Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (25 page)

track. (Although why I was so sure that Allison didn’t

dispose of her sister-in-law I couldn’t tell you. Maybe it was because she was Mike’s mother, and any mother

of the man who was going to marry my niece just

wouldn’t do a thing like that.)

However, there
was
reason to be concerned.

I had to concede that the fact that she was being

viewed as the prime suspect in Bobbie Jean’s death

wasn’t completely without merit. After all, to my

knowledge, Allison was the only one present that Sun

day with an alleged motive for the murder that didn’t date back a hundred years. And while this alone was hardly enough to get the woman dragged off to jail in

handcuffs, there was always the chance that something

unexpected could crop up to incriminate her further.

For instance, suppose that someone should suddenly

(and mistakenly) remember spotting her sneaking into

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the dining room at the crucial time. The thing is, while

Allison and I had been practically joined at the hip that afternoon, she did make a short trip to the ladies’

room ten or fifteen minutes before lunch was served.

It was even conceivable that another someone had

noticed her walking down that hall—which, if you’ll

recall, also led to the dining room’s side entrance. Obviously, as certain as I was that Allison had as

much to do with poisoning Bobbie Jean as I did, I

couldn’t afford to simply ignore the brand-new status the police had bestowed upon her. Listen—and the

thought of this practically made my head explode—it

wouldn’t be the first time an innocent person had been

brought to trial—and even convicted.

Clearly I’d have to work a lot harder—and pray

for a sudden infusion of smarts—to ensure that this

didn’t happen.

It required two Extra-Strength Tylenols—and about

fifteen minutes to allow them to take effect—before I was in any condition to transcribe the remainder of

my notes on Carla Fremont. And then an hour and a

quick sandwich at my desk after this, I began to review

Monday night’s interview with her.

But in spite of my resolve, I didn’t make much head

way. Concerns about the Lynton marriage wormed their

way into my head—which they had absolutely no busi

ness doing. I mean, I should have been concentrating on the murder, not the couple’s relationship. Still, I debated with myself as to whether Allison would sum

mon the courage to tell Wes about that brief fling of hers—before he heard it from someone else.

I’d no sooner pushed this topic from my mind, than

all these questions about Nick replaced it:
(1)
How
long
had
he
and
this
Tiffany
person
been
married?
(2)
Why
had
they
split
up?
(3)
Was
Nick
as
devoted
a
father
as
he
appeared
to
be?
(4)
Was
his
son
a
nice
little
boy?
(5)
Forget
(1)
through
(4).
Could
I
count
on
Nick’s
calling
me
again?

My concentration being what it was that day, at just

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CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

161

past four thirty I threw in the towel and shoved the Bobbie Jean Morton file in my attache´ case. Not much

more than a half hour later I was home—listening to another unsettling message on the answering machine.

‘‘This is Chief Porchow. Please give me a call as

soon as possible.’’

Before I had time to fret about his purpose in con

tacting me, I picked up the receiver and dialed the number he’d left.

‘‘Ah, Ms. Shapiro, I appreciate your getting back to

me so promptly,’’ he said. ‘‘There are one or two mat

ters I neglected to go over with you when we spoke the other evening, and I wonder if I might stop by to see you tonight.’’

Uh-oh.
I was 99.9 percent positive of the reason he wanted to interrogate me, and I wasn’t all that anxious

to supply him with any answers. ‘‘I guess so,’’ I agreed

none too cordially. ‘‘That is, if you don’t think we can

do this on the phone.’’ I already knew how he’d re

spond, but what the hell, it was worth a try.

Porchow’s voice was firm. ‘‘It would be preferable

if we could sit down and talk.’’

Well, like I said, it was worth a try.

It had been arranged that Chief Porchow would be

at my apartment around eight. But it was a few min

utes after nine when he finally put in an appearance, his dour sidekick, Sergeant Block, two paces behind

him.

‘‘Sorry, Ms. Shapiro,’’ the chief told me, ‘‘we had a crisis of sorts this evening.’’

‘‘No problem,’’ I assured him. Actually, though,

there
was
a problem. Before cutting out of the office, I’d solemnly vowed to study my notes tonight. But

now it looked as if I’d have to break my word to

myself. I mean, the later these men left, the less alert I’d be. And Lord knows, whatever meager faculties I

possess were going to have to be in top working order

if there was the slightest hope of my making progress with this case.

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At any rate, the two policemen seated themselves

like bookends at opposite ends of the sofa. ‘‘Can I get

you something to drink? A cup of coffee, maybe?’’ I inquired. (True, my brew is rarely well received, but recently a number of people—well, one, anyway—told

me it wasn’t really that terrible.)

‘‘I’d love some coffee,’’ the chief said, immediately following which he held up his palm. ‘‘On second

thought, I’d better not. I’ve already had five cups

today.’’ The gods must have been smiling down on

that guy is all I can say.

‘‘Likewise,’’ the sergeant grunted, the gods evi

dently, extending their largess to him.

