Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (18 page)

There were three messages on the machine when I

returned from Greenwich.

The first was from my across-the-hall neighbor, Har

riet Gould—one of the shower guests. She’d already

phoned twice that week to find out if the autopsy re

port on Bobbie Jean had come in yet.

‘‘You promised to tell me as soon as you learned

anything.’’
Damn!
It
had
gone
completely
out
of
my
head!
‘‘But I realize how hectic things can get some

times, so I didn’t think you’d mind if I checked back with you. Anyway, hope everything’s okay otherwise.

And keep me posted.’’

The second message was from my right-next-door

neighbor, Barbara Gleason—another of the shower

guests.

‘‘Anything new on that autopsy report? Call when

you have a chance.’’

And then I listened to the third message.

‘‘Hi,’’ said the male voice, ‘‘this is . . . er . . . Nick Grainger.’’ He sounded as if he didn’t relish admitting

it. ‘‘I want to apologize for being so rude to you yes

terday, but, well, you kind of caught me off guard. I hope you’ll let me make amends—maybe we could

have dinner one night. I’ll be in touch.’’

I’m not exactly certain how long I stood there in

front of the answering machine. All I know is that I couldn’t stop smiling.

When I finally exited my trance, I dialed Harriet’s

number. She wasn’t in. I figured that most likely she and her husband Steve were out to dinner, so I left

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word. I told her—and now I couldn’t seem to keep

the smile out of my voice—that I’d
just
been informed of the results of the autopsy and that Bobbie Jean’s salad had been poisoned. (Well, ‘‘just’’ could mean

different things to different people, couldn’t it?)

After this I tried Barbara.

‘‘Hi, Barbara, how are you?’’ I chirped in response

to her ‘‘hello.’’

‘‘Oh, Dez, I’m glad you caught me. Another few

seconds and I’d have been out of the apartment—I’m

meeting a friend for dinner. Come join us—that is, if you haven’t already eaten.’’

‘‘Thanks anyway, but I’ve had my supper.’’ Okay,

maybe this time I
was
uttering a teeny falsehood. But I was sparing myself some
agita.
Barbara doesn’t take too kindly to ‘‘No, thank you.’’

‘‘Say, you sound disgustingly cheerful tonight. Any

particular reason?’’

‘‘That’s simply the way I am.’’

‘‘Yeah, sure. All right, I’ll try and survive without knowing,’’ she mumbled testily. ‘‘Has anything hap

pened with regard to that poor woman who died

Sunday?’’

‘‘As a matter of fact, the autopsy report is in.’’

‘‘Go on.’’

‘‘Bobbie Jean was murdered.’’

‘‘Who? How?’’

‘‘Somebody added some poisonous leaves to her

salad. As for the ‘who,’ I believe that the killer was one of four women—all of whom had a strong motive

for putting Bobbie Jean out of commission. But I

haven’t narrowed it down any further than that. Not

yet, at any rate.’’

‘‘Does that mean you’re investigating this

business?’’

‘‘Uh-huh. Mike asked me to.’’

A restrained ‘‘Hmm’’ was Barbara’s only comment.

‘‘Listen, I don’t want to keep you . . .’’

‘‘Not so fast. What four are we talking about,

anyway?’’

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‘‘It wouldn’t be fair to name names. I’m only specu

lating at this point.’’

Now, I expected an argument here. Or at best, a

little sample of the petulance Barbara so often em

ploys. But she responded with surprising equanimity.

‘‘Okay. But would you care to hear who I think did this?’’

‘‘Why not.’’

‘‘That annoying young thing who went around snap

ping everyone’s picture.’’

Ginger!
She
suspected
Ginger!
It’s a tribute to my self-control that I managed to keep from laughing.

‘‘What makes you say that?’’

‘‘My intuition. But you wait. You’ll see that I’m

right.’’

After my conversation with Ms. Nostradamus, I had

a quick bite, following which I sat down at the com

puter and began the never-ending task of typing up

my notes. I finally gave up after jerking myself awake

for the third time.

It was past ten when I got out of bed on Sunday. I had a leisurely breakfast of Cheerios and an Enten

mann’s corn muffin (is there any other kind, really?), along with the coffee of the damned. And then I

phoned the Silver Oaks Country Club. I asked to be

connected with the manager.

It was a fairly lengthy wait before a woman got on the line. ‘‘Mr. Novak isn’t in today. This is Janice Kramer, the assistant manager.’’
Ahh,
the
strawberry
blonde.
‘‘Perhaps I can help you.’’

‘‘My name is Desiree Shapiro, Ms. Kramer. We’ve

met a couple of times—I was one of the hostesses at last Sunday’s disastrous bridal shower.’’

‘‘Oh . . . of course. I remember you, Ms. Shapiro.’’

But the tentative note in her voice contradicted the words. The way I saw it, though, it was nice of her to make the effort. ‘‘All of us at Silver Oaks are very shaken by this terrible thing,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘Ms.

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Morton was well liked here, you know. And not only

by the other guests, but by our entire staff, as well.’’

I
can
only
hope
that
when
I
die
people
spout
the
same
sort
of
lies
about
me.
‘‘I also happen to be a private detective, Ms. Kramer, and I’ve been hired

by the family to look into Mrs. Morton’s death. I’d appreciate it if you could arrange for me to have a brief talk with your employees.’’

‘‘The police have already questioned everyone who

works here.’’

