Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (21 page)

guided enough to be crazy about. She would never

have hurt him like that.’’

‘‘Then we agree.’’

I was about to pose another question, but Carla

preempted me. ‘‘And don’t ask me to come up with

anyone else who might have wanted Bobbie Jean in

her grave, because I can’t. I’ve shot my load.’’

Well, that ended that.

I did bring up a couple of other matters, though.

Had the girl seen anyone entering or leaving the din

ing room before lunch that day? Well, had she noticed

anything
that was at all suspicious?

As expected, the inquiries produced a ‘‘no,’’ fol

lowed by a second ‘‘no.’’

After which Carla got to her feet.

‘‘Would you like to hear what I have to look for

132

Selma
Eichler

ward to tonight?’’ she said as we began walking to

the door.

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘Informing my mother that a new son-in-law is not

in her immediate future. She will positively wallow in self-pity. She’ll probably keep me on the phone for

hours, too. And are you interested in hearing what I can look forward to tomorrow night?’’ This time I had

no chance to respond. ‘‘Meeting with the Forsythe

chief of police and answering the same damn ques

tions I just answered for you.’’

Standing in the open doorway, I told Carla how

much I appreciated her cooperation. And then we said

good night. The girl already had one foot in the hall when she spun around to impart a few words of

inspiration.

‘‘Life is crap,’’ she muttered.

Then she turned on her heel and was gone.

Chapter
20

There wasn’t a speck of onion pie left over—in spite of my denying myself so much as a sliver. But I can’t say that I really minded having to rethink my supper menu; I regarded Carla’s gluttony as a testimonial to my culinary skills.

Anyway, after considerable deliberation, I decided

to stir-fry some of the vegetables sitting on the cock

tail table. Which, with the addition of soy sauce and chopped garlic—along with a little of this and a dash of that—turned out to be a pretty tasty dish.

I had no sooner plugged in the coffee when the

doorbell rang. It was Harriet from across the hall, and

there was a cake box in her hand.

‘‘Steve’s in Florida,’’ she announced. ‘‘He flew down

this morning. It seems Pop’s seriously considering

remarrying.’’

‘‘That’s great!’’ I blurted out, a reaction that was completely in my own self-interest. Pop (a.k.a Gus,

a.k.a ‘‘the ball-buster’’) being Harriet’s eighty-plus

father-in-law and my sometime suitor—whether I

liked it or not. And I didn’t like it one bit. ‘‘Come in and tell me all about it.’’ I pulled her into the room, practically yanking her arm out in my excitement.

‘‘She’s a divorceé,’’ Harriet informed me as soon as

she was seated at the kitchen table. ‘‘Oh, I almost forgot,’’ she said, handing me the box in front of her.

‘‘This was supposed to be Steve’s dessert tonight. It’s cherry cheese cake. I thought maybe you’d like some.’’

‘‘I certainly would. Thanks.’’

I cut us a couple of slices of the cake, then quickly

134

Selma
Eichler

poured two cups of coffee and joined her at the table.

‘‘You were saying?’’

‘‘Steve’s worried sick about his father, Dez. This

woman—the divorceé—is more than thirty years

younger than he is.’’

‘‘What, in heaven’s name, could she want with

Pop?’’

Harriet took a sip of the coffee and grimaced.

Which didn’t hurt my feelings at all, since almost ev

eryone reacts to my coffee that way. And after that she had a couple of bites of the cheesecake, no doubt

to erase the taste of the vile brew. ‘‘Money,’’ she re

sponded at last.

‘‘Pop has money?’’

‘‘No, but Steve thinks that maybe
she
—her name’s Gladys—is under the impression that he does. Any

how, Steve wants to meet the woman and find out

what’s what.’’

‘‘That’s probably a good idea,’’ I granted grudg

ingly, concerned that this could lead to Steve’s throw

ing a monkey wrench into this blessed union. And

Harriet must have had the same fear. I mean, if the world’s most annoying old man became the world’s

most annoying old
married
man, there was a good possibility that he’d cut down on those frequent—and

often prolonged—New York visits of his. Which, I as

sure you, Harriet didn’t look forward to any more

than I did.

‘‘Oh, incidentally, I heard from that Forsythe police

chief this morning,’’ she said then. ‘‘He asked me a million questions.’’
Probably
more
like
four
or
five.

‘‘But Steve claims that’s pretty much routine. Any

how, I told the chief I’d never even met the poor

woman before. And he seemed to believe me.’’

‘‘I’m sure he did.’’

‘‘Have you any idea yet who killed her?’’

‘‘Well, I had it narrowed down to four suspects, but

now I’m not certain I’m on the right track.’’

‘‘Would you like my opinion?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ I told her, anticipating that Harriet’s nomi

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

135

nation for perpetrator would be as off the wall as my other neighbor’s. Barbara, if you’ll recall, had some

how divined that it was Ellen’s friend Ginger who’d

sent the victim on to her reward.

But Harriet’s idea was a little more general—and a

lot more apt to be true. ‘‘I wouldn’t be shocked if it turned out that this Bobbie Jean had been playing

around with the wrong woman’s husband or lover or

something. After all, she was a very sexy-type person,

and I imagine men must have found her extremely

attractive.’’

