Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (28 page)

been regarded as a motive for eradicating Bobbie

Jean.

As for Carla’s devoted mother—ditto. In spite of

the serious nature of my ruminations, I had to smile at this point. Meryl Streep had nothing on Robin Fre

mont. Listen, you should have witnessed the perfor

mance she gave that day I drove out to talk to her. Carla would practically have her life, Robin got me

to believe, if the girl ever found out that she’d con

fided in me about this Len. And all the while, of

course, the couple was already history. I speculated

that Robin might even have been the one to come up

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with the idea of playing a little loose with the date of the split. Which brought me to another matter. If

Robin had poisoned Bobbie Jean, did she do it
with
her daughter—or
because
of her?

Good question, right?

I moved on to Grace Banner. As soon as Wes men

tioned her name, I’d once again silently speculated as to whether the timid Grace had it in her to commit murder. At this moment, however, I concluded that

the state of her husband’s health could very well have

provided Grace with sufficient incentive to rise to

the task.

Of course, I had no such reservations about Lor

raine Corwin. When Wes was discussing the most re

cent consequence of his sister’s appropriation of her fiance´, I’d conjured up a fleeting picture of Lorraine sneaking into the dining room in order to ensure that Bobbie Jean’s next meal would be her final one. And

in this vision of mine there was a diabolical smile on the woman’s face.

Well, I still hadn’t a clue as to which of these ladies

had actually messed with the victim’s salad. But one thing was for sure: By acquainting me with the addi

tional motives all four had been attempting to conceal,

Wes Lynton had infused my investigation with a new

vitality.

I opened the folder all but convinced that any page

now I’d be identifying a murderer.

Right after supper I was back to poring over my

notes. It was a slow, painful process, since I was posi

tively paranoid about overlooking something. I was so

immersed in my work that it took me a while to real

ize that the phone was ringing. I grabbed it just as the

answering machine was about to kick in.

In response to my ‘‘hello,’’ a male voice inquired

tentatively, ‘‘Jo?’’

Already in a snit at having been interrupted, I re

torted testily, ‘‘Do I
sound
like my name is Joe?’’

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‘‘Don’t take out your PMS on me, lady. I was trying

to call my girl. Her name is Jo. J-0. Jo.’’ And he slammed the phone down in my ear.

I got very little satisfaction out of muttering,

‘‘Creep,’’ into the dead receiver.

I wrestled with my notes for another half hour be

fore the telephone butted in again.

‘‘Aunt Dez?’’ Ellen said. ‘‘I
had
to call you. Gin

ger—you know, who lives in my building—just

stopped in with the pictures.’’

‘‘What pictures?’’

‘‘The ones she took at the shower. With all that

happened there she forgot to have them developed

until the other day. I feel kind of guilty, everything considered, about getting so excited about some pho

tographs. But they came out really well, and I
would
like for you to see them.’’ And as a little incentive:

‘‘There are a couple of really great shots of you.’’

Now, these
were
mementos of Ellen’s shower, so despite the tragedy that had occurred only a short

time later that afternoon, I’d normally have been anx

ious for a look at them. But there were other matters on my mind just then—namely, uncovering a killer.

So I wasn’t exactly straining at the leash to sit down with a bunch of pictures. Add to this that I was begin

ning to get just the tiniest bit discouraged. I mean, I’d

already made a sizable dent in the folder, and so far nothing had jumped out at me. But I told myself there

was still an ample amount of ground to cover. Regard

less, though, Ellen was eager to show me those photos,

and I couldn’t just slough her off. ‘‘When can we get together so you can check them out?’’ she was asking.

I realized that in a day or two I’d probably be grate

ful for a break—particularly if things didn’t go as well

as I’d been hoping they would. ‘‘Are you and Mike

available to have dinner here Saturday night?’’

‘‘That would be great. I have Saturday off, and

Mike should be home by late afternoon, so we can

make it whenever you say.’’

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We settled on eight o’clock before I returned to

my labors.

I only got to study two-and-a-quarter more pages

before the phone rang for the third time that evening.

How
am
I
supposed
to
make
any
progress
here
anyway?

I was about ready to chew a few nails when I lifted

the receiver. My ‘‘hello’’ came out more like a grunt than a word.

But the ‘‘Hi, Dez, it’s Nick’’ that greeted me made a remarkable difference in my mood.

‘‘Oh, hi, Nick,’’ cooed Little Miss Sweetness herself.

‘‘How are you?’’

‘‘Fine, just fine. Listen, you sounded a little harried for a moment there. Am I catching you at a bad time?’’

‘‘No, no. I was slightly out of breath, that’s all. I was, umm, running the bathwater, and I didn’t hear

the phone at first.’’

‘‘Oh. Anyway, how are you?’’

‘‘Also fine.’’

‘‘Good. I just called to touch base,’’ Nick informed me. ‘‘I thought I’d better try you tonight in case you’re

heading out of town tomorrow.’’

‘‘Heading out of town?’’

‘‘For a long weekend.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘You do know

this Monday’s Labor Day, don’t you?’’

‘‘Of course,’’ I responded more firmly than was nec

essary, since it had completely slipped my mind. ‘‘But

I’ll probably have to spend most of the time right here

in my apartment—working.’’

