bob

  bie Jean?’’

  ‘‘No, not yet.’’

  ‘‘Oh.’’

  You can’t imagine the amount of dejection that was

  packed into this one little word. And it shot through my mind that Allison was either totally convinced that

  the poisoner was someone other than one of her four buddies or that, given her present circumstances, she didn’t much care who it was at this point.

  ‘‘Listen, I’ll just have to light a fire under myself and solve this thing in a hurry, won’t I?’’ I said, hoping

  that I at least sounded optimistic. ‘‘Tell me, how did your session with the police end?’’

  ‘‘The chief informed me that they’d be in touch.’’

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  ‘‘And Wes knows nothing about the visit?’’

  ‘‘He was at the office when the police showed up

  at the house. But perhaps I ought to talk to him

  about . . . about all of this before somebody else does.

  Do you think I should, Desiree?’’ Allison looked as

  though the last thing in the world she wanted from

  me was a yes.

  Nevertheless, she’d asked for my opinion. ‘‘Umm, I

  guess that might be wise.’’

  ‘‘The problem is, I’m not at all certain that I have the courage to tell Wes that I betrayed him. It took hours before I was even able to force myself to contact

  you about . . . the situation.’’ She managed a crooked

  grin. ‘‘And there’s not even any danger of your asking

  for a divorce.’’

  After this, for what seemed like a long while—but

  was probably not much more than a minute or two—

  neither of us said anything. Then Allison murmured,

  her eyes filling up, ‘‘God, Desiree, what will I do if I lose him?’’

  And now Ellen’s almost-mother-in-law put her hands

  over her face and wept.

  Chapter 25

  What a mess!

  Once my visitor left, I kept myself occupied for the

  longest while by staring unseeingly into space and, in the process, managed to furnish myself with a queensize headache. In spite of all my attempts at reassurance—reiter

  ated even when she was halfway out of the door—I

  hadn’t succeeded in totally convincing Allison Lynton

  that she had nothing to fear from the police.

  I didn’t blame her, either. The truth is, I hadn’t

  been able to convince myself.

  Not that I considered for a single second the possi

  bility that Porchow and company might be on the right

  track. (Although why I was so sure that Allison didn’t

  dispose of her sister-in-law I couldn’t tell you. Maybe it was because she was Mike’s mother, and any mother

  of the man who was going to marry my niece just

  wouldn’t do a thing like that.)

  However, there was reason to be concerned.

  I had to concede that the fact that she was being

  viewed as the prime suspect in Bobbie Jean’s death

  wasn’t completely without merit. After all, to my

  knowledge, Allison was the only one present that Sun

  day with an alleged motive for the murder that didn’t date back a hundred years. And while this alone was hardly enough to get the woman dragged off to jail in

  handcuffs, there was always the chance that something

  unexpected could crop up to incriminate her further.

  For instance, suppose that someone should suddenly

  (and mistakenly) remember spotting her sneaking into

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  the dining room at the crucial time. The thing is, while

  Allison and I had been practically joined at the hip that afternoon, she did make a short trip to the ladies’

  room ten or fifteen minutes before lunch was served.

  It was even conceivable that another someone had

  noticed her walking down that hall—which, if you’ll

  recall, also led to the dining room’s side entrance. Obviously, as certain as I was that Allison had as

  much to do with poisoning Bobbie Jean as I did, I

  couldn’t afford to simply ignore the brand-new status the police had bestowed upon her. Listen—and the

  thought of this practically made my head explode—it

  wouldn’t be the first time an innocent person had been

  brought to trial—and even convicted.

  Clearly I’d have to work a lot harder—and pray

  for a sudden infusion of smarts—to ensure that this

  didn’t happen.

  It required two Extra-Strength Tylenols—and about

  fifteen minutes to allow them to take effect—before I was in any condition to transcribe the remainder of

  my notes on Carla Fremont. And then an hour and a

  quick sandwich at my desk after this, I began to review

  Monday night’s interview with her.

  But in spite of my resolve, I didn’t make much head

  way. Concerns about the Lynton marriage wormed their

  way into my head—which they had absolutely no busi

  ness doing. I mean, I should have been concentrating on the murder, not the couple’s relationship. Still, I debated with myself as to whether Allison would sum

  mon the courage to tell Wes about that brief fling of hers—before he heard it from someone else.

  I’d no sooner pushed this topic from my mind, than

  all these questions about Nick replaced it: (1) How long had he and this Tiffany person been married? (2) Why had they split up? (3) Was Nick as devoted a father as he appeared to be? (4) Was his son a nice little boy? (5) Forget (1) through (4). Could I count on Nick’s calling me again?

  My concentration being what it was that day, at just

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  161

  past four thirty I threw in the towel and shoved the Bobbie Jean Morton file in my attache´ case. Not much

  more than a half hour later I was home—listening to another unsettling message on the answering machine.

  ‘‘This is Chief Porchow. Please give me a call as

  soon as possible.’’

  Before I had time to fret about his purpose in con

  tacting me, I picked up the receiver and dialed the number he’d left.

