Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (10 page)

I had better luck with Robin’s daughter. She was

between patients when I dialed the Manhattan dental

office where she was employed as a hygienist.

Replying to my question, the girl told me she’d just

been handed a message slip with the notation that

Allison had phoned her at around eleven. But having

been tied up until about five minutes ago, Carla hadn’t

gotten back to her yet. ‘‘To be truthful, I was a little surprised that she telephoned me here; we don’t really

talk that often.’’

‘‘I was under the impression that in addition to

being distant cousins, you’re also good friends.’’

‘‘Oh, we are. We’re just not in constant touch, that’s

all. Allison and my mother are
very
close, though—

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dating from when I was still toddling around in dia

pers—and the two of them are always yakking on

the phone.’’

I explained the reason Allison was attempting to

contact her.

‘‘Is it definite then?’’ She sounded excited, almost

ghoulish.

‘‘Is what definite?’’ I inquired, just to be certain I hadn’t misinterpreted the question.

‘‘That Bobbie Jean was poisoned?’’

‘‘No, it’s not definite, but it is pretty likely.’’ And I proceeded to go into my spiel about how important it

was that I start checking things out before too much time went by.

Well, Carla was more than willing to sit down with

me. In fact, unless I was very much mistaken, the word

was ‘‘eager.’’ No doubt she was unable to resist this opportunity to rant to a brand-new set of ears about the woman who’d appropriated her husband.

The only problem was that Carla’s job prevented

her from meeting with me during the day. And she

already had previous engagements for both tonight

and tomorrow night that she didn’t feel comfortable

canceling. Plus—delaying things even further—she

would be going out of town for the entire weekend

when she finished work on Friday.

We left it that she would stop by my apartment on

Monday at seven p.m.

Just before five I gave Robin another try—no an

swer yet. After which I headed home.

Then, following a quick supper, I dressed for that

evening’s sad event.

There must have been a couple of hundred people

gathered at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home to

attend the viewing. Most of them wore dark clothes

and somber expressions and spoke in hushed tones.

But I had my doubts that more than a handful of them

truly mourned the deceased.

60

Selma
Eichler

Standing on tiptoe, I was searching for someone I

knew in the jam-packed room when I spied Wes Lyn

ton about ten yards away. He was having a conversa

tion with a short, squat man and a shorter, squatter woman. I was just about to start planting my elbows in some ribs in order to reach him when suddenly the

crowd between us dispersed for two or three seconds,

and Wes spotted me, too. He held up his forefinger,

which I read as, ‘‘Be with you in a minute.’’ And after

a few words to the people he was standing with, he made his way toward me.

‘‘Desiree,’’ he said, his arms outstretched, ‘‘how nice

of you to be here.’’ I gave him a brief hug and mum

bled my condolences.

Now, the one other time I’d met Mike’s father, I’d

been instantly struck by his aristocratic good looks. A

tall man and slender, his only slightly thinning hair was a beautiful silver, like his wife’s. His brown eyes were warm and intelligent, his Roman nose the perfect

fit for his arresting, angular face. I recall thinking at the time that if I had to cast a wealthy and successful physician of sixty or so, I’d do my damnedest to snag Wes Lynton for the role.

Tonight, however, it appeared that he’d lost a good

ten pounds and aged about ten years. Even his shoul

ders were stooped.

You had merely to be aware of how Bobbie Jean’s

demise was affecting her brother to appreciate why—

in spite of Allison’s revelations yesterday—I continued

to regard the woman’s untimely end as a tragedy. Be

sides, even though she was certainly no prize package,

she had to have
some
redeeming qualities. (Hadn’t Allison mentioned her generosity?) As I saw it, Bob

bie Jean certainly merited some payback pain in her

life, but this didn’t give anyone the right to snuff out that life completely.

Wes and I chatted for a brief time about the state of each other’s health (with Wes insisting that he was

‘‘coming along’’). Then he told me how grateful he

was that I was looking into Bobbie Jean’s death. This,

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as was only natural, led to an attempt to question me.

‘‘Desiree, do you believe that my sister was mur—’’

Well, it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to figure out

where he was heading. Fortunately, at that precise mo

ment Mike and Ellen materialized alongside us, which

took me off the hook.

Mike was apologetic. ‘‘I hoped we could make it

before now, Dad. I switched shifts with someone so I could have tonight off, but there were three emergen

cies and—’’

Wes patted his son’s shoulder. ‘‘That’s all right.

Those things can’t be helped. Bobbie Jean is laid out in the other room, Mike. I’d like to go in again and see

her one last time. Would you care to come with me?’’

‘‘Yes, I would. You stay here with Desiree, Ellen.

We won’t be long.’’

Ellen watched the two men walk away and get swal

lowed up in the crowd. Then, moments later, looking

perturbed, she murmured, ‘‘Maybe I should have gone

with them.’’

‘‘What, so you could pass out cold?’’

She shot me a black look. ‘‘Don’t be silly. I—’’

‘‘Look, Ellen, Bobbie Jean was practically a

stranger to you, even if she was Mike’s aunt. And

anyhow,’’ I pointed out, ‘‘it’s evident that neither

Mike nor Wes expected that of you.’’

Ellen was relieved. ‘‘I guess,’’ she responded softly, immediately following this with the demand that I fill her in on what I’d learned about the deceased.

