Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (23 page)

I said.

Chapter
23

Moments after my merlot had been served—Nick was

still working on a glass of chardonnay—he said qui

etly, ‘‘I’d like to tell you why I was . . . well, the way I was at D’Agostino’s the other night.’’

‘‘Please,’’ I protested, ‘‘that isn’t necessary.’’

‘‘Maybe not for you, but it is for me. I was pretty upset when I ran into you, Desiree. Of course,’’ he put in quickly, ‘‘that still didn’t give me license to act like such a fool, but I want you to know that I don’t normally behave like that—honestly. Less than an

hour earlier, though, there was . . . uh . . . I’d had a confrontation with my ex-wife.’’ He reddened. Despite

his insistence on going into this, I could see that Nick wasn’t any too comfortable discussing his personal life

with a virtual stranger.

Nevertheless, I got the idea that he felt compelled

to explain further, so I all but tripped over my words in an attempt to cut him off. ‘‘I can understand why you might not have been in a very sociable mood.’’

He was determined to continue, however, although

with obvious reluctance. ‘‘It wasn’t the fact of my ar

guing with Tiffany—our fights are practically legend

ary.’’
What
did
the
man
expect
from
a
woman
named
Tiffany,
anyhow?
(And in case you’re thinking what I imagine you might be, there’s a big difference between

a Desiree and a Tiffany.) ‘‘But this had to do with my

son—he’s nine years old,’’ Nick was saying. ‘‘I’d gone to her apartment to pick him up—and for the second

week in a row she gave me some cockamamie excuse

about why I couldn’t have Derek for the weekend. I

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was really worried about this being the start of some sort of pattern—you can never be certain with Tiffany.

So believe me, Desiree, I wasn’t fit company for any

one that evening.’’ His smile was forced. ‘‘Not even for myself.’’

I was groping for something encouraging to say, but

at the same time, I was leery of coming across as too Pollyanna-ish. I finally settled for, ‘‘Let’s hope you’re wrong—about that being a pattern.’’

‘‘Apparently I am—or was. Tiffany called the next

day to assure me there would be no problem this

weekend.’’

‘‘Well, that’s good.’’

‘‘Seems that way. But we’ll see.’’ And then, anxious

now to move off the topic, Nick said hastily, ‘‘Tell me

about you, though. Somebody mentioned that you’re

a private detective.’’

‘‘Word certainly gets around in our building, doesn’t it?’’

He chuckled. ‘‘Don’t knock it. Gossip’s an impor

tant learning tool. Anyhow, what sort of private de

tecting do you do?’’

‘‘You mean do I have a specialty?’’

‘‘Yes,
do
you?’’

‘‘Uh-uh. I’ve investigated everything from a missing

boa constrictor to murder. Although lately murder has

taken a big lead over my boa constrictor-type cases.’’

‘‘Are you conducting a murder investigation now?’’

‘‘As a matter of fact, I am.’’

‘‘I’d like to hear about it.’’

Well, since he appeared to be genuinely interested,

I went into a very sketchy recitation about Bobbie

Jean and the four shower attendees who utterly de

spised her.

‘‘So?’’ Nick put to me when I’d finished.

I looked at him, puzzled.

‘‘So which of them do you believe poisoned her?’’

‘‘I’m beginning to think that none of them did.’’

At this point the headwaiter stopped at the table to

ask if we were ready to see the menu yet.

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Selma
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Nick left it to me. ‘‘Desiree?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ I said valiantly. I mean, sooner or later I had to bite the bullet, right?

The wine helped. Only not enough. Probably be

cause, as usual, I was limiting myself to just one glass.

Anything more than that and there was a good possi

bility I’d wind up sliding under the table. Actually, I’m exaggerating. But after that first glass of wine I have a tendency to slur my words a bit—something I

wasn’t too keen on demonstrating this evening.

Still, by the time my shrimp with black bean sauce

arrived (I’d begged off any appetizers), I was able to look straight at the little buggers without blanching. And almost immediately I resorted to this strategy I have for dealing with situations like this. (A strategy, incidentally, that I rarely find the need to press into service.) Here’s how it works. First I start moving my food around the plate with such apparent zest that

nobody seems to notice how few trips the fork makes

to my mouth. Then later, at the appropriate moment,

I casually drop my napkin over the plate, concealing what remains of the dinner. Which tonight would con

sist of practically the entire meal—everything but two

or three mushroom slices, a couple of chunks of green

pepper, and a single shrimp.

At any rate, over our entrees, Nick informed me

that he’d been the sole owner of his Lexington Ave

nue florist shop for close to eleven years, having

bought out his former partner: his father.

‘‘That has to be the best profession—working with

flowers all day long.’’

‘‘I have to admit that I’m kinda partial to it,’’ he affirmed.

I asked what the shop was called.

‘‘Oh, don’t worry, my dad and I came up with some

thing extremely creative: Grainger’s.’’

‘‘That does have a ring to it. Tell me, what’s your favorite flower?’’ I put to him.

This gave Nick pause. ‘‘You know, Desiree, I can’t

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even remember the last time anyone asked me that.