  ‘‘Ah, Ms. Shapiro, I appreciate your getting back to

  me so promptly,’’ he said. ‘‘There are one or two mat

  ters I neglected to go over with you when we spoke the other evening, and I wonder if I might stop by to see you tonight.’’

  Uh-oh. I was 99.9 percent positive of the reason he wanted to interrogate me, and I wasn’t all that anxious

  to supply him with any answers. ‘‘I guess so,’’ I agreed

  none too cordially. ‘‘That is, if you don’t think we can

  do this on the phone.’’ I already knew how he’d re

  spond, but what the hell, it was worth a try.

  Porchow’s voice was firm. ‘‘It would be preferable

  if we could sit down and talk.’’

  Well, like I said, it was worth a try.

  It had been arranged that Chief Porchow would be

  at my apartment around eight. But it was a few min

  utes after nine when he finally put in an appearance, his dour sidekick, Sergeant Block, two paces behind

  him.

  ‘‘Sorry, Ms. Shapiro,’’ the chief told me, ‘‘we had a crisis of sorts this evening.’’

  ‘‘No problem,’’ I assured him. Actually, though,

  there was a problem. Before cutting out of the
office, I’d solemnly vowed to study my notes tonight. But

  now it looked as if I’d have to break my word to

  myself. I mean, the later these men left, the less alert I’d be. And Lord knows, whatever meager faculties I

  possess were going to have to be in top working order

  if there was the slightest hope of my making progress with this case.

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  At any rate, the two policemen seated themselves

  like bookends at opposite ends of the sofa. ‘‘Can I get

  you something to drink? A cup of coffee, maybe?’’ I inquired. (True, my brew is rarely well received, but recently a number of people—well, one, anyway—told

  me it wasn’t really that terrible.)

  ‘‘I’d love some coffee,’’ the chief said, immediately following which he held up his palm. ‘‘On second

  thought, I’d better not. I’ve already had five cups

  today.’’ The gods must have been smiling down on

  that guy is all I can say.

  ‘‘Likewise,’’ the sergeant grunted, the gods evi

  dently, extending their largess to him.

  I plopped down on one of the club chairs facing

  them, steeling myself for the worst. Still, as he was flipping open his notebook, I noticed again how attrac

  tive Porchow was. He had such strong, even features. And from this close range I was able to appreciate his

  eyes, which were a beautiful blue-green. Aside from

  his physical attributes, though, from my limited experi

  ence with the man, I’d formed the impression that he hadn’t been short-changed when it came to gray mat

  ter, either. You know, I apprised myself, he’d be nice for Barbara. (As in Barbara who lives in the next apartment.)

  Looking over at his left hand, I checked out that

  all-important finger. Naked. Hey, this shows promise. It was at that moment that Chief Porchow began

  his questioning, forcing me out of my matchmaking

  mode. ‘‘Tell me, Ms. Shapiro, how well do you know

  Ms. Lynton—the victim’s sister-in-law?’’

  ‘‘Not very. But enough to recognize what a lovely

  person she is.’’

  Ignoring the testimonial, he glanced down at his

  notebook and traced some of the data with his finger.

  ‘‘Her son is engaged to your niece.’’

  ‘‘Yes, that’s how we came to meet.’’

  ‘‘You weren’t acquainted prior to that—not even

  casually?’’ he asked.

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  163

  ‘‘Nope. I’d never even set eyes on her until Ellen

  and Mike became serious.’’

  ‘‘Still, I assume you’ve been in her company on a

  number of occasions since then.’’

  ‘‘A few.’’

  ‘‘I was told that Ms. Lynton and the deceased didn’t

  get along.’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe they were very close, if that’s what you mean,’’ I responded evasively.

  ‘‘I imagine that with the sisters-in-law having a less than friendly relationship, there must have been some

  sort of negative rub-off on the Lynton marriage.’’

  ‘‘I couldn’t say.’’

  And now the seconds seemed to drag by slowly,

  almost interminably. And in spite of the admirable

  performance of my brand-new air conditioner, I be

  came conscious of the perspiration that had been

  building up on the back of my neck and behind my

  knees. Finally, his tone somewhat hesitant, the chief declared, ‘‘Er, there’s a possibility that the murdered woman had been threatening Ms. Lynton.’’

  ‘‘Threatening her?’’

  ‘‘I won’t go into any of the specifics, but we have it on fairly reliable authority that Ms. Morton may

  have been about to reveal something that Ms. Lynton

  preferred remain a private matter. Are you aware of

  anything like that?’’ Well, I’d say this for him: He was certainly being circumspect about Allison’s affair.

  (Barbara could be getting herself a real gem here.)

  ‘‘I don’t know a thing about any threat.’’ Then, for good measure, I elaborated with, ‘‘Or anything Mrs.

  Lynton might have been threatened about. ’’ I mean, while I do try to avoid telling an out-and-out lie, I wasn’t going to help the police build a case against an

  innocent person. Besides, it wasn’t as if I were under oath or anything.

