Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (39 page)

my Ivoire spray cologne—and I don’t remember what

else. Plus, aside from the handbag, there was my gun. I certainly wasn’t crazy about having it sit around in the Forsythe police station. I wanted it where it be

longed: buried at the bottom of my lingerie drawer.

Well, it’s fortunate that I enjoy a little train trip now and then. Because with my driver’s license in

temporary residence at the station house, that’s how

I’d be schlepping out to Long Island to retrieve my treasures.

‘‘Would it be all right if I came by in the morning to pick up my stuff?’’

‘‘Of course. I’m off tomorrow, so ask for Detec

tive Malloy.’’

It was four very long days before I got the news.

When the phone rang I was just returning from the

ladies’ room—one foot hadn’t even made it inside my

cubbyhole yet. Hurrying to my desk, I reached over

and snatched up the receiver. ‘‘You got any bubbly at

home?’’ Porchow hadn’t bothered to identify himself,

but it was hardly necessary anymore.

‘‘Huh?’’ I responded, this not being one of my more

intelligent moments.

‘‘You have something to celebrate.’’

‘‘And what’s that?’’ I asked cautiously.

‘‘The toxicology report is in. And there was evi

dence that the ring had contained monkshood. In fact,

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two tiny pieces of leaf were caught up in the compart

ment’s hinges.’’

At that instant I was so overcome that I had to plop

down on the visitor’s chair alongside the desk, my legs

no longer able to support me. I couldn’t even find

my voice.

‘‘Ms. Shapiro?’’

‘‘I’m here,’’ I managed to squeak.

‘‘I’ll bet you feel like you’ve got an elephant off your back, huh? Me, too. Listen, while I admit that I resented your interference, I suppose I ultimately have

to thank you for it.’’

‘‘Well, I’m certain you would have solved the thing

yourself before long. Anyhow, I’m glad it all worked out.’’

‘‘That makes two of us. Nevertheless, I have a favor

to ask of you.’’

‘‘Sure. What kind of a favor?’’

‘‘Next time, try to find yourself a murder in your

own backyard. I realize I sound like an ingrate, but the

truth is, Ms. Shapiro, you are a very trying woman.’’

Epilogue

It’s been almost a month since I had that conversation

with Chief Porchow.

Naturally, everyone concerned is relieved that the

investigation is over. Nobody, however, is dancing in the streets to celebrate its outcome. I suppose that in some secret recess of their hearts, and against all logic,

most of those involved in the case had been holding out a tiny sliver of hope that the perpetrator would wind up being someone out of left field. You know,

like a psychotic chef or a vengeful busboy or

something.

As for me, I don’t deny that I’m pleased I was able

to identify Bobbie Jean’s killer. But I’m not too

thrilled myself that it turned out to be Lorraine Corwin. The thing is, I’d developed a certain fondness for Lorraine—once I got over our initial meeting, when

she’d made me feel like the Invisible Woman. Sure,

she’s eccentric. Listen, the very first thing out of her mouth when the police came to arrest her wasn’t ‘‘I didn’t do it’’ or ‘‘You’ve got the wrong woman.’’

Nothing like that. She just demanded that someone

tell her how to get in touch with Johnnie Cochran! At

any rate, she may be a little over the top, but she’s also warm and friendly and outgoing, kind of like a puppy. A very
large
puppy. Plus, I really appreciate her having elected not to shoot me.

As you might have imagined, though, it’s Allison

who is finding it hardest to come to terms with the fact that it was Lorraine who poisoned Bobbie Jean.

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I have an idea that of all her friends, Lorraine is the one she had most hoped would prove to be innocent.

When I’d called to notify Allison of the arrest, she exclaimed, ‘‘Oh, no, not Lorraine!’’ and burst into

tears. ‘‘May I tell you something?’’ she said on re

gaining her composure. ‘‘You may not understand

this—particularly in view of your profession—but

when I contemplate all that Lorraine’s been through

courtesy of my sister-in-law, it’s difficult for me to blame her for doing what she did.’’

‘‘Murder is never the right solution to anything,’’ I countered. The instant I uttered this pronouncement,

however, I wanted to pull it back. I mean, I sounded just like Barbara at her most pedantic. At any rate, at this point I attempted to make it a little easier for Allison to accept her old roommate’s being hauled off

to jail. ‘‘Don’t forget that Lorraine’s actions put you in jeopardy, too,’’ I reminded her. ‘‘The way the police

had this doped out, you might have been the one to end up paying for Bobbie Jean’s death.’’

‘‘You’re wrong, Desiree,’’ Allison asserted quietly.

‘‘I don’t have a single doubt that if it ever came to that, Lorraine would have confessed.’’

I didn’t argue. The reason being that I figured this was probably true.

Well, at least things have recently begun to look

better for Allison on the home front. A few days ago she came into the city to do some shopping, and we met for lunch. ‘‘How is Wes?’’ I asked soon after she joined me at the table.

‘‘He’s very grateful to you, Desiree. We both are.

Although I wish—’’ She broke off here, and I could

tell she was thinking about Lorraine. Then she re

peated, ‘‘We both are,’’ smiled wistfully and, leaning across the table, squeezed my hand. ‘‘Naturally, Wes

is still very saddened by the loss of his sister,’’ she continued. ‘‘But it appears that learning the truth has allowed him to move forward with his life.’’ Two or three seconds later, to my surprise, Allison volun

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

255

teered, ‘‘And Desiree? Our relationship, Wes’s and

mine, is much improved, too.’’

