Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (22 page)

wedding, Derwin.
Formal!
And every other man at the affair will be in a tuxedo.’’

There was a pause, during which Jackie rolled her

eyes heavenward. Acknowledging her with a wave, I

intended to head for my cubbyhole. But she held up

one hand, signifying that I was to wait.

‘‘Listen,’’ she said to Derwin a moment later, ‘‘I will

not—repeat
not
—be embarrassed in front of all my friends. And that’s that.’’ She stopped laying down the law at this point to allow for his rebuttal, after which her voice suddenly took on a deceptively reasonable tone.

‘‘You’re right, Derwin. I suppose that if you’re not com

fortable spending the money to rent a tux, it isn’t fair of me to try and force you to do it. Besides, even though

I’d love for you to come with me, there’s no reason I can’t go by myself. Charlotte mentioned that they

were expecting quite a few unattached people.’’

And now Jackie leaned back in her chair and let

Derwin entangle himself in the net, a smile spreading slowly over her face.

She looked over at me, mouthed ‘‘one minute,’’ and

then, enormously pleased with herself, went on to

wrap up things with Derwin. ‘‘Believe me, Derwin,

I’m not angry. I told you I— What was that? No, I really wouldn’t feel right about it, honestly. I wouldn’t

want you to—We-ll, if you insist . . . but only if you’re

sure,’’ she was magnanimous enough to finally agree.

‘‘I’ll meet you at that rental place on Fifth at twelve thirty, okay?’’

Once she and Derwin had said their good-byes,

Jackie remarked tersely, ‘‘Men can be such a trial.’’

(Unfortunately, I had no up-to-date information on

this subject.) ‘‘I just wanted to tell you that your den

140

Selma
Eichler

tist’s office called. There was a cancellation, and they can see you on Thursday at four. They asked that you

get in touch with them by noon today if you can make

it. Want the number?’’

‘‘I have it.’’

‘‘You’re not going to call, are you?’’ she accused.

‘‘No. I can’t make it Thursday.’’

‘‘
Can’t
—or won’t?’’

Well, if Jackie thought she was dealing with another

Derwin here, I was about to set her straight. ‘‘You decide, why don’t you?’’ I suggested snippily as I

flounced down the hall.

The instant my bottom made contact with the desk

chair, I rummaged around in my shoulder bag for this

crumpled slip of paper I’d dumped in there that morn

ing. Then, after checking the phone number written

on it, I lifted the receiver.

But I suppose I’d better backtrack a bit . . .

I had gone to bed at around one a.m. yesterday,

thoroughly exhausted. But did this mean I’d been able

to sleep? Ha! I kept agonizing over the investigation—

and my growing lack of confidence with regard to the

outcome. I was engaged in acting out my frustration

by pounding the living daylights out of my pillow

when it came to me: ‘‘Vincent What’s-his-name!’’ The

recollection propelled me to a sitting position, and I switched on the light. Getting out of bed, I hurried over to the closet and removed my yellow linen suit, fishing in the pocket for the paper Kathy Marin at

Silver Oaks had given me.

I opened it up. DOMINICK GALLO, it read. (Okay, so

I’d screwed up a little on the name.) Right below that

was the waiter’s home telephone number. I smoothed

out the paper and laid it on the bureau before re

turning to bed, where I soon proceeded to inflict an

other round of abuse on my pillow.

Anyhow, I was presently listening irritably to a re

corded telephone message at the Gallo home. ‘‘We’re

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

141

away right now,’’ a young female voice was saying.

Must
be
the
man’s
daughter,
I speculated. ‘‘We’ll be back on Sunday, August thirty-first. Uh, that’s Labor

Day weekend,’’ she added for the caller’s edification. Well, it’s not that I really
expected
that Dominick Gallo would be spending his free time at home. But

then again, not everybody takes off for Pago Pago on their vacation, right? Or even for Coney Island, for that matter. Don’t get me wrong, though. While I

didn’t figure Gallo would prove to be any more of an asset to the case than anyone else at Silver Oaks had been, I couldn’t afford
not
to talk to him, particularly with the way things seemed to be shaping up. Which

is why I was so ticked off that he wasn’t available here

and now. Patience, I concede, has never been one of my long suits.

And
by
the
way
, I lectured silently—and to no one at all—as I hung up the phone,
that
family
should
be
aware
that
it’s
not
overly
clever
to
announce
to
the
world
how
long
you
intend
to
be
gone.
I
mean,
the
Gallos
were
liable
to
come
back
to
find
that
somebody
had
given
them
a
housecleaning
they
didn’t
appreciate.
I spent the rest of the day transcribing my notes.

But my output wasn’t anywhere near as impressive as

it had been on Monday, when my stubby little fingers had moved at a rate of speed that was probably a first

for them—and most likely a last, as well. I have a feeling, though, that I’d subconsciously slowed down

today. The reason being that I was far from eager to review yesterday’s get-together with Carla Fremont.

The thing is, I had little hope that I’d learn anything

from a study of that meeting. And having already

pretty much dismissed this Dominick Gallo from my

mind—he was not only currently out of town, but he

was a long shot to begin with—I would then be forced

to ask myself the question I most dread having to deal

with in an investigation:

Where
do
I
go
from
here?