‘‘I’m aware of that. But Mrs. Morton’s family is anx

ious that I conduct a separate investigation.’’

Ms. Kramer appeared to hesitate.

‘‘I can have Dr. Lynton—Mrs. Morton’s brother—

call you to confirm this.’’

Two or three additional seconds of hesitation. ‘‘That

won’t be necessary. I believe almost all of last Sun

day’s staff is in today. I imagine those are the people you’d be most interested in speaking to, so it might be worthwhile for you to come out to Silver Oaks this

afternoon, if you can make it.’’

‘‘I’ll be there.’’

‘‘Fine. I’ll see you then.’’ I was about to say good

bye when she added, ‘‘Umm, Ms. Shapiro? I hope you

don’t think that anyone in our employ would—’’

‘‘No, I don’t. Somebody there may have some

important information without recognizing its sig

nificance, though.’’ And now my brain caught up

with my hearing. ‘‘But didn’t you just tell me that
almost
all of last Sunday’s staff would be at the club today?’’

‘‘That’s right. One of our people—a waiter—went

on vacation this past Monday. I think he’s due back the Monday after next. I’ll check the schedule and let

you know when you get here.’’

Seeing that majestic mansion again, that sweeping,

picture-perfect front lawn, I felt a baseball-size lump in my throat. Could it have been only one week ago

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that this lovely setting had served as a venue for

murder?

A slim, gray-haired woman with a very pretty face

occupied a small office to the right of the entrance. She looked up at the sound of my footsteps.

‘‘My name is Desiree Shapiro,’’ I informed her,

stopping at her door. ‘‘I’d—’’

‘‘I’m Kathy Marin.’’ Jumping to her feet, she ap

proached me with a fixed smile and an outstretched

hand. ‘‘Ms. Kramer had a minor emergency to attend

to,’’ she apprised me as I shook the hand. ‘‘She should

be back shortly, but in the meantime she asked me

to assist you. She said that you’d probably prefer to interview everyone individually.’’

‘‘Yes, I would.’’

‘‘Then follow me, won’t you? And I’ll get you

settled.’’

I was shown to a tiny room that, I swear, wasn’t an

inch larger than the cubbyhole I occupy at Gilbert and

Sullivan. Somehow, however, somebody had managed

to squeeze a desk and
three
chairs
into these micro

scopic quarters. I was still marveling at this accom

plishment when Kathy invited me to make myself

comfortable. She indicated the chair behind the desk, and I plopped down on the hard, thinly cushioned

seat.
Make
myself
comfortable?
She
had
to
be
kidding!

‘‘May I get you something?’’ she offered. ‘‘Some

coffee? Or a soft drink, perhaps?’’

‘‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’’

‘‘Shall I begin sending people in now?’’

‘‘Uh, maybe you wouldn’t mind answering a few

questions for me before you do.’’

Kathy Marin was plainly flustered. ‘‘No, no, of

course not. But I’m afraid I don’t know anything that would be helpful to you. I wasn’t even in last

Sunday.’’

‘‘That’s okay. As long as I’m here, I may as well

speak to
all
the employees—any who are around today, I mean. This will only take a couple of minutes.

I promise.’’

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Never having met me before, the woman appeared

to accept that as gospel. And in this case, it actually turned out to be true. ‘‘All right,’’ she agreed, grace

fully—if reluctantly—placing her trim little posterior

on one of the chairs on the other side of the desk.

‘‘What is it you do here, Ms. Marin?’’

‘‘I’m Ms. Kramer’s assistant. And do call me

Kathy.’’

‘‘And I’m Desiree. Were you acquainted with Mrs.

Morton, Kathy?’’

‘‘Not really. Just to say hello to.’’

‘‘Did you ever hear any gossip pertaining to her?’’

‘‘Gossip?’’

‘‘For example, possibly a staff member had some

sort of trouble with her.’’

‘‘Uh-uh. Not to my knowledge, anyway.’’

‘‘Or maybe there was a problem between Mrs. Mor

ton and one of her fellow club members.’’

‘‘I’m not aware of anything like that.’’

‘‘Well, then, what about an affair?’’

Plainly puzzled now, Kathy lifted two nicely shaped

eyebrows. ‘‘I beg your pardon?’’

‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t put that too clearly. I want to know if there was ever any talk about Mrs. Morton’s being romantically involved with either another club

member or someone on your staff.’’

‘‘If she was, I never heard about it.’’

‘‘Well, thank you very much, Kathy.’’

‘‘That’s it?’’

‘‘That’s it. I told you it would only take a few min

utes.’’ I had to smile at her obvious relief.

‘‘Why don’t I have the first person come in, then,’’

she said, rising. ‘‘And just call me—I’m on extension six—whenever you’re ready to see the next member

of our staff.’’

I might as well have stayed home.

For close to three hours I interviewed waiters and

busboys and chefs. I interrogated the tennis instructor,

the golf pro, a couple of restroom attendants—and I

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can’t even recall who else. But if the victim had been feuding with anyone at Silver Oaks, both she and the party of the second part had managed to keep it pretty

damn quiet. Plus, if Bobbie Jean had added another

notch to her belt—to commemorate a recent lover, I

mean—you couldn’t prove it by these people.

The truth is, though, this didn’t disturb me that

much. Remember, I was still clinging to my original

assumption that it was one of Allison’s four buddies who’d given her sister-in-law’s salad that little some