‘‘I’m
so
glad to hear that,’’ I enthused.

‘‘Oh, I’m not claiming that suddenly everything is

just dandy. Although he does his best to conceal it, I’m certain Wes is still hurt and angry—as he has

every right to be. And perhaps he won’t ever trust me

again. For my part, that terrible feeling of guilt is al

ways present, and I may never be able to shake it. But while things aren’t as they once were, there’s been

a kind of
easiness
between us these last two weeks or so that hasn’t been there since he discovered that

I’d . . . since he found out about Justin.’’

Which brings me to my own situation with Nick.

Sad to say, we haven’t exactly been steaming up any mirrors. But that would have been tough to do, be

cause I’ve only seen him once since that memorable

meal at the Chinese restaurant. And this was a couple

of weeks back, over breakfast at a neighborhood cof

fee shop—hardly the setting for indulging one’s libido.

But then, our options for socializing had been pretty limited. You see, Nick’s ex-wife didn’t return to New York that following Sunday, as promised. The fact is, Tiffany is still in Vegas with the boy rocker. And con

sidering that she’d quit her part-time job at the tan

ning salon just prior to her trip, Nick suspects—and I’m reasonably sure he’s got it pegged right—that

she’d been planning an extended stay out there from

the beginning.

Anyway, Nick had been reluctant to employ a babysitter, which put the kibosh on our getting together once the sun went down. He explained that because

he had to leave Derek in the care of a nanny during the day, it was all the more important that he be there

in case his son should wake up at night. (Something, by the way, that in all the weeks he’s been staying with his father, the nine-year-old has yet to do.) Now,

however, in view of a growing conviction that his ex won’t be heading home until God-knows-when, Nick’s

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decided to hire a sitter after all. And we’ll be going out to dinner on Saturday. Which occasion, I believe, calls for a new dress—preferably something in blue

that’s incredibly flattering.

I’d like to share one last thing with you.

Yesterday afternoon Ellen called to inform me that

Bobbie Jean left Mike a very handsome sum in her

will.

I exhibited the proper amount of astonishment be

fore asking, ‘‘And you just found out about this?’’

‘‘Yes. Mike had postponed telling me. He was con

cerned about how I’d react to what he has in mind. His own parents don’t even know about that yet.’’

‘‘What do you mean, ‘has in mind’?’’

‘‘He wants to donate most of the inheritance to St. Gregory’s and have the hospital name a wing for Bob

bie Jean. He was extremely fond of her, Aunt Dez.

Not that he condoned the sort of stuff she pulled—

although he probably never realized the extent of it.’’

‘‘His giving up so much money is okay with you?’’

‘‘Definitely. Mike said that he wouldn’t do it with

out my approval, and I think it’s a wonderful idea. He

feels—and I agree—that it’s the only way we can

make something good come out of all this.’’

In spite of Ellen’s news, I have to admit that like virtually all murder stories, this one doesn’t exactly have a happy ending, either.

But thanks to Ellen’s generous almost-husband—

and to my big-hearted niece, as well—it’s as close to one as you’re ever likely to get.

Desiree’s
Wild
Mushroom

Croustades

For
toast
shells:

15
slices
white
bread

butter

Lightly flatten bread slices with palm of hand, then

trim away crusts. Using a cutter about 21⁄2 inches in diameter, cut 2 rounds in each slice. Coat cups of a mini muffin pan with butter, and press bread rounds

into cups. Bake at 400° for 8–10 minutes or until shells

turn a little golden. Set aside to cool.

For
filling:

4T
butter

1
cup
heavy
cream

3T
shallots,
finely

1⁄2
tsp.
salt
or
to
taste
chopped

pinch
of
cayenne

21⁄2
cups
stemmed

11⁄2T
chopped
chives

shiitake
mushrooms

1T
chopped
parsley

(approx.
9
oz.),

1⁄2
tsp.
lemon
juice

finely
chopped

grated
Parmesan
cheese

2
level
T
flour

Melt butter in skillet and add shallots. Cook, stirring constantly, for about four minutes without allowing

shallots to brown. Add mushrooms and mix well.

Cook for ten minutes, stirring frequently.

Remove from heat. Add the flour and mix thor

oughly. Stir in the cream. Return to heat and, stirring continuously, bring to a boil. Allow to boil for a min

ute or two before removing from heat. Then add the

salt, cayenne, chives, parsley, and lemon juice.

Transfer mixture to a covered bowl and refrigerate

until shortly before serving time. Stir mixture, fill toast

cups, and sprinkle with Parmesan. Bake at 350° for

ten minutes. Serve hot.

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Eichler

NOTE: The toast shells freeze well for filling at a later

date. The filled, baked croustades can also be frozen. Reheat these at 350° for 10–15 minutes just before

serving.

Makes
30

• Cover Page
  
• Praise
  
• Title Page
  
• Copyright Page
  
• Dedication Page
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• Prologue
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Chapter Thirty-Two
  
• Chapter Thirty-Three
  
• Chapter Thirty-Four
  
• Chapter Thirty-Five
  
• Chapter Thirty-Six
  
• Chapter Thirty-Seven
  
• Chapter Thirty-Eight
  
• Chapter Thirty-Nine
  
• Chapter Forty
  
• Epilogue
  
• Desiree's Wild Mushroom Croustades