Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (26 page)

siree, it’s extremely important that I see you. Would it be possible for you to meet with me today? I could be at your office at noon, provided, of course, that you have nothing else on your calendar for then.’’

And smack on the heels of this, evidently feeling that some amplification might be in order, he added, ‘‘I’ll arrange for one of my partners to see whatever pa

tients I’m not able to reschedule.’’

To his obvious relief, I told him I’d be available

whenever he could make it in to the city.

‘‘That’s good, very good. Thank you,’’ he mumbled.

‘‘Uh, just one more thing. I would appreciate it if you

didn’t mention my call—or the matters we’ll be dis

cussing this afternoon—to anyone. I don’t even want

Allison or Mike to know about this. Agreed?’’

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Well, I wasn’t anxious to commit myself like that. I

mean, what if it turned out that Allison and/or Mike
should
be aware of what he had to say? But the man sounded so distressed that I didn’t feel I had any op

tion. ‘‘Agreed.’’

As I’d feared, I was too tired after Porchow and

Block left the apartment last night to tackle Bobbie Jean’s folder. But I figured I’d be able to put in some

study time before Wes arrived. What I hadn’t figured

was that Jackie would have other plans for me.

She waylaid me as soon as I got to work. ‘‘You

have to do me a favor.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘You know that wedding Derwin and I are at

tending in a couple of weeks? Well, as soon as I re

ceived the invitation I went out and bought a gown—

it’s a formal affair. But then last night I tried it on for

my neighbor Rochelle. She kept assuring me that she

liked the dress, but I could tell by her face that she was just trying to be nice. And to be honest, Dez, all of a sudden I wasn’t too crazy about it, either.’’

‘‘Maybe you just—’’

Jackie’s scowl made it clear that she resented the

interruption. ‘‘Anyhow, Rochelle told me that if I was

unhappy with the gown, she’d be glad to lend me one

of hers. Also, I have something else of my own that I could wear. It’s old, but nobody has to know that, right? I’d really like you to see all three of them on me and give me your opinion.’’

‘‘Be glad to. You can model them for me after

work.’’

‘‘You don’t understand. We have to do this before

lunch. If you don’t absolutely
love
any of them, I’m going up to Bloomie’s at noon and see if I can find a dress there.’’

‘‘Gee, I—’’

‘‘Please, Dezee dear?’’

‘‘
Dezee
dear?
’’ That was a new one on me. And it made me want to gag, too.

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‘‘The ladies’ room in five minutes?’’ Even Jackie’s

eyes were pleading with me now.

‘‘Make it ten,’’ I said resignedly.

When we reconvened in the powder room, Jackie

had already slipped into one of the gowns in con

tention—a navy silk sheathe with spaghetti straps—

and was frowning at herself in the full-length mirror.

‘‘So what’s the verdict?’’ she demanded.

‘‘Is that the dress you bought recently?’’ I was stall

ing for time while I tried to come up with a tactful way of offering my critique.

‘‘No, this is Rochelle’s.’’ She screwed up her face.

‘‘I look pretty awful in it, don’t I?’’

Well, Jackie is fairly large-boned. And as I recalled from the couple of occasions when she’d had both

Rochelle and me up to her apartment, there was a bit

more of her than there was of this neighbor lady.

Which would account for the gown’s pulling across

Jackie’s stomach and straining at her ample hips. (I won’t even talk about how it cupped her tush.) At any

rate, I finally came out with, ‘‘I wouldn’t say that’’—

although it was certainly the truth—‘‘but I think you should be able to do better.’’

She was already wriggling out of the thing and head

ing for one of the stalls as I spoke.

She emerged in a two-piece peach number—also

silk—that I recognized instantly, having been with her

when she bought it at Lord & Taylor several years back. I’d loved it on her then, and I still did. It was a perfect fit. Plus, the color did really nice things for her complexion and blondish-brown hair.

‘‘You look sensational in this,’’ I enthused. ‘‘Why

would you have even bothered to shop for anything

else?’’

Jackie wasn’t persuaded. ‘‘Do you really think so?’’

‘‘Absolutely.’’

‘‘Why don’t I try on the new dress anyway, so we

can compare.’’ She was back in the stall before I

could respond.

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The third gown was a lavender moire´ that just sort of hung on her. ‘‘I’m crazy about the color, aren’t you?’’ At the mirror now, Jackie’s head was at an

almost impossible angle as she struggled to catch a

rear view of herself.

‘‘It’s a lovely shade,’’ I conceded.

‘‘But—? I can tell there’s a ‘but.’ ’’

‘‘But peach is every bit as becoming to you, Jackie,

and the style’s so much more flattering.’’

‘‘I suppose you’re right.’’ But she still sounded

doubtful.

I checked my watch: eleven thirty. ‘‘If you don’t

wear the peach, you’re out of your mind,’’ I pro

claimed, before scooting out of there.

After all, I had a homicide to wrestle with. And I could probably still get in a half hour of work if I was lucky.

As it happened, I wasn’t—lucky, I mean. Not in that

regard, at least. I returned to my cubbyhole to learn that Wes was already in the reception area, impatient to supply me with the kind of information that would,

once again, lead me to view this case in an entirely new light.

Chapter
27

Wes, I decided, looked even worse than he’d sounded.