‘‘That’s too bad. They’re predicting great weather.’’

‘‘What about you? Are you doing anything special?’’

‘‘I have my son, Derek, for the entire weekend, and

we’ll be going to the Jersey shore. My sister has a summer home there. Uh, listen, Dez, how does a week

from Saturday sound?’’

‘‘A week from Saturday?’’ (I really do have to try

to break myself of this dumb habit of repeating what somebody else says.)

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‘‘I guess I’m not making myself very clear,’’ Nick

admitted. ‘‘If you’re free then, I thought we might

have dinner.’’

‘‘I’d like that.’’

We agreed that Nick would call for me at eight

thirty. Then I said that I wished Derek and him a

happy Labor Day, following which he wished me a

productive one.

I was positively euphoric about Nick’s asking me

out over a week in advance. I mean, could things get more encouraging than that? It was necessary to re

mind myself that it wasn’t as if the man had proposed,

for heaven’s sake. (And anyhow, it was far too early in the relationship to decide whether this was even to be wished for.)

I finally persuaded myself to settle down to business

again, but I wasn’t able to accomplish much of any

thing. I don’t deny that I was acting like a sixteenyear-old. Unfortunately, however, I couldn’t induce my emotions to catch up with my age.

Besides, how could I possibly be expected to con

centrate on my notes—now that Nick Grainger’s face

was superimposed on every page?

Chapter
29

On Friday I was at the office by an ungodly nine

fifteen.

Jackie’s eyes opened wide enough to practically

touch her eyebrows when I showed up. ‘‘What hap

pened, Dez?’’ she inquired with what looked suspi

ciously like a smirk. ‘‘You having the apartment

painted or something?’’

Well, I can’t tell you how often Jackie has made

this same crack when I’ve put in an appearance before

nine thirty. And it didn’t strike me as being particu

larly funny the first time she said it. So ignoring this pitiable attempt at humor, I started down the hall.

‘‘Dez?’’

I turned back.

‘‘Thanks for letting me try on everything for you

like that yesterday. I realize how busy you were. Oh, and I decided you were right, too—I’ll be wearing

the peach.’’

It doesn’t take much to bring me around. In other

words, I’m easy. ‘‘That’s okay, Jackie. I was glad to do it. And I’m really happy it’s going to be the peach.’’

Seated at my desk a few minutes later, I was filled with self-disgust. My behavior last night seemed more

sophomoric than ever now that I was looking at it in the uncompromising light of day. Here I was, grap

pling with what was literally a matter of life and death,

and I’d allowed some guy I barely knew to totally

short-circuit my thought processes. I removed Bobbie

Jean’s file from my attache´ case, determined to make up for my lapse.

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It was just after two when I finished going over the last page in the manila folder.

Reviewing my notes with Wes’s revelations in mind

hadn’t advanced the investigation one little bit. Some

thing that was particularly hard to accept thanks to those foolish expectations of mine.

Thoroughly deflated, I went out for a sandwich and

a sorely needed break. I returned within a half hour to find the office decibels greatly reduced.

‘‘Almost everyone’s already left,’’ Jackie informed

me. ‘‘The holiday,’’ she added, in the event I needed reminding.

‘‘I know,’’ I retorted huffily, ‘‘Labor Day.’’

‘‘You going away at all?’’

‘‘Uh-uh. How about you?’’

‘‘Nope. Derwin and I will probably take in a couple

of movies. And I’ve already notified him that I expect

us to have dinner at at least one decent restaurant over the weekend—someplace where you don’t have

to carry your own tray. Then another night I may cook

us a nice meal myself—that is, if I decide he deserves it. You made any plans?’’

‘‘Well, Ellen and Mike are coming over tomorrow

night. She just got the pictures her friend Ginger took

at the shower, and she’s anxious to have me see them.

Other than that, I’ll probably be doing the same thing

I’ve been doing for close to two weeks now: trying to find out who poisoned Bobbie Jean.’’

‘‘Was Mike’s father able to shed any light on the

case?’’

‘‘Wes? Actually, he had some surprising things to

tell me. But I’m not that sure any of it will turn out to be very significant.’’

I refused to let the fact that I would have registered

a dark gray on the mood-swing scale deter me from

getting down to business again. So as soon as I was back in my cubbyhole, I began typing up my notes

on the meeting with Wes. After all, I couldn’t swear

that I’d absorbed every little thing he had to say. At

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least, that’s what I told myself. But I wasn’t very con

vincing.

Nevertheless, I kept at it until I’d transcribed every last word and then run off the hard copy. It was five o’clock before I was ready to exit my office, by which

hour some young law clerk and I were the only living

creatures on the premises. (That is, if you didn’t count

the big, fat roach I’d spotted in the ladies’ room ten minutes ago.)

Leaving the young law clerk—and the roach—to

hold the fort, I headed home, resolved to studying

these latest additions to the Bobbie Jean Morton file immediately after supper.

I’d just kicked off my shoes and set the omelet fix

ings on the counter (these fixings consisting of virtu

ally every mold-free item in the refrigerator) when the