were a real study in contrasts, those two, Robin’s fash
ionable attire only serving to accentuate Carla’s slip
shod grooming habits. Later I came across mother and
daughter again. Here, they were standing with Allison
and me, undeniably false smiles pasted on both faces. (The camera, apparently, had been a lot more percep
tive than I had.) A third photo, which was about as unflattering as you can get, captured Carla for all
time—stuffing a stuffed mushroom into her mouth.
There were also three snapshots of Lorraine Corwin. In the first, taken from much too close up, her entire top half was cut off. But the long white gloves and that obscenely large ring left no doubt that this was Lorraine. She fared slightly better in the second picture—her head had been spared, and there was
even a glass of champagne pressed to her lips. In the final shot Lorraine was gesturing expansively to
Grace Banner.
It struck me how similar Grace’s expression was in
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that photograph to another one in which she was all by herself, leaning against the wall, and to yet another showing her engaged in conversation with an extremely large female with a beehive hairdo. Grace Banner had the identical frown on her face in all three photographs.
‘‘Very nice,’’ I said to Ellen when I’d looked
through all of the prints. I attempted to return them to her, but she shook her head.
‘‘Oh, no. This is your set. Mike and I have our own.
And we’re making up two more besides, one for his
parents and one for mine. But listen, Aunt Dez, let’s get the dinner dishes out of the way now.’’
I firmly refused the assistance. Ellen had just begun
to protest when Mike awoke with a start.
‘‘Geez, I must have dozed off,’’ he mumbled, rub
bing his eyes. ‘‘Fine company I’ve been, huh, Dez?
I’m so sorry about this.’’
‘‘Don’t be silly. It’s understandable, considering the
hours you put in at the hospital.’’
‘‘How’d you like the photos?’’ he inquired.
I repeated what I’d told Ellen. ‘‘Very nice.’’
Mike’s grin was almost conspiratorial. ‘‘Yeah, I
know. Ginger’s not too talented with a camera, but
she loves taking pictures. And Ellen’s really thrilled to have these.’’
About ten minutes later Ellen and Mike left for home.
Very slowly I made for the kitchen, shuddering at the thought of what awaited me there. I can’t say there were
that many dirty dishes to deal with (although, from my point of view, there were certainly enough). The big problem, though, was that by then I was in imminent danger of falling asleep standing up. And the thing is, I must be one of the only people in Manhattan—or maybe
the entire country—who doesn’t own a dishwasher. But
there just isn’t room in that cramped little area for both
a dishwasher and an additional cabinet, and I’d opted for the extra storage space.
Tonight I thoroughly regretted that choice.
But not for long.
Chapter 31
Standing at the sink (and yawning), up to my elbows in soapy water, I thought about those shower pictures.
Probably because it beat thinking about all the crudencrusted dishes still stacked up on the counter. It occurred to me then how nifty it would have been
if Ginger’s snapshots had given me a clue to Bobbie Jean’s killer. Not that I’d expected anything of the sort, you understand. Which was just as well. Because
all they showed me was that Carla and Robin Fremont
had false smiles, that Lorraine Corwin wore long white
gloves (a real revelation), and that Grace Banner was
not at all happy to be present that day.
Tomorrow I would definitely—I mean no matter
what—study my notes on that conversation with Wes.
Although I certainly wasn’t counting on any dazzling
insights there, either.
And now it struck me that my handling of this case
might have been torpedoed by my own myopia. I’d
spent most of these past couple of weeks examining
motive. And while I grant you that the why had to be a crucial factor, the truth is, I’d never moved very far beyond it. Other than questioning some of the Silver Oaks staff members—which should have been merely
a first step—I hadn’t so much as attempted to learn who was where between the time the salads were
placed on the tables and the moment when we were
called in to lunch. Inexcusable, really. After all, I’ve been in this business long enough to recognize that
opportunity is often the key to the solution of a crime.
And what about checking into the possibility that one
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197
of my suspects was familiar with poisons? Frequently
possession of some specific knowledge is—
Possession of some specific knowledge!
Suddenly I was wide-awake, every nerve in my body
quivering like crazy. Grabbing a dishtowel and drying my dripping hands along the way, I made a beeline
for the living room—and the file in my desk.
Hurriedly, I skimmed through my notes until I lo
cated all of the verification I was searching for.
Restricting my focus to a single individual at this
point, I began to examine the facts in my head. And as a result of the information I had just uncovered, what followed was a rapid—and almost inevitable—
progression. I mean, I was practically forced to recog
nize the vital piece of evidence that until now my clut
tered little brain had failed to absorb.
I don’t know why, maybe because it afforded me a
certain satisfaction, but immediately after this I went through that batch of photographs of Ginger’s. Then
taking a good, long look at one of them, I nodded. Chief Porchow could expect a call from me in the
morning.
