Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (12 page)

tremendous
amount of satisfaction. And I’m good at it, too—I opened my own office a year ago, six months

after moving back to New York.’’

‘‘Who do you represent? Anyone I’d know?’’

‘‘I would hope so. My clients include the cream of

today’s rock artists. People like the Spastics, Irish Ra

chel Bernstein, and the Head Cases,’’ Lorraine an

nounced proudly.

I tried to sound impressed. ‘‘No kidding.’’

‘‘I assume you’ve heard of them, then.’’

‘‘Uh, hasn’t everybody?’’ I equivocated.

‘‘Listen, I’d better shake my keister and get on over

to the office.’’ And before I could stop her, she

grabbed the check that Rocky had deposited on the

table moments earlier (at the same time—as long as

he was in the neighborhood—taking another peek

down her dress). Seconds later Lorraine lowered her

voice to the point where I had trouble making out the

words. ‘‘I’m expecting a call this morning from the

manager of a big-name group—and I’m talking
really
big. They’re thinking about switching agents, and it

looks as if I’m in the running. I’ll tell you who they are, but this is top secret, understand?’’

‘‘Of course.’’

She leaned so far across the table our noses practi

cally touched. ‘‘Three Hams on a Roll.’’

Three
Hams
on
a
Roll?

Christ! Whatever happened to Donnie and Marie?

Chapter
11

‘‘For this Saturday night? Oh, that’s terrific.’’ Then, with a trace of suspicion: ‘‘Where are the seats?’’

I had just arrived at work after my meeting with

Lorraine Corwin. And overhearing that short snatch

of dialogue when I walked in, I figured it likely that the person Jackie was talking to on the phone was

Derwin. Derwin being her on-again off-again guy for

a number of years now.

‘‘
Where?
’’ she shrieked into the receiver. ‘‘Listen, Mr. Sport, if you think I’m going to sit in the next-to

the-last-row balcony one more time and try to
imagine

what’s happening on that stage . . .’’

She was talking to Derwin, all right.

‘‘Don’t give me that. A couple of months ago you

fed me the same baloney about those being the only

two seats available, and the theater was half empty

when we got there. You must—’’ She broke off.

‘‘Wait, Dez!’’ she called after me as I headed for my cubbyhole.

‘‘Hold it, Derwin,’’ she instructed, putting her hand over the mouthpiece while I backtracked. She waved

a pink message slip in my direction and, as she so frequently does, spared me the bother of reading it.

‘‘Ellen just called. She wants you to get in touch

with her at work.’’

‘‘Thanks,’’ I mouthed, as she went back to hanging

Derwin out to dry.

‘‘Do you
really
want me to tell you what to do with

those tickets?’’ she put to him just before I was out of earshot.

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

73

*

*

*

Ellen’s voice crackled with excitement. ‘‘They came

last night!’’

‘‘What did?’’

‘‘My shower gifts,’’ she responded, not quite able to

conceal her impatience. From her tone, she might just

as well have added, ‘‘Dummy.’’

‘‘But you were at the funeral home last night.’’

‘‘I gave the keys to Ginger.’’

I couldn’t resist. ‘‘ ‘. . . who lives in my building,’ ’’

I finished for her.

‘‘Huh?’’ She obviously didn’t get it.

‘‘Never mind.’’ But I could feel the grin spreading

over my face.

‘‘Anyway, I spoke to this woman from Silver Oaks

yesterday, and she asked if it would be okay if some

body dropped off the packages that evening. It was

really nice that they were willing to do a thing like that, and I didn’t want to make things difficult for whoever was doing the delivering. Also, I could hardly

wait to see the gifts. So I said for the man to ring Ginger’s bell, and then she let him into my apartment.

‘‘Listen, Aunt Dez, I am
thrilled
with the china. But you’ve gotta be crazy, springing for anything that ex

pensive with all you must have spent on the shower. My God! That was present enough.’’

‘‘Yes, especially since it was such a pleasurable ex

perience,’’ I said dryly.

‘‘But that wasn’t your fault.’’

‘‘At any rate, Allison and I—your mother, too,’’ I

included with a grimace, ‘‘decided it would be nice to start you off with a few place settings.’’

Now, Ellen had really startled everybody when she

selected a dinnerware pattern. I mean, while she’s

been known to whip up a very decent breakfast, after

twelve noon her culinary talents come to a screeching

halt. (Don’t ask me to explain it, either.) Ellen’s idea of preparing dinner is to reheat the Chinese takeout. Well, I suppose even moo goo gai pan seems a little more gourmetish on Limoges.

74

Selma
Eichler

‘‘What were some of your other presents?’’ I was

foolish enough to inquire.

I expected to hear about the half dozen or so items

she was most enthusiastic about. Instead, my niece

proceeded to enumerate around fifty, describing some

of them in great detail. I probably should have been thankful that a number of the gifts were from more

than one guest.

‘‘Barbara and Harriet from your building? They

gave us a beautiful crystal vase,’’ she began. ‘‘And we

got the most
gorgeous
silver tray from my friends at work. It came from Tiffany’s,’’ she added, sounding

suitably impressed. ‘‘Somebody else—I forget who—

gave us . . .’’ And she went on. And on. And on.

‘‘. . . Plus, we got three toaster ovens,’’ she finally concluded. But not before relating the specific features

of each.

The conversation ended with Ellen’s extracting my

promise to stop by for a look at her bounty as soon as I had a chance.