And the truth is, I don’t really have an answer for you. Naturally, it would be practically un-American

not to love roses, and they
are
among my favorites, particularly tea roses. But I’m partial to camellias, as well. Also irises—I love irises. And in the fall, I always

feel that chrysanthemums lend a kind of exuberance

to the season. And there’s—’’

I held up my hand. ‘‘Stop!’’ I said laughing. ‘‘I sup

pose it would have been a lot easier on you if I’d asked for your
least
favorite flower.’’

‘‘No doubt. How about you, Desiree, any special

preferences?’’

Now, I wanted to avoid being specific. After all,

with Nick a florist, whatever I said could be taken as a hint. Of course, this was just plain silly. I mean, I wasn’t
volunteering
the information; I’d been
asked
. Nevertheless, I responded, ‘‘I suppose I’m like you;

my taste is pretty eclectic.’’

We got into a discussion about movies during des

sert—and by that point I was actually up to handling my chocolate-and-vanilla ice cream, mixed (which I

very diligently mushed up the way I like it). Later on we covered our hobbies, our childhood traumas, and

our least-liked celebrities.

I don’t know how long we sat there talking after

the dishes had been removed from the table, but even

tually I developed this feeling that the headwaiter was

giving us the fish-eye. And I shared this impression

with Nick.

‘‘Harold always looks that way,’’ he assured me.

Nevertheless, we headed for home within minutes.

Nick got off at my floor to see me to my apartment.

And standing there in the hall, we told each other

what a lovely evening we’d had. Then he gave me a

slightly more prolonged hug than he had when he’d

greeted me, said he’d call soon, and headed for the elevator.

Once inside, I leaned against the door and smiled—

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Selma
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insipidly, I’m sure. Nick Grainger had turned out to be every bit as nice as I’d hoped he’d be. I mean, forget his appearance. It was possible I’d respond to the man even if he were good-looking.

Anyway, I finally abandoned my reverie and walked

into the living room. The red light on the answering machine was flickering.

Nonchalantly, I pressed the button.

Then, with a mixture of incredulity and fear, I lis

tened to the message that would catapult my investiga

tion into a crisis mode.

Chapter
24

‘‘The police paid me a surprise visit this afternoon,’’

Allison stated in a flat, unemotional voice. ‘‘And I’d like to talk to you about it. Please don’t call me back.

I wouldn’t want Wes to learn anything about this. I’ll phone you again in the morning.’’ And then, almost

as an afterthought: ‘‘It seems that I’ve become the

favorite in the ‘Who Killed Bobbie Jean?’ sweep

stakes.’’

Allison
Lynton
a
murderer?
I had to play the mes

sage again; I just couldn’t believe I’d heard what I heard.

It’s funny. When I’m really upset about something

I either throw myself all over the bed—often until

dawn—or I conk out at once. This latter reaction, I suppose, being a handy little escape mechanism my

subconscious keeps in reserve. Anyhow, in this in

stance I made one of my express trips to dreamland. I mean, I fell asleep so quickly I don’t even remember

laying my head on the pillow.

It was just before seven thirty when I awoke on

Wednesday. In anticipation of Allison’s call, I made a

beeline for the kitchen and put on the coffee to ensure

that I’d be fully conscious when we spoke. She phoned

at twenty to eight. ‘‘Ohh, Desiree. I’m so relieved to find you in. I was concerned that you might already

have left for work.’’
At
this
hour?
Fat
chance!
I thought, while almost simultaneously noting that Alli

son sounded a whole lot more animated than she had

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last night. In fact, I could detect a note of anxiety in her tone.

‘‘What’s happened, Allison?’’

‘‘Chief Porchow and that other officer—Sergeant

Block—were here yesterday. The police . . . uh . . . discovered something that leads them to look upon

me as a very viable suspect in my sister-in-law’s

poisoning.’’

Discovered
something?
My mouth went so dry that I could barely get the words out. ‘‘What was that?’’

‘‘I believe it would be better if we discussed this face-to-face.’’

‘‘I agree. I’ll drive up to Greenwich this morning, if

that’s okay with you.’’

‘‘I’d just as soon come to New York. I could be at your office by ten, ten thirty. All right?’’

‘‘Fine.’’

Now, consider that I’d grown genuinely fond of Al

lison Lynton. Then factor in that I am by nature ex

tremely inquisitive—nosy, if you insist. And you can

understand why the two-plus hours that followed were

among the longest I’d ever spent.

Allison was wearing a cotton sheath in a shade of

green that was almost identical to the color of her eyes. Her silver hair was pulled back into an elegant French twist, as it had been on the few previous occa

sions I’d spent in her company. And, as usual, she had

applied her makeup both sparingly and effectively.

The cool, confident appearance she presented, how

ever, was precisely that: an
appearance.

The instant she sat down on the other side of my

desk, she began to fidget, distractedly drumming her

fingers on her right thigh.

‘‘How about some coffee?’’ I suggested.

‘‘Thanks, but I’ve already had three cups today. If

you don’t mind, I’d really like to get started.’’

‘‘Whatever you say.’’

But regardless of her intention, Allison sat there for

I don’t know how long without uttering a word. I had

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pretty much made up my mind that a bit of prompting

might be in order when she ended the silence.

‘‘You’re aware of Wes’s devotion to Bobbie Jean,

so I’m certain you can appreciate that she would have