Worse, in fact, than when I’d seen him at the funeral home. There was a tic in his left cheek that I didn’t remember being there before. His eyes, which ap

peared to have sunk further into his head, were watery

and bloodshot. And the aristocratic face was only one

shade removed from chalk white.

He was seated across the desk from me now, and

I’d just apologized for keeping him waiting. ‘‘Some

thing came up, something that required my immediate

attention.’’ (I omitted, of course, that this ‘‘something’’

was a fashion consultation.) ‘‘And I didn’t expect you until noon,’’ I reminded him.

‘‘Yes, I realize that, and it’s perfectly all right. I’m just thankful you’re able to meet with me today.’’

‘‘What’s the matter, Wes?’’

‘‘I won’t beat around the bush. It’s Allison. I’ve

become aware that not too long ago she’d . . . she’d been seeing another man.’’

‘‘Oh,’’ I said, striving to register at least mild

surprise.

‘‘You don’t have to pretend to know nothing about

this. Allison told me she was here yesterday and that she’d confided in you about . . . everything.’’

I could feel my face getting warm; I was probably

turning red now. God, I hate that! ‘‘And she, uh,

talked to you about the . . . uh . . . the situation?’’

‘‘She did. Although I’m not certain she would have

if I hadn’t confronted her. Since Tuesday evening,

however, she’d been acting very unlike her usual self:

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agitated, jumpy—I even had the impression that she

was frightened of something. But when I originally

tried to find out what was upsetting her—this was on Tuesday—I wasn’t successful. She attributed her state

of mind to some sort of reaction to my sister’s murder,

maintaining that the longer we remained in the dark

as to the identity of Bobbie Jean’s killer, the more unnerved she seemed to get. Things came to a head

last night, however, when I returned from the office

and found her in our bedroom, crying her eyes out.

‘‘Well, to keep this narrative from being any longer

than it has to be, I urged Allison to tell me what was
really
troubling her. And she finally did.’’

My heart went out to Wes. But I didn’t have the

slightest idea how to respond to this, so I just sat there

like an idiot, waiting for him to go on.

‘‘I won’t insult your intelligence, Desiree, by claim

ing that my wife’s involvement with somebody else is easy for me to accept.’’

I opened my mouth to protest that Allison had

never been
involved
with the man. Not in the true sense of the word. But then I thought better of it.

‘‘It’s not that I absolve myself of any responsibility,’’

Wes continued thoughtfully. ‘‘My sister was very dear

to me, and I had a tendency to try to find a modicum

of justification for her actions, although at times it’s quite probable that none existed. Well, Allison often took exception to this. And understandably so, too,’’

he was quick to add. ‘‘At any rate, the friction be

tween us over my persistent defense of Bobbie Jean’s behavior finally escalated to the point where Allison

could no longer tolerate the situation. And this led to . . . well, you already know what it led to. I’ll tell you something, Desiree. When she admitted to being

intimate with this fellow Justin, I had an almost un

controllable desire to put my fist through the wall. I still do. But I love my wife—that hasn’t changed. And

I’m hoping we can work our way through our prob

lems.’’ Evidently recognizing now that he’d revealed

more of his feelings than he’d intended to, Wes

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pressed his lips together and shook his head. ‘‘I’m

digressing,’’ he muttered. ‘‘What brought me here to

see you is this ridiculous theory the police have evi

dently latched onto: that Allison is culpable in Bobbie

Jean’s death.’’

He fastened his gaze on me. ‘‘I’m quite sure I al

ready know the answer, but why do you think my

wife’s . . . indiscretion . . . along with the letter she wrote, of course, suddenly caused her to emerge as

suspect number one?’’

‘‘It appears to be because her seeming motive for

doing away with Bobbie Jean is of recent origin.’’

‘‘That’s how I have it figured too. But what would

you say if I told you that she isn’t the only one whose

motive doesn’t date way back?’’

‘‘I’d say that I’m anxious to hear the rest of this.’’

‘‘And you’re about to. Let’s start with the Fremonts,

Desiree. I understand they’re alleging that Carla and her boyfriend called it quits only this past weekend. Not true. The breakup was two weeks
prior
to the shower. And why would they lie?’’ It was obviously a rhetorical question, because Wes hurried on. ‘‘So it

would appear that at the time of the murder every

thing was rosy between Carla and this beau of hers.’’

‘‘And if that
had
been
the case,’’ I summed up, ‘‘it would be highly improbable that either Carla or Robin

would have been in a homicidal frame of mind that

day.’’

‘‘Precisely. According to Allison, Carla never got

over Roy—not completely. But she finally did find

someone else, and things seemed to be going well for her at last. Allison and I were very happy about that, and Robin was almost delirious. Now that they’ve split

up, however, it wouldn’t surprise me if Carla—and

by the same token, her mother—reverted to blaming

Bobbie Jean for the girl’s not having a man that she cared about in her life.’’

I wanted to say that Bobbie Jean deserved the

blame—or anyhow a good portion of it. I mean, if

she hadn’t taken up with Roy in the first place, Carla

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wouldn’t have had any need to replace him—and been

in a position to have her heart trampled on all over again. But with a little effort I managed to keep my mouth shut. Wes had suffered quite enough lately