Chapter
22

I was not in the best of moods when I got home from

the office. And I had no intention of going within five

feet of either the refrigerator or the stove that night. So borrowing from Ellen’s at-least-three-times-weekly

game plan, I called our local Chinese takeout. Unfor

tunately, Little Dragon is known more for the quantity

than for the quality of its food. However, their stuff isn’t that bad if you’re really hungry—which I was.

Anyhow, it was a couple of minutes before seven

thirty, and I was just polishing off a humongous com

bination plate when the phone rang.

‘‘Hello,’’ I said. Or at any rate, that’s what I wanted

to say, only my mouth was full of fried rice so I don’t

think it came out that way.

‘‘Er, Desiree?’’

I hastily gulped down the rice. ‘‘Yes, this is Desiree.’’

‘‘This is Nick Grainger,’’ the voice informed me un

necessarily. ‘‘Uh, I hope I’m not interrupting your sup

per or anything.’’

Now, I was all set to tell him that I’d already fin

ished eating. But then something—I later decided it

was the Fates—made me bite back the words. ‘‘Oh,

no,’’ I substituted for the truth, ‘‘as a matter of fact, I just got in.’’

‘‘Listen, I know this is last-minute notice—and I

apologize—but until about two minutes ago, when my

brother canceled on me, I didn’t expect to be free to

night. Since I am, though, I was wondering if there was any possibility of your having dinner with me later.’’

I hesitated for a split second. After all, as much as

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

143

I enjoy food—and contrary to what you may have

assumed—my stomach is not really expandable. But

Nick put his own interpretation on this fleeting mo

ment of indecision.

‘‘Please say you’ve forgiven me for D’Agostino’s,

Desiree. I can’t believe I behaved so stupidly. I was hoping for the opportunity to prove to you that I’m not as big a jerk as I gave you reason to believe I am.’’

‘‘All right, I’m willing to reassess you,’’ I responded

with this inane little titter.

‘‘Great. I’m still at work—I have a florist shop about

six blocks from our mutual apartment building—but

I’ll be closing in half an hour. I can pick you up in around forty minutes, if that’s okay.’’

‘‘Can you give me an hour?’’ Then I realized that

my apartment could betray me—the place smelled like

Eau de Chinese Takeout. ‘‘And it’s really not neces

sary that you call for me. Why don’t I meet you

somewhere?’’

‘‘Sure, if you’d rather do that. What kind of food

do you prefer?’’

Now, the thing is, I didn’t see where this made much

difference. How was I going to be able to find room for anything anyway? So I foolishly answered, ‘‘All

kinds. You choose.’’

‘‘Do you like Chinese?’’

Oh,
shit!
‘‘Yes, I do.’’ I never got a chance to add the ‘‘but.’’ Which is probably just as well, because what could I possibly have told the man? ‘‘I’ve had enough Chinese food for one night, thank you very

much. However, for the pleasure of your company I’m

willing to eat a second supper of another ethnic ori

gin—and stuff myself to the point of explosion.’’ Lis

ten, no matter how I phrased it, that’s what it would have boiled down to. And talk about a lease-breaker!

I mean, it was enough to induce a guy to relocate to the wilds of New Jersey. At any rate, before I was able to put my foot in it, Nick named a rather elegant

Chinese restaurant about a ten-minute cab ride from

my apartment.

144

Selma
Eichler

‘‘See you in an hour,’’ he confirmed.

‘‘Could we make that an hour and ten minutes?’’ I

said, tacking on the travel time.

‘‘Sure,’’ Nick agreed with a laugh. ‘‘Whatever you

say.’’

I don’t know how I ever managed to get myself

ready that evening. Between my nervousness at finally

going on this long-hoped-for date and the fear that

I’d gag the instant I looked at anything edible, I was a wreck.

I was so discombobulated that I tripped getting out

of the shower, and only a last-minute grab for the

towel rack prevented me from flying head first across

the bathroom. Plus, my hand was so unsteady that I

had to redo my eye makeup twice. But it was either that or show up resembling a cross between an owl

and a chipmunk. Even my wig gave me grief that

night. And who did it think it was, anyway—my real

hair?

I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes late—

which actually wasn’t too bad, all things considered. The maitre d’ ushered me to the booth where Nick

was seated sipping a glass of white wine. And let me tell you, a skinny little fellow with a buck-toothed grin

can have the impact of a Mel Gibson on certain mem

bers of the female gender. Namely me.

He got to his feet immediately, and I noticed the

impeccable fit of his light blue sports jacket. The man

was like something out of
GQ
, I thought appre

ciatively.

He gave me a brief hug. And then, as I slid into

the booth: ‘‘I hope you’re hungry.’’

‘‘Umm, to be honest, I had a very late lunch.’’ (This

being as close to honest as I intended to get.)

‘‘I’m sorry to hear that. The food’s really good. But

could be you already know that. Have you been

here before?’’

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

145

‘‘No, but I’ve heard some very really nice things

abut this place.’’

‘‘Well, why don’t we relax over drinks for a while. Maybe you’ll work up an appetite.’’

I was cringing inside. But I forced a smile. ‘‘Maybe,’’