Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

by Selma Eichler

  well) that Lorraine’s putting on the topaz ring that Sunday could be attributed to her ostentatious nature.

  Very likely because it was the only explanation that occurred to me. But as I’d come to appreciate last

  night, this really wasn’t logical.

  Listen, it was apparent that Bobbie Jean’s murder

  had been carefully planned. And while Lorraine might

  be incredibly showy, she was also a very sharp lady. So why would she take the time to fiddle with that

  ring of hers while carrying out the serious business of poisoning her longtime enemy?

  Which question is what led me to the sleep-induced

  realization that the ring had be an essential element of Lorraine Corwin’s plot.

  I gave thanks to the powers that be that I’d paid

  attention in history class the day Mr. Fenstermacher

  told us about Lucretia Borgia, that devious member

  of fifteenth-(or was it sixteenth-?) century Italian no

  bility, who’d employed her ring to carry death to her foes. In fact, at the time, I remember thinking what a wonderful idea this was and lining up a few candidates

  for future consideration.

  Naturally, having experienced this epiphany, it was

  impossible for me to fall back to sleep that morning. I was too wound up to even try.

  Getting out of bed, I went into the kitchen and

  made some coffee. I stood over the glass container,

  watching it fill up but not really seeing it. What I did

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  see was that enormous topaz ring, its secret compart

  ment wide open and packed almost to overflowing

  with little shreds of monkshood leaves. I mean, shades

  of that Borgia woman!

  At any rate, a couple of minutes later, coffee cup

  in hand, I sat down at the kitchen table to reconstruct

  the crime, making a couple of important changes to

  my original assessment.

  I could now envision Lorraine emptying the monks

  hood from the hidden compartment in her ring into

  Bobbie Jean’s salad. What quicker, more efficient way

  to dispense a poison? (And how that must have ap

  pealed to Lorraine’s flair for the dramatic!) I then

  pictured her snapping the compartment shut and hast

  ily mixing in the bits of leaves with the gloved fore

  finger of her left hand, just as I’d imagined before. This accomplished, she would have hurried across the

  hall to the powder room.

  Naturally, I couldn’t be sure of her next move. But since there was at least the chance—even if a minis

  cule one—that some tiny pieces of monkshood had

  found their way onto the exterior of the ring, it was hard to believe the woman would risk transferring it to her bare skin without first taking precautions. So in this updated version of my script, I had her slip the

  ring from her pinkie and wash it thoroughly with soap

  and hot water—keeping the gloves on for protection,

  of course.

  And now I played devil’s advocate. But what if someone should happen to walk in on her while she was engaged in tidying up? I put to myself. Or suppose the powder room attendant should notice her scrubbing away like that?

  I decided this wasn’t a problem. Lorraine could sim

  ply claim that she’d just handled this very sticky

  hors d’oeuvre.

  On second thought, however, it was possible none

  of this was necessary. Maybe there was some kind of cleaning solution for the ring sitting in her handbag. Anyway, the rest of the scenario remained pretty

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  much unchanged from the original. In the privacy of

  a stall, she’d have removed the gloves and deposited them in the plastic bag she carried in her purse. After

  which she would have put on the ring again, this time

  transferring it to another finger—the third, as I re

  called—where it no doubt fit better once the gloves

  were eliminated.

  I leaned back in the chair at that moment, satisfied that I had it straight at last.

  As eager as I was to provide Chief Porchow with

  this latest—and accurate—version of the homicide

  (plus, as a by-product, dazzle the man with the bril

  liance of my reasoning processes), I elected to wait until nine before trying to reach him. I mean, I consid

  ered it unlikely that the top guy in the department would have assigned himself to night duty.

  Come eight fifty-five, however, I was too antsy to

  contain myself any longer. I lifted the receiver.

  A funny thing, though. The instant I began dialing

  the Forsythe station house, my entire body turned

  cold. Suddenly I had the premonition that I’d find

  myself up against a brick wall again.

  It required a major effort to ignore the invisible

  hand that was clutching at my chest. Certainly, I as

  sured myself, Chief Porchow would determine that

  this new theory had to be explored. . . .

  The chief wasn’t in, I was told by the woman who

  took the call. A snap of her gum immediately enabled

  me to identify the owner of the voice.

  ‘‘Is he expected today?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, at around ten thirty. You wanta leave a

  message?’’

  ‘‘Yes, thanks. Would you please tell him that De

  siree Shapiro phoned and that it is absolutely urgent that I speak to him as soon as he gets in.’’ I gave her my number, after which, at her request, I spelled out my last name—twice. ‘‘Desiree’’ required a third

  spelling.

  During the next hour and a half, I put on my

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  clothes, had some breakfast (which I could barely get down), and then tackled Sunday’s New York Times crossword puzzle. And let me tell you, if I should ever

  feel the need to be brought down a peg, it’s reassuring

  to know that the Sunday Times crossword can accom

  modate me.