  Porchow frowned. ‘‘Let me ask you something else,

  then. We’re trying to determine, as accurately as possi

  ble under the circumstances, the movements of all the

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  shower guests before the group went in to lunch.’’

  (They were trying to determine the movements of all the guests, my patootie.) ‘‘Ms. Lynton claims the two of you were together from the time you arrived at

  Silver Oaks until you both entered the dining room.

  Is that correct?’’

  Again, I felt that I had no choice. ‘‘Yes.’’ I made it a pretty loud ‘‘yes,’’ too, to give it more weight.

  ‘‘Ms. Lynton wasn’t out of your sight even for a

  few minutes?’’

  ‘‘No, she wasn’t.’’

  ‘‘Neither of you went to the powder room?’’ he

  persisted.

  ‘‘No.’’

  Looking none too pleased at having come up empty

  (a feeling I am all too familiar with), the chief

  smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle in his pants. ‘‘I see,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Well, at any rate, thanks for your

  time.’’ He handed me his card. ‘‘In the event you think

  of anything you want to share with us.’’

  And now he and that chatterbox Block rose simul

  taneously.

  Showing them to the door, I slipped on my matchmaking hat again. First I made a mini production out of checking my watch. Then, as we stood on the

  threshold, I commented nonchalantly to Porchow,

  ‘‘These hours of yours must get your wife crazy. My late husband was on the force for a while, so I can empathize.’’

  ‘‘That’s one problem I don’t have.’’

  Which told me zilch. ‘‘Does this mean that your

  wife is really understanding—or that you’re single and

  available?’’ My hand flew to my mouth. I couldn’t

  even believe what had just come out of it!

  Apparently that made two of us. Porchow’s jaw

  seemed to go slack, and he was slow to formulate

  his response. ‘‘Uh, you’re a very charming lady, Ms. Shapiro,’’ he said, turning a deep shade of pink. ‘‘But I’m engaged to be married in October.’’

  Chapter 26

  The next morning the phone rang at a few minutes

  past nine thirty, just as I was securing the door be

  hind me.

  Leaving my keys dangling from the lock, I rushed

  back into the apartment, grabbing the receiver on the

  third ring.

  ‘‘This is Wesley Lynton.’’ It took a moment before

  I translated the ‘‘Wesley’’ into ‘‘Wes.’’ Which I admit wasn’t terribly swift of me. ‘‘I telephoned your office, and your secretary suggested that I might still be able

  to reach you at home.’’ There was a sense of urgency in his voice.

  ‘‘Is everything all right?’’

  Wes’s laugh was heavy with irony. ‘‘I suppose that

  depends on what you mean by ‘all right.’ Listen, De

  siree, it’s extremely important that I see you. Would it be possible
for you to meet with me today? I could be at your office at noon, provided, of course, that you have nothing else on your calendar for then.’’

  And smack on the heels of this, evidently feeling that some amplification might be in order, he added, ‘‘I’ll arrange for one of my partners to see whatever pa

  tients I’m not able to reschedule.’’

  To his obvious relief, I told him I’d be available

  whenever he could make it in to the city.

  ‘‘That’s good, very good. Thank you,’’ he mumbled.

  ‘‘Uh, just one more thing. I would appreciate it if you

  didn’t mention my call—or the matters we’ll be dis

  cussing this afternoon—to anyone. I don’t even want

  Allison or Mike to know about this. Agreed?’’

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  Well, I wasn’t anxious to commit myself like that. I

  mean, what if it turned out that Allison and/or Mike should be aware of what he had to say? But the man sounded so distressed that I didn’t feel I had any op

  tion. ‘‘Agreed.’’

  As I’d feared, I was too tired after Porchow and

  Block left the apartment last night to tackle Bobbie Jean’s folder. But I figured I’d be able to put in some

  study time before Wes arrived. What I hadn’t figured

  was that Jackie would have other plans for me.

  She waylaid me as soon as I got to work. ‘‘You

  have to do me a favor.’’

  ‘‘What’s that?’’

  ‘‘You know that wedding Derwin and I are at

  tending in a couple of weeks? Well, as soon as I re

  ceived the invitation I went out and bought a gown—

  it’s a formal affair. But then last night I tried it on for

  my neighbor Rochelle. She kept assuring me that she

  liked the dress, but I could tell by her face that she was just trying to be nice. And to be honest, Dez, all of a sudden I wasn’t too crazy about it, either.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you just—’’

  Jackie’s scowl made it clear that she resented the

  interruption. ‘‘Anyhow, Rochelle told me that if I was

  unhappy with the gown, she’d be glad to lend me one

  of hers. Also, I have something else of my own that I could wear. It’s old, but nobody has to know that, right? I’d really like you to see all three of them on me and give me your opinion.’’

  ‘‘Be glad to. You can model them for me after

  work.’’

  ‘‘You don’t understand. We have to do this before

  lunch. If you don’t absolutely love any of them, I’m going up to Bloomie’s at noon and see if I can find a dress there.’’