Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (4 page)

now you’re free to leave. And drive carefully, ya

hear?’’

Allison, Ellen, and I waited at the front door to see

to it that everyone got off okay. There were plenty of

hugs, some tears, and a lot of words of sympathy

exchanged.

Grace Banner seemed to be riddled with embar

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rassment when she took Allison’s hand and told her,

‘‘I despised Bobbie Jean. I won’t deny it. But I hope you don’t think I wanted something like this to

happen.’’

‘‘No, of course not.’’

‘‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Allie,’’ Grace said softly,

looking grateful. ‘‘In the meantime, if you need any

thing, give me a call. Will you do that?’’

‘‘You can count on it,’’ Allison assured her.

‘‘Good. And please extend my condolences to

Wes.’’ Grace bussed her friend on the cheek, standing

on tiptoe in order to accomplish this—a requirement

that at a scant five-two I could definitely relate to. A few minutes later Allison’s friend Lorraine en

tered the vestibule. Predictably, she made no such at

tempt at civility. A small smile played at the corners of her crimson-colored mouth. Peering up at her, I

observed that the lipstick extended well beyond the

natural contours of her too-thin lips in an attempt to make them appear fuller. Which only served to remind

you of just how thin they actually were. Still, there was something quite attractive about this Lorraine—

maybe part of it being that there was so much of her.

‘‘So Bobbie Jean finally got hers,’’ she proclaimed.

‘‘She just
died,
Lorraine,’’ Allison scolded mildly.

‘‘And it couldn’t have happened to anyone more

worthy.’’ Lorraine turned to Ellen. Reaching over, she

brushed my niece’s face with long, slim fingers, the

topaz ring leaving a bright red mark on Ellen’s cheek.

‘‘But it’s a shame that whoever did this decided to extract her pound of flesh at your shower, little Ellen.’’

Lorraine had removed the white gloves, probably

when she sat down to eat. And now I took note of

the woman’s nails. Painted the same shade as her

mouth, they were so long and pointy as to qualify as lethal weapons. Assuming they were the real thing—

and I had serious reservations there—this sweet lady

must consume enough calcium to keep the milk com

panies in business.

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Ellen was stoical. ‘‘Under the circumstances, my

shower isn’t that important.’’

Lorraine scowled. ‘‘Don’t be silly. Of course it is.’’

‘‘Wait a minute,’’ Allison commanded. ‘‘Did I hear

you right? What do you mean, ‘Whoever did this’?

What makes you think anyone
did
anything?’’

‘‘There’s this rumor going around that your beloved

sister-in-law was poisoned.’’

‘‘
Poisoned?
I don’t believe it.’’

‘‘Then we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?’’

Lorraine turned to Ellen again. ‘‘Anyhow, I hope you

made out like a bandit with your gifts. Where are

they, by the way?’’

It was Allison who answered. ‘‘They’re still in the

dining room. I imagine we’ll be able to pick them up during the week sometime.’’ She glanced in my direc

tion. ‘‘Oh, and Lorraine, this is—’’

‘‘I hope there are lots and lots of Tiffany boxes,’’

Lorraine told Ellen.

Well,
how
do
you
like
that!
I mean, the woman was starting to make me feel invisible, for crying out loud.

And I’m much too big—width-wise, at any rate—to

even come close.

‘‘I guess I’ll be on my way,’’ she was saying. ‘‘As soon as I get home, I’m going to haul some Brie out of the refrigerator and pour myself a king-size shot of

bourbon. I feel I should do
something
to commemo

rate Bobbie Jean’s passing. Oh, and you
will
let me know when the funeral will be. That’s one event I

don’t intend to miss.’’

Allison’s eyes were shooting curare-dipped darts at

her friend. ‘‘Listen, I understand why you feel the way

you do. But I wish you’d try to exercise some restraint

right now. This
is
my husband’s sister you’re referring to. And as you’re aware, he happened to love her.’’

A chastised Lorraine didn’t respond immediately.

And when she did, her voice was so low you had to strain to catch the words. ‘‘I’m sorry, Allie. I can be such an ass sometimes. Forgive me?’’

‘‘You’re forgiven,’’ Allison replied good-naturedly.

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‘‘I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?’’

The two women embraced, following which Lor

raine adjusted her umbrella-size hat and tottered out of the building on those skyscraper heels of hers—

without, of course, having uttered one word to me.

Robin and Carla Fremont were among the last to

leave. ‘‘What can I say, Allison?’’ Robin murmured.

‘‘It’s terrible. Just terrible.’’

‘‘You’re sounding hypocritical, Mother,’’ Carla

pointed out dryly.

Robin flushed. ‘‘Carla, please,’’ she snapped. ‘‘Stop

always passing judgment on me. I’m not saying I feel bad about Bobbie Jean. But it’s awful that something like this occurred on what was supposed to be such a lovely occasion for Ellen here. To say nothing of what

his only sister’s death will probably do to Wes. You understood how that was meant, didn’t you, Allison?’’

‘‘Yes, I did.’’

‘‘I had no doubt you would.’’ And to Carla: ‘‘Come

on. I’ll call you in a day or two, Allison.’’

As they headed for the exit, Robin went back to

chastising her daughter. ‘‘And for your information,

Miss Mouth, even if I
were
being hypocritical—which I wasn’t—it’s in very poor taste to . . .’’ The door closing behind them muted the rest of the lecture.