  Porchow returned my call promptly at ten thirty.

  ‘‘This is Chief Porchow. I understand there’s some

  thing urgent you want to talk to me about.’’ I don’t say that he sounded unfriendly. But I can’t say he

  sounded friendly, either.

  ‘‘Yes, I do. And you were absolutely right,’’ I an

  nounced, doing my best to pave the way for a favor

  able response to what I was preparing to lay on him.

  ‘‘Well, that’s a novelty,’’ he commented dryly. ‘‘And

  just what was I right about?’’

  ‘‘You pointed out that it wasn’t logical that Lorraine

  Corwin would put on the ring that day. And in spite of my attempts at rationalization, I finally came to

  agree with you. Well, then I started wracking my brain

  as to why she would have worn it.’’ I paused long

  enough to convey to the man that he was about to

  hear something momentous.

  ‘‘And your conclusion?’’ But Porchow seemed al

  most disinterested.

  ‘‘The ring was the murder weapon.’’

  ‘‘The what? ’’ The man had become an instant

  soprano.

  ‘‘It had to be. Why else would she saddle herself

  with it? And just consider the size of that thing—it was the perfect container for the monkshood leaves.’’

  And now I reminded him about the infamous Duchess

  of Ferrara, a.k.a. Lucrezia Borgia. Then before
he

  could comment, I gave a short, amended account of

  the poisoning itself and the cleanup that followed it. I concluded with, ‘‘I don’t believe I’d ever have fig

  ured all of this out, though, if you hadn’t questioned the presence of the ring to start with.’’

  ‘‘I’m not immune to flattery, Ms. Shapiro, and I

  thank you for the kind words. But I hope you realize

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  that what you’ve just told me is, once again, nothing more than a theory.’’

  ‘‘Well, yes, but—’’

  ‘‘And what, exactly, are you proposing I do about

  it, anyway?’’

  ‘‘Listen, I believe that there’s a really good chance Miss Corwin is still in possession of the ring. I mean, she’s probably pretty attached to it—in its own way, it’s actually quite stunning—and as far as she’s aware,

  no one’s associated it with the poisoning. So why get rid of the thing? Also, I’m sure she figures she washed

  away any evidence of the monkshood.’’

  ‘‘Your point being—?’’

  ‘‘That there might still be some trace of the stuff inside that compartment. So if you obtained a search warrant, it—’’

  ‘‘Hold it, Ms. Shapiro. I can’t ask for a search war

  rant on the basis of what you’re suggesting. You don’t

  even know if the ring has a secret compartment. And even if I were inclined to try and obtain a warrant, no judge of my acquaintance would consider issuing

  one.’’

  ‘‘Look, you were telling me the other day that there

  wasn’t any proof of Lorraine Corwin’s guilt. But how am I supposed to get you that proof?’’

  ‘‘You aren’t, remember? Obviously, you’re not con

  vinced of this, but the Forsythe Police Department is fully capable of apprehending the perpetrator. So just back off, and let us do our jobs here.’’

  ‘‘But you could at least take a crack at getting that warrant,’’ I whined.

  ‘‘I was under the impression I’d made myself clear.

  You want me to do something that I’m simply not

  able to do.’’ His voice became sterner. ‘‘Incidentally, Ms. Shapiro, I find it unbelievable that you’d have the

  gall to request anything from me at all, considering that you’ve been hampering this investigation from the

  very beginning.’’

  ‘‘If you’re referring to my telling you that Mrs. Lyn

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  ton and I were constantly together at the shower, well,

  I know you think I was lying, but—’’

  ‘‘ Think was the other day. Now I know.’’

  ‘‘What—’’

  ‘‘Good-bye, Ms. Shapiro.’’ And Chief Porchow gen

  tly put down the phone.

  It was past ten thirty when I got to the office on Tuesday. Almost immediately I was aware that I’d

  done the unforgivable: neglected to contact Jackie to inform her that I’d be late. I mean, experience has taught me that Jackie places such an oversight on a par with kicking a puppy or stealing from the collec

  tion plate.

  Anyway, I was immediately confronted with a hos

  tile expression, blazing eyes, and a ‘‘Where have you been? ’’ uttered from behind clenched teeth.

  ‘‘Don’t be mad, Jackie. I should have phoned, but,

  well, I guess I forgot. Everything just seemed to get away from me today. I’d been up most of the night, and then this morning I had a very upsetting talk with

  the Forsythe chief of police, and—’’

  ‘‘Do you have even the slightest inkling of how wor

  ried I was?’’ Jackie demanded shrilly.

  ‘‘I’m really sorry, but as I said—’’

  ‘‘I called your apartment twice, and no answer. I

  presume you must have already left by then. Another

  minute or two, though, and I would have contacted

  your friend Harriet and asked her to check on you.’’

  She thrust a pink message slip at me. ‘‘It’s from Alli

  son. She called at nine forty-six. She wants you to get back to her.’’