‘‘If you’re talking about the cause of her death, ab

solutely nothing. But if you’re referring to what I

found out about her character, I discovered that it

wasn’t exactly sterling.’’

‘‘Mike more or less indicated that. He was still fond

of her, though.’’

It was at this juncture that Ellen caught a glimpse of Allison, who was not more than an arm’s length

away from us. ‘‘There’s Mike’s mother,’’ she informed

me. Unaware of our presence, Allison was attempting

to squeeze through the wall-to-wall people, Robin Fre

62

Selma
Eichler

mont close behind her, clutching her hand. They had

already passed us when Ellen, leaning over, managed

to grab Robin’s shoulder.

‘‘Ellen! I’ve been looking all over for you!’’ Allison

exclaimed as the two women approached us. ‘‘And

Desiree. I appreciate your coming.’’ She bussed us

both on the cheek.

‘‘Allison tells me you’re anxious to meet with me

about Bobbie Jean,’’ Robin said after the hellos.

‘‘Yes, I am.’’

‘‘Well, I’ll be very happy to accommodate you.’’

‘‘That’s great. Suppose I drive out to Greenwich on

Friday? Any time you say.’’

‘‘Come at twelve thirty—for lunch.’’

‘‘Have you seen Wes?’’ I overheard Allison put to

Ellen now.

‘‘He and Mike went to view the bod—To say good

bye to Bobbie Jean.’’

‘‘Something I can’t bring myself to do,’’ Allison ad

mitted sheepishly.

Tapping my niece on the arm, I shot her a ‘‘You

see?’’ kind of look.

A few minutes later Robin was quizzing Ellen about

her honeymoon plans, which, as of last week, had been

narrowed down to eight locations—count ’em,
eight.

At about this same time, Allison apprised me that

she’d already begun preparing a list of Bobbie Jeanhaters who weren’t at the shower on Sunday. Yesterday’s queasy feeling instantly resurfaced, but

I hurriedly suppressed it. ‘‘Your other three friends—

are they around somewhere?’’

‘‘No. Carla told me that in light of her negative

feelings toward Bobbie Jean, she didn’t think it would

be appropriate for her to attend.’’ Ahh. I’d been won

dering if the viewing could be one of the ‘‘previous engagements’’ Carla had spoken of.

‘‘Her mother doesn’t appear to share that senti

ment,’’ I remarked.

Allison glanced affectionately at Robin. ‘‘She in

sisted on being here—for Wes and me, she said. As

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for Lorraine and Grace, they were planning to show

up, mainly out of respect for Wes. But I convinced

them he’d understand if they didn’t.’’ She waited a

second or two before adding, ‘‘To be truthful, I was relieved by the decision.’’

Before I could ask why, Allison smiled mischie

vously. ‘‘I’d be absolutely mortified if Lorraine wound

up dancing on the coffin.’’

Chapter
10

I was still brushing the sleep from my eyes when I walked into the Monte Carlo Coffee Shop at eight

a.m. This Lorraine Corwin was a damned sadist, I

groused to myself.

I spotted the lady in a booth toward the back—

you’d have had to be blind to miss her. Even sitting down, she had the advantage height-wise over every

other female in the place. And most of the men, too. She was wearing a very large, wide-brimmed hat—

which I was beginning to think was a trademark of

hers—this one in navy straw. And while I couldn’t see

all that much of her sleeveless navy dress, there was sufficient de´colletage to cause a four-car pileup. As for this morning’s jewelry, she had on six rings, three on each hand. Plus, I counted seven bracelets on her left forearm—one of them really chunky—and three

on her right. It’s a wonder the woman was able to

raise her arms! She didn’t neglect her neck, either. It was adorned with a gold, amethyst, and pearl chain

and a turquoise pendant. Oh, and let’s not forget the gold-and-pearl earrings, which came close to brushing

her shoulders.

As soon as I was alongside the booth, Lorraine set

down her lipstick-rimmed coffee cup and welcomed

me with a smile. She looked wide-awake and dis

gustingly chipper. ‘‘I hope this isn’t too early for you,’’

she chirped, as I took a seat opposite her.

‘‘Oh, no. Not at all.’’ (I did mention before that I’m

an accomplished liar, didn’t I?—something that should

be a requirement in my profession.)

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‘‘That’s good.’’ Another smile, and then she turned

serious. ‘‘Allison tells me I owe you an apology, that I really dissed you at the shower. The only defense I can offer is that I wasn’t myself. Bobbie Jean and I had quite a history—in case you haven’t already gath

ered as much. And being in her company again—

which I’d been able to avoid for many years until this

past Sunday—was bad enough. But when she acted as

though we were old
friends,
well, I went positively bonkers.’’

I opted to be generous. ‘‘I understand.’’

‘‘Thanks, Dez. Okay if I call you Dez?’’

‘‘Please do.’’

‘‘Listen, let’s have ourselves something to eat, huh?

My treat.’’

‘‘Sounds like a good idea, but I’ll be doing the treat

ing. I was the one who asked for this get-together, remember?’’

Lorraine opened her mouth, obviously to protest,

then shut it again and shrugged. After which she sig

naled the waiter, a large, middle-aged man with a sub

stantial stomach, a moon face, and about six strands of dyed black hair. He waddled over immediately.