Something I was eager to do anyway.

The phone rang as I was reaching to turn on my

Mac.

‘‘It’s Allison, Desiree. Chief Porchow just tele

phoned. The autopsy report has come in.’’ Every mus

cle in my body tensed. ‘‘He’ll be over at four to talk to us.’’

‘‘He didn’t give you any idea of the results?’’

‘‘None. But I’m feeling very uneasy about this.

After all, if Bobbie Jean died of natural causes, why wouldn’t he just say that then and there? Why would he want to see us?’’

‘‘I’m afraid you’re right. You’ll let me know as soon

as he leaves, won’t you.’’ I didn’t put it as a question. Forcing Allison’s news from my mind, I spent the

next few hours transcribing my notes on this morning’s

interrogation of Lorraine Corwin. I didn’t even break to go out to lunch. This, however, is not to imply

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

75

that I skipped a meal—which is practically against my

religion. In between the struggle to decipher my hand

writing and the determination to type at a speed that would not cause your average snail any embar

rassment, I managed to consume a BLT (minus the

L) and a Coke at my desk.

In spite of my diligence, though, I still wasn’t able to

finish the job. Because before you could say, ‘‘Grace Banner,’’ three thirty had sneaked up on me.

And minutes later the second of my suspects

arrived.

Chapter
12

Grace Banner collapsed in the chair.

If anything, she looked even more waiflike than she

had on Sunday. Her lightweight cotton dress was suf

fering the effects of some determined store-to-store

shopping, coupled with a temperature that when I last

heard—and this was hours ago—was eighty-nine de

grees and climbing. The wilted blue-and-yellow print

garment clung stubbornly to her thin, boyish frame,

broadcasting the absence of even the most miniscule

swelling in the chest area. The woman’s plain brown

hair was in an equally sad state, plastered against her head and hanging in moist clumps to the middle of

her neck.

Seated alongside my desk in the only visitor’s chair my cigar-box-of-an-office can accommodate, she was

soon busily engaged in searching through her purse.

She finally pulled out a tissue and hastily wiped her damp forehead. Then she eked out a halfhearted

smile. ‘‘I’m exhausted. Shopping isn’t easy.’’

‘‘Well, at least you accomplished something.’’ There

were three bags at her feet—from Lord & Taylor,

Bloomingdale’s, and Saks Fifth Avenue.

‘‘I hope so. But once I get home, my family—which

includes two very finicky daughters—could decide that

they hate everything I’ve bought, and I’ll have to come

back and return all of this.’’ Biting her lip, she ges

tured toward her purchases. ‘‘To tell you the truth, I’m

already having second thoughts about the cashmere

sweater I picked out for Karl—that’s my husband. It’s

apricot, and I’m not sure how he’ll feel about apricot.’’

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CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

77

And now, wincing, she inquired shyly, ‘‘I hate to ask, but would you mind very much if I slipped off my

shoes? I’m . . . well, I’m in agony.’’

‘‘Please. Be my guest. I’ve been there myself.’’ (I

almost said—unintentionally, I swear—‘‘I’ve been in

your shoes myself.’’ But I bit back the unforgivable pun just in time.)

Grace removed her sensible bone-colored oxfords

(which evidently weren’t sensible enough) and, bend

ing down, placed them neatly under the chair. She

sighed with relief, then fixed me with forthright brown

eyes. ‘‘You wanted to talk to me about Bobbie Jean.’’

‘‘I did—that is, I do. But first, would you like me to

order up a soda for you? Or how about an iced tea?’’

‘‘Nothing, thank you. I had a cold drink a few min

utes ago, right before I came up here.’’

‘‘Well, suppose we get started then. I’d like you to tell me what occurred between you and Bobbie Jean.’’

‘‘All right.’’ And leaning back in her seat now,

Grace cleared her throat. After which she began to

lay out the details of her feud with the victim, her voice low and even.

‘‘Karl and I became partners in a restaurant with

her.’’

‘‘When was this?’’ I asked before she could go on.

‘‘Close to ten years ago. Back then it seemed as if it could turn out to be a lucrative undertaking for all three of us. Bobbie Jean had more money than she

knew what to do with, and she was looking to invest in a promising business. And Karl had had a great

deal of restaurant experience—he’d managed a num

ber of extremely successful establishments. Also, we

were able to find decent space in a good location at a very fair price. And—’’

‘‘Had you previously worked in that field, too?’’

‘‘No, but I was more than willing to do whatever

had to be done to help make a go of the place. And if I have any talent whatsoever, Desiree, it’s for fol

lowing instructions. In other words, I was the ideal fill-in. One day I would act as hostess. The next I

78

Selma
Eichler

might be chopping vegetables or waiting on tables. I even went to bartender school for a few weeks—just

in case. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted one of my pin˜ a coladas,’’ she bragged with a little laugh.

‘‘And what was Bobbie Jean’s contribution, other

than monetary?’’

‘‘None. It had been agreed that her participation

would be limited to the financing, while Karl and I, who were investing much less, would be responsible

for the actual operation of BanJean’s—that was the

name of the restaurant. It’s a combination of Banner and Bobbie Jean. We—’’

I jumped in again. ‘‘BanJean’s was located in

Connecticut?’’

‘‘Yes, in Greenwich. Just seven blocks from our

house.’’ And here Grace paused, apparently anticipat

ing another interruption. But a few seconds of silence