‘‘Apparently they did—at least for a while. None of

her three marriages lasted, you know.’’

‘‘But to have that sort of a hold on men, even if it’s only temporary . . .’’ Harriet smiled wistfully. I can’t say that I didn’t share her sentiment. The

truth is, though, I found the victim’s effect on the male

sex somewhat puzzling.

Okay. I was willing to concede that she was fairly

good-looking. And that her slim figure included a cou

ple of really outstanding protuberances, which—from

what I saw at Ellen’s shower—she wasn’t too modest

to advertise. (Although why men are so obsessed with

breasts totally escapes me.) Nevertheless, I really had to marvel at the woman’s success with the opposite

gender. Listen, there are ladies of my acquaintance

with equally impressive fronts—along with a whole

bunch of qualities Bobbie Jean evidently lacked—who

don’t score particularly well with men.

‘‘She certainly was the quintessential femme fatale,

wasn’t she?’’ Harriet murmured.

‘‘Let’s just say that if she’d ever been able to bottle

whatever it was she had, she could have made Bill

Gates look like a pauper.’’

Once Harriet was back across the hall I began to

rehash my meeting with Carla Fremont. And I had to

concede that as far as advancing the investigation, it had been a complete washout. I tried to give myself a pep talk. Could be that Carla
had
provided an

136

Selma
Eichler

important clue, one that I’d somehow missed. And it

could also be that I’d pick up on it when I went over my notes. However, considering that I intended to

transcribe the notes tomorrow and study them on

Wednesday, at the latest, this was a little hard to buy into. I mean, what were the odds I’d suddenly get

smarter by then?

Right after this I began thinking about how Carla

had again been kicked in the head by a man she cared

about. The girl was right. Life
was
crap—or, at any rate, what she’d sampled of it so far. But after all, there was—

The telephone interrupted my ruminations. It was

close to eleven. Could Nick possibly be calling at

this hour?

He couldn’t. Or, anyway, he wasn’t.

‘‘I hope I didn’t wake you,’’ Harriet told me, ‘‘but I know you never go to sleep until one.’’ (A slight exaggeration—there have been times when I’ve made

it to bed before midnight, although not that often, I admit.) ‘‘Good news. I just heard from Steve, and he said that before he even got down to Florida, Pop had

changed his mind about remarrying. In fact, it appears

as if my father-in-law and his lady friend might have come to a parting of the ways.’’

I shivered. And not from the cold, either. ‘‘And you

consider this
good
news?’’

‘‘Don’t you? Pop’s in circulation again. Not only

that, Steve told me he asked about you. He wanted

to know if you were still available.’’ Before I could respond, Harriet giggled. ‘‘Just kidding, Dez,’’ she as

sured me, continuing to giggle.

As far as I was concerned, though, this was no sub

ject for levity. (Listen, if—as the result of being ca

joled, browbeaten, and emotionally blackmailed by my

friend Harriet here—you’d spent as many agonizing

hours with her pain-in-the-butt father-in-law as I had, you wouldn’t exactly be laughing your head off, ei

ther.) In fact, I failed to see what she could find so amusing. I mean, the woman was positively giddy.

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

137

Then it occurred to me that after entertaining the pos

sibility—however briefly—that Pop would no longer

be foisting himself on her all that often, Harriet must have been shaken to the core by Steve’s bulletin. In fact, it may have sent her straight to the cooking

sherry.

And you know something? Between my lack of

progress in solving the murder of Bobbie Jean Morton

and the prospect of the dreaded Pop’s return to New York, all of a sudden that cooking sherry didn’t sound

half bad.

Chapter
21

I admit it. I’m as big a busybody as the next one. (Okay, bigger.) Still, being privy to one of Jackie and Derwin’s little squabbles is something I’d just as

soon avoid.

With my luck the way it was lately, though, when I got to work on Tuesday Jackie was on the phone,

lacing into that significant other of hers. I wondered—

but only for an instant, maybe—what Derwin’s trans

gression had been
this
week. Well, whatever it was, to put himself in jeopardy so soon after being on the

receiving end of that last tongue-lashing I’d overheard,

the guy had to be either the bravest or dimmest soul God ever created. Listen, you’d think that he’d have been walking on eggs—at least for a while—wouldn’t

you?

But maybe he was emboldened because of the way

things eventually turned out that other time.

I mean, remember those cheapo theater tickets he’d

acquired for that past Saturday night? Well, Jackie

had finally agreed to go to the show with him, all the while bitching like crazy that they’d be sitting at least a mile away from the stage. That, however, was noth

ing compared to the bitching she did once the perfor

mance was over. According to Jackie—and she’d

really ranted on about it at lunch yesterday—this was one of the worst musicals ever produced on Broadway.

It was such a stinker, in fact, that she actually appreci

ated being so far removed from it. And what did those

newspaper critics have for brains, anyhow, giving gar

bage like that such rave reviews?

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

139

At any rate, feeling as she did about the show, she’d

let up on Derwin regarding the seats he’d bought. But

apparently the man wasn’t averse to pushing his luck. Because right now Jackie was screeching—and before

I met Jackie I never knew that it was possible to

screech in a near-whisper—into the mouthpiece.

‘‘What do you mean your dark blue suit? It’s a formal