Ellen and I were both concerned about Allison’s

driving home to Connecticut alone. After all, she had just lost a family member. But she insisted she’d be fine. ‘‘If you want me to be perfectly honest, it hasn’t actually sunk in yet that Bobbie Jean is gone, so I’m pretty numb on that score. What really does bother

me is having to break the news to Wes.’’

‘‘I gather your husband and his sister were close,’’

I said.

‘‘Very. In spite of the fact that over the years she’d

lived abroad a great deal of the time.’’ And now, her eyes filling up, Allison added, ‘‘Bobbie Jean mattered very much to Wes.’’

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‘‘Umm . . . about Mike,’’ Ellen brought up here,

her voice tentative. ‘‘Would you like me to tell him, or would you rather do it yourself?’’

‘‘I’m not going to put that on you. I think it’s only right that I do it. I’ll call him as soon as I get to the house.’’

We walked outside then, and Allison put her arms

around Ellen. ‘‘I’m so sorry, dear. Your aunt and I wanted this to be such a special day for you, too. I’ll make it up to you, though.’’

‘‘There’s nothing to—’’

‘‘Don’t argue with your future mother-in-law,’’ her

future mother-in-law commanded. Then she sighed.

‘‘Well, I can’t speak for the two of you, but I’ve had enough of this place to last me forever. So what do you say we get our cars and get the hell out of here?’’

Chapter
4

Over Ellen’s protests, we stopped off at a diner on the way home.

‘‘I couldn’t eat a thing, Aunt Dez,’’ she’d insisted.

‘‘Not after what happened. Do you think Bobbie Jean

might actually have been . . . that somebody p-p-p

poisoned her?’’

Now, it is only when Ellen’s nervous system is on

the verge of collapse that she begins to stutter. Of course, it seems to me that witnessing a death, espe

cially the death of someone you’re acquainted with—

your almost-aunt, no less—can do that to you as well as anything. The truth is, I wasn’t exactly in control of my emotions, either. Anyhow, at that point I really

couldn’t say whether Bobbie Jean was a murder victim

or not. But in deference to my niece’s nervous system,

I answered with, ‘‘Well, I suppose it’s possible, but it’s

far more likely that she suffered a heart attack. Or maybe a stroke.’’

‘‘D-d-do you honestly think so?’’

‘‘Yes, I do.’’

But I didn’t. I mean, there were at least four ladies at the Silver Oaks Country Club that afternoon who

would be very unlikely to carry a hankie to the dead woman’s funeral. More than that, though, from the

depth of the hatred she seemed to inspire, there was a better than even chance that someone at that shower

had seen to it that Bobbie Jean would soon be en

joying the peace and quiet of Shady Lawn. Still, she
could
have
died of natural causes. But I was defi

nitely skeptical.

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Selma
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At any rate, once I persuaded Ellen that she’d feel better if she got some food in her—and God knows

I’d
feel better if we both had a little sustenance—she did herself proud. I swear, Ellen doesn’t eat like a truck driver; she packs it in like a pair of them. And where she manages to hide it all is the million-dollar question. The truth is, my
thumb
is bigger than that girl’s waist.

Just listen to this. We both started the meal with

good-size shrimp cocktails. These were followed by

hot open roast-beef sandwiches served with carrots

and mashed potatoes, with Ellen ordering a humon

gous salad on the side. For dessert, I had a slice (more

like a sliver, really) of rhubarb pie, while my niece elected to have a hot fudge sundae, with three—count

’em,
three
—scoops of ice cream. And don’t forget she was off her feed at the time.

I dropped Ellen off at her apartment around seven,

then headed back to my own place.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t bothered to put on fresh

lipstick before leaving the diner. Also, by the time I arrived home, my dress could have matched Carla

Fremont’s wrinkle for wrinkle. Plus, my glorious hen

naed hair looked like I hadn’t run a comb through it that entire day. Which I hadn’t. So who was coming

out of the elevator at the precise moment I was about

to get in?

Nick Grainger.

That same Nick Grainger who had recently moved

into my building, and who, every time I saw him,

caused my knees to buckle under me—just like I was

a damn teenager!

Now, before I go into any physical description of

Nick, I suppose I should prepare you by admitting

that my taste in members of the masculine persuasion

is slightly on the unconventional side. In fact, it’s been

rudely suggested—and by more than one person—that

it’s just plain weird. You see, I have this thing for pathetic-looking little guys, the kind who give the im

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pression that they’re in desperate need of plenty of good home cooking accompanied by a generous share

of TLC. It’s been further suggested that I gravitate toward men like this because I have this nurturing

nature and Ed and I never had any children. Anyhow,

I have no more idea of the reason for my preference than the next person. Besides, it doesn’t really matter,

does it?

I was going to tell you about Nick, though. . . .

As you’ve no doubt already surmised, a Mr. Macho

he isn’t. What he
is
is small and skinny and slightly balding. On the pale side, too. Plus—and be still my heart—his teeth are slightly bucked. I mean, Nick

Grainger is so much my type that I might have had

him made to order—appearance-wise, at any rate. I

was, however, still trying to figure out how to actually

get to know the man. And so far I’d made zero

progress.

He was looking particularly dapper just then—even

today’s tragedy couldn’t prevent me from noticing

that. (After all, it’s not as if I’d suddenly gone blind.) And it didn’t take an Einstein to conclude that dressed