Chapter 32
Sunday or no Sunday I was up at seven. After all,
these were very special circumstances.
I was so wired last night that I did something I’ve never ever even considered doing before. I left the dirty dishes strewn all over the kitchen—some of them
in the sink, the rest on the counter—and went into
the living room to watch TV, hoping to unwind a little.
I was pleased to find a favorite movie of mine, All About Eve, on one of the cable channels. It didn’t matter that the film was already close to halfway over.
I’d seen it enough times (dozens, easily) to have no trouble filling myself in on what had transpired earlier.
I must have conked out almost at once, though. The
last thing I remember is Margo Channing (Bette
Davis) warning everyone to fasten their seat belts be
cause it was going to be a bumpy night.
When I opened my eyes again there was an infom
ercial on the screen. Some young pitchgirl (she looked
to be barely out of her teens, so I refuse to call her a pitchwoman) was selling this miracle cream that was
guaranteed to protect me from wrinkles for the rest
of my days—or my money back.
I dragged myself off to bed.
And now I wasn’t able to sleep. It must have been
about six in the morning before I finally dropped off—
only to waken an hour later.
The funny thing is, though, I wasn’t tired at all. In fact, I’d rarely felt so completely energized. I had fi
nally f
ingered Bobbie Jean’s killer!
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I just had to convince the police that I knew what I was talking about.
It required muscles I didn’t know I owned to re
move all that nasty crud from yesterday’s dinner
dishes. But finally, at ten after eight, the last little plate was squeaky clean and back on the shelf with
the rest of its ilk.
Then I put in a call to Chief Porchow.
The chief wasn’t in today, the man on the other end
of the line advised. Well, I’d been afraid of that. I crossed my fingers that Porchow wouldn’t be unavail
able this entire Labor Day Weekend.
‘‘Is there any way he can be reached?’’ I pressed.
‘‘I’m not certain. It’s his day off. Who am I speaking
to, please?’’
‘‘My name is Desiree Shapiro, and this is in refer
ence to the murder of Bobbie Jean Morton. I have
some critical information for Chief Porchow.’’
‘‘I’ll try to contact him for you, Ms. Shapiro. Let me have your phone number, and I’ll get back to
you.’’
Less than five minutes later I heard from Porchow
himself.
‘‘What is it you have to tell me, Ms. Shapiro?’’ he inquired politely—although with a certain degree of
skepticism.
‘‘It’s sort of complicated to discuss on the phone.’’
‘‘And this can’t wait until tomorrow?’’
‘‘I suppose it can, but I figured you’d be anxious to
hear what I’ve discovered.’’
My response must have hit him straight in his dutybound psyche, because he said—but not without some reluctance—‘‘I have a few things to see to this morn
ing. I could be in Manhattan in the early afternoon, though. Suppose we make it your apartment at around
two o’clock—all right?’’
‘‘Sure. But if it would be any easier for you, I’d be happy to drive out there,’’ I offered.
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Selma Eichler
‘‘I’d really appreciate that, if it wouldn’t be too
much trouble for you.’’
I assured him that it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, following which Chief Porchow provided me with very
detailed instructions to the Forsythe Police Station.
On the way out to Long Island I began to rehash
my last little get-together with the chief. I mean, talk about embarrassing!
That evening, immediately after questioning his
marital status, I’d tried to explain to the man that my only reason for becoming so personal was that I
thought he might be interested in meeting a friend of mine. One look at his face, however, and I could tell that he wasn’t having any of this ‘‘friend’’ business. In
fact, I knew exactly what was going through his mind:
A friend? Now, where have I heard that one before?
But as awkward as I felt about seeing the guy again,
what I had to convey to him today was far too impor
tant to permit my discomfort to interfere.
Chief Porchow’s directions had been so precise that
I only made one unwitting detour before arriving at
the station house, which occupied a small Colonialstyle building that, from the outside, could have fooled you into assuming it was a private home.
The place was hardly a hub of activity this afternoon.
Milling around the large main room were only three
officers—two male and one female. A second woman, a
middle-aged lady in street clothes who’d doused herself with an almost lethal dose of Obsession, was seated at a desk off to the side. She was occupied at present with
polishing her nails and cracking her gum. (Isn’t it reas
suring that these can be done simultaneously?) She
raised her head at the sound of my footsteps.
‘‘C’n I help you?’’ she called out, punctuating the
question with a snap of the chewing gum.
I walked over to her. ‘‘My name is Desiree Shapiro.
Chief Porchow is expecting me.’’
‘‘Yeah, he told me. Follow me.’’