  I was tempted to remind Jackie that I could read.

  But plainly, this was not the time.

  ‘‘I couldn’t even tell the woman when you were

  expected,’’ she grumbled. Which prompted me to en

  gage in a little teeth-clenching myself. I mean, enough

  was enough. Then unexpectedly, Jackie’s tone soft

  ened. ‘‘How was your holiday?’’

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  I realized the question was meant as a lead-in to

  my inquiring about her holiday. But all she got from me before I walked away was a terse, ‘‘It was okay,’’

  followed by a peremptory, ‘‘See you later.’’

  I dialed the number reluctantly. I was fairly certain I knew what Allison wanted to discuss with me, and

  I dreaded having this confirmed. Which it was—almost

  as soon as she answered the phone.

  ‘‘Oh, Desiree.’’ The catch in her voice led me to

  suspect that she’d been crying. ‘‘Chief Porchow was

  here a little while ago. Apparently he’s located some

  body—one of the shower guests—who saw me re

  turning from the powder room alone not very long

  before we were all called in to lunch.’’ And here Alli

  son sniffled a few times, which removed any doubt

  that she’d been crying.

  ‘‘Did you pass anyone in the corridor?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think so. But anybody standing at that end

  of the Minerva Room might have noticed me coming

  down the hall.’’

  ‘‘What did you say to Porchow?’’

  ‘‘I said the woman—whoever she is—was mis

  taken.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’

  ‘‘Umm, there’s something I should tell you, Desiree.

  When Chief Porchow initially inquired about my

  movements prior to the group’s entering the dining

  room, I said that I’d been with you the entire time. But I promise you this wasn’t to deceive the man.

  That brief trip to the restroom just didn’t occur to me.

  I imagine I sort of sloughed off the question, most probably because I had no idea I was a serious sus

  pect—or, at least, that I soon would be. During their second visit, though, the police were a bit more spe

  cific. The chief wanted to know if I was certain neither

  of us had even gone to the ladies’ room by ourselves during the cocktail hour. And that’s when it came to me. But of course, I had just learned that I’d become the focus of the investigation. And while I’m hardly

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  proud of myself, quite frankly, I was too shaken to admit the truth.

  ‘‘However, I never meant to put you in the position

  of lying for me. That’s why, when I came to consult with you regarding my . . . my revised status with the Forsythe Police Department, I didn’t bring up having

  given them misinformation. I was very concerned that

  you might consider any mention of that as an attempt

  to induce you to back me up. In actuality, though, I fully anticipated that when you were asked about this,

  you’d provide an honest recounting of the facts. And at the point that I was confronted with your version, I

  intended to claim that our short separation had simply

  slipped my mind. Which is, after all, precisely what happened—at first, at any rate. But I assume that, for

  some reason, the poli
ce have delayed interrogating

  you about my whereabouts.’’

  ‘‘No, Porchow spoke to me about that last week.

  And I assured him that you and I had been like Sia

  mese twins right up until the meal was served.’’

  ‘‘God, Desiree. I didn’t expect— I can’t allow you

  to do this, you know. You have your professional rep

  utation to think about and—’’

  ‘‘It’s already done. And, listen, I didn’t do it for you. I acted out of self-preservation. The thought of you sitting in prison, stamping out license plates,

  would have caused me nightmares.’’

  Allison managed a laugh. But in a second or two

  she turned serious again. ‘‘This witness . . . how much

  weight do you suppose her statement will carry?’’

  ‘‘Look, it’s just her word against ours. But even if it could be definitely established that you walked

  down that hall at what was approximately the requisite

  time, it still wouldn’t prove that you committed the murder. You’re in no worse shape than you were be

  fore Ms. Big Mouth came along.’’

  ‘‘Do you really believe that?’’ Allison asked softly.

  ‘‘Yes, I do.’’ But my palms were moist when I said the words.

  Chapter 38

  I was brain-drained by the time I got home Tuesday

  evening.

  After my talk with Allison, I’d spent the better part

  of the day trying to devise some sort of plan that would help me establish Lorraine Corwin’s guilt. The

  best I could come up with—and I’m not claiming it

  had success written all over it—was simply to sit down

  with Allison and tell her all I knew. Maybe once I got her to accept her friend’s culpability, she’d reveal something incriminating about the woman, something

  she either hadn’t thought to or hadn’t wanted to men

  tion before.

  Plus, I was still hoping that something would come

  of Dominick Gallo and friend. But it’s not exactly as if this could be regarded as money in the bank, either.

  At any rate, I had no sooner sat down to what re

  mained of that dinner with Ellen and Mike than a

  skinny little man with a surly expression rang my

  doorbell and delivered a surprise: a stunning bouquet of cymbidium orchids.

  Imagine!

  Before placing them in a more appropriate setting,

  I had the orchids share the kitchen table with me

  while I ate. Not that I paid much attention to the food.

  I was too busy admiring the flowers and replaying in my head the message that came with them. The card