I plopped down on one of the club chairs facing

them, steeling myself for the worst. Still, as he was flipping open his notebook, I noticed again how attrac

tive Porchow was. He had such strong, even features. And from this close range I was able to appreciate his

eyes, which were a beautiful blue-green. Aside from

his physical attributes, though, from my limited experi

ence with the man, I’d formed the impression that he hadn’t been short-changed when it came to gray mat

ter, either.
You
know,
I apprised myself,
he’d
be
nice
for
Barbara.
(As in Barbara who lives in the next apartment.)

Looking over at his left hand, I checked out that

all-important finger. Naked.
Hey,
this
shows
promise.
It was at that moment that Chief Porchow began

his questioning, forcing me out of my matchmaking

mode. ‘‘Tell me, Ms. Shapiro, how well do you know

Ms. Lynton—the victim’s sister-in-law?’’

‘‘Not very. But enough to recognize what a lovely

person she is.’’

Ignoring the testimonial, he glanced down at his

notebook and traced some of the data with his finger.

‘‘Her son is engaged to your niece.’’

‘‘Yes, that’s how we came to meet.’’

‘‘You weren’t acquainted prior to that—not even

casually?’’ he asked.

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ON
YOUR
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163

‘‘Nope. I’d never even set eyes on her until Ellen

and Mike became serious.’’

‘‘Still, I assume you’ve been in her company on a

number of occasions since then.’’

‘‘A few.’’

‘‘I was told that Ms. Lynton and the deceased didn’t

get along.’’

‘‘I don’t believe they were very close, if that’s what you mean,’’ I responded evasively.

‘‘I imagine that with the sisters-in-law having a less than friendly relationship, there must have been some

sort of negative rub-off on the Lynton marriage.’’

‘‘I couldn’t say.’’

And now the seconds seemed to drag by slowly,

almost interminably. And in spite of the admirable

performance of my brand-new air conditioner, I be

came conscious of the perspiration that had been

building up on the back of my neck and behind my

knees. Finally, his tone somewhat hesitant, the chief declared, ‘‘Er, there’s a possibility that the murdered woman had been threatening Ms. Lynton.’’

‘‘Threatening her?’’

‘‘I won’t go into any of the specifics, but we have it on fairly reliable authority that Ms. Morton may

have been about to reveal something that Ms. Lynton

preferred remain a private matter. Are you aware of

anything like that?’’ Well, I’d say this for him: He was certainly being circumspect about Allison’s affair.

(Barbara could be getting herself a real gem here.)

‘‘I don’t know a thing about any threat.’’ Then, for good measure, I elaborated with, ‘‘Or anything Mrs.

Lynton might have been threatened
about.
’’ I mean, while I do try to avoid telling an out-and-out lie, I wasn’t going to help the police build a case against an

innocent person. Besides, it wasn’t as if I were under oath or anything.

Porchow frowned. ‘‘Let me ask you something else,

then. We’re trying to determine, as accurately as possi

ble under the circumstances, the movements of all the

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Selma
Eichler

shower guests before the group went in to lunch.’’

(They were trying to determine the movements of
all
the guests, my patootie.) ‘‘Ms. Lynton claims the two of you were together from the time you arrived at

Silver Oaks until you both entered the dining room.

Is that correct?’’

Again, I felt that I had no choice. ‘‘Yes.’’ I made it a pretty loud ‘‘yes,’’ too, to give it more weight.

‘‘Ms. Lynton wasn’t out of your sight even for a

few minutes?’’

‘‘No, she wasn’t.’’

‘‘Neither of you went to the powder room?’’ he

persisted.

‘‘No.’’

Looking none too pleased at having come up empty

(a feeling I am all too familiar with), the chief

smoothed out a nonexistent wrinkle in his pants. ‘‘I see,’’ he muttered. ‘‘Well, at any rate, thanks for your

time.’’ He handed me his card. ‘‘In the event you think

of anything you want to share with us.’’

And now he and that chatterbox Block rose simul

taneously.

Showing them to the door, I slipped on my matchmaking hat again. First I made a mini production out of checking my watch. Then, as we stood on the

threshold, I commented nonchalantly to Porchow,

‘‘These hours of yours must get your wife crazy. My late husband was on the force for a while, so I can empathize.’’

‘‘That’s one problem I don’t have.’’

Which told me zilch. ‘‘Does this mean that your

wife is really understanding—or that you’re single and

available?’’ My hand flew to my mouth. I couldn’t

even believe what had just come out of it!

Apparently that made two of us. Porchow’s jaw

seemed to go slack, and he was slow to formulate

his response. ‘‘Uh, you’re a very charming lady, Ms. Shapiro,’’ he said, turning a deep shade of pink. ‘‘But I’m engaged to be married in October.’’

Chapter
26

The next morning the phone rang at a few minutes

past nine thirty, just as I was securing the door be

hind me.

Leaving my keys dangling from the lock, I rushed

back into the apartment, grabbing the receiver on the

third ring.

‘‘This is Wesley Lynton.’’ It took a moment before

I translated the ‘‘Wesley’’ into ‘‘Wes.’’ Which I admit wasn’t terribly swift of me. ‘‘I telephoned your office, and your secretary suggested that I might still be able

to reach you at home.’’ There was a sense of urgency in his voice.

‘‘Is everything all right?’’

Wes’s laugh was heavy with irony. ‘‘I suppose that

depends on what you mean by ‘all right.’ Listen, De