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201
The chief occupied a fairly spacious office, attrac
tively if rather sparsely furnished in teak and brass. He rose and leaned across his desk to shake my
hand perfunctorily. ‘‘Have a seat, please, Ms. Sha
piro,’’ he invited, gesturing to the chair facing him. Then, once I was seated: ‘‘Now, what is it you’re so eager to pass on to me?’’
‘‘Uh, I think . . . rather, I know who killed Mrs. Morton.’’
‘‘And how did you happen to come into possession
of this information?’’
‘‘Well, I’ve, uh, been investigating her murder, too.’’
‘‘I don’t quite understand. According to your own
statement, you hadn’t even met the deceased until
recently.’’
‘‘That’s true. But . . . umm . . . her nephew re
quested that I check into things.’’
‘‘Her nephew?’’
‘‘Yes, Allison Lynton’s son—the fellow who’s en
gaged to marry my niece.’’
‘‘He was concerned that we might have come to
regard his mother as a suspect—is that it?’’
‘‘Actually, he doesn’t have the slightest idea about
that. Mike spoke to me about looking into Mrs. Mor
ton’s death as soon as it happened.’’
‘‘I gather he doesn’t regard the Forsythe Police De
partment as capable of apprehending his aunt’s killer,’’
Porchow commented wryly.
‘‘Oh, it’s not that. It’s just that with a private investi
gator who’s practically in the family, Mike thought—’’
‘‘Whoa! Back up! Are you telling me you’re a PI? ’’
From his tone and the extremely unfriendly expression
that accompanied it, Porchow must have had difficulty
restraining himself from adding a yecch.
I smiled weakly. ‘‘Guilty.’’
He muttered something to himself that sounded
like, ‘‘Just what I needed.’’ After which, he addressed
me directly. ‘‘May I ask why you didn’t mention this before?’’
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Selma Eichler
I hunched my shoulders, gave him another weak
smile, and mumbled, ‘‘It never came up.’’
‘‘Right,’’ he said none too pleasantly. ‘‘Well, let’s just get on with this. You’re claiming that you’ve iden
tified the person who poisoned Ms. Morton.’’
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Okay. Let’s hear it, then.’’
‘‘I’d better begin by filling you in on how I came to
the conclusion that I did. Last night I suddenly real
ized that the killer had to have some specific knowl
edge in order to commit this crime. Keep in mind that she brought monkshood with her that Sunday. Not
arsenic, not cyanide—monkshood. A plant. Which is a pretty decent sign that all along the perpetrator’s intention was to poison the salad. I mean, it would be
kind of obvious to have those little leaves floating
around in the champagne, for instance, right?’’
‘‘So you’re saying that whoever did Bobbie Jean
was familiar with this particular poison.’’
‘‘That’s certainly true, of course. But what I’m get
ting at is that she also had to be aware that (a) it’
s customary at Silver Oaks for the salad to be placed on the table before the guests go in for lunch and (b) the dining room is accessible by a door other than the
main entrance. Both of which would indicate that the perp was someone who’d been to the country club
prior to that Sunday.’’
‘‘Don’t you think this same thing occurred to us,
Ms. Shapiro?’’ Chief Porchow growled. (As you may
have noticed, this was not a particularly cordial meet
ing.) He reached for a pencil now and began idly tap
ping it on his desk, which I found terribly distracting.
‘‘Those women we viewed as possible suspects were
all questioned regarding a previous visit. None of
them, however, admitted to having set foot in the
place before.’’
Now, I won’t pretend that I wasn’t jolted by Por
chow’s having picked up on this important clue before
I had. But I took consolation from the fact that I was
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203
about to tell him who murdered Bobbie Jean—and not vice versa.
‘‘Naturally,’’ he continued, ‘‘I’m excluding Ms. Lyn
ton when I say this, considering that she couldn’t very
well deny having been at the club prior to that Sunday.
The problem is,’’ he said meaningfully, ‘‘Ms. Lynton
has an alibi, at least at the present time. Someone who
claims to have never left her side that day. Not for one single moment.’’ I started to squirm. ‘‘As for the others, I haven’t been able to confirm the truthfulness
of their responses.’’
‘‘Well, I can confirm positively that one of those ladies wasn’t leveling with you, Chief Porchow.’’
‘‘Proves nothing, I’m afraid. Nothing at all.’’ Por
chow tapped the pencil more forcefully now, as if for emphasis. ‘‘If this alleged poisoner of yours did lie, she may merely have been attempting to remove her
self from suspicion.’’
‘‘Do you really believe that an innocent person
would realize the implications involved in a prior
knowledge of the place? And by the way, my informa
tion came from two separate sources—both of them
very good friends of the killer’s—who casually men
tioned it to me in conversation.’’
‘‘Explain something, Ms. Shapiro, will you? Why
would the guilty party say anything to anyone about having been to that club before?’’
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