Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (6 page)

in luck. There were no openings before three weeks

from this coming Wednesday. Figuring I owed myself

a two-day grace period, I set something up for that following Friday.

Ellen phoned after ten p.m. She’d gotten home only

a short while ago, having taken time off from Macy’s so she could spend the day in Connecticut with Mike and his parents.

‘‘How is Mike’s father?’’ I asked.

‘‘Not too good. Wes is finding it very hard to accept

that Bobbie Jean went just like
that
—out of the blue. He kept shaking his head and saying over and over

again that she’d been in perfect health. Mike told his dad that he, of all people—he was referring to Wes’s being a physician—had to be aware of how often men

and women die without any warning. I’m not sure

Mike actually believes that that’s true in this case, though. But he realizes how m-m-much more p-painful

the alternative would be for his father.’’ Ellen’s voice caught in her throat. ‘‘I mean, that someone . . . that someone . . . p-p-p-purposely took her life.’’

Anxious to pull Ellen away from the topic of mur

der, I hastily moved on. ‘‘What kind of service are

34

Selma
Eichler

they having for Bobbie Jean? Do you know?’’ I was

aware at once that I might have picked a less emotion

ally charged option.

‘‘I understand Bobbie Jean always said she wanted

to be cremated,’’ Ellen responed tremulously. ‘‘But

before they do . . .
that
to her, the family’s arranged for a viewing. That
is
what it’s called, isn’t it—a view

ing?’’ She didn’t seem too interested in having this confirmed, however, because she went on without tak

ing a breath. ‘‘It’s going to be at the Frank E. Camp

bell Funeral Home here in Manhattan on Wednesday

evening, and then the cremation will take place on

Thursday morning. You’ll be coming to the viewing,

won’t you?’’

‘‘Of course.’’ After all, in December Bobbie Jean

and I would have become practically related.

‘‘Uh, Aunt Dez?’’

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Do you really,
honestly
agree with Mike—about what caused Bobbie Jean’s death? Because the more

I think about it, the more skeptical I am. Look, I can see how he’d decide that Bobbie Jean’s dying of a

heart attack or something would be a lot easier for his father to cope with than her having been mur

dered. But Mike’s been giving
me
the same story—

that’s how I’ve begun to look at it, incidentally, as a story. And I’ve been thinking that he may not want

to level with me unless it should become necessary

because he considers me so fragile.’’ And now, her

tone defiant: ‘‘But I’m no shrinking pansy, Aunt Dez.’’

‘‘Violet. Shrinking
violet
,’’ I automatically corrected—

only silently. Then aloud: ‘‘No, you’re not.’’ As you can gather, I don’t consider it any crime to fudge the truth a bit when warranted.

‘‘Maybe you have your doubts, too, though, about

my being able to handle things,’’ Ellen accused.

‘‘Maybe that’s why you told me the same thing

Mike did.’’

‘‘That isn’t the case at all. So far there’s been noth

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

35

ing to indicate that a crime was committed,’’ I pointed

out. ‘‘And—’’

‘‘But the thing is, Bobbie Jean
had
been in very good health. And in light of the way those women

spoke about her at the shower—they seemed to have

so much hatred toward her—well, I’m finding it harder

and harder to accept that one of them didn’t, umm,

you know. . . .’’ It was obvious she found the thought too disturbing to complete.

‘‘Bobbie Jean could have been as robust a specimen

as . . . as Xena, Warrior Princess, and it still wouldn’t rule out a sudden, fatal heart attack.’’

‘‘You’re not just trying to spare me?’’

It was time for a bit more truth-fudging. ‘‘If I

thought Bobbie Jean had been murdered, I’d say so,

Ellen.’’

Now, I was expecting her to demand that I swear

to this—my niece being very big on oaths—but, to my

surprise, she let it go at that. No doubt because I was so convincing. (Listen, it wasn’t for nothing that I was

the shining light of my high school thespian society.) I was about to attempt to wind up the conversation

when she asked, ‘‘When do you think they’ll get the autopsy report?’’

‘‘There’s no way to be sure.’’

‘‘I hope they find out she died of natural causes,’’

Ellen said almost prayerfully.

‘‘So do I, Ellen. So do I.’’ But the small knot that, as of yesterday, had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach disputed the likelihood of this.

The phone was barely back in its cradle when it

rang again.

I glanced at my watch: ten fifty.
Now,
who
could
be
calling
at
this
hour?

The voice was accusatory. ‘‘I just spoke to my

daughter.’’

Crap!
My
sister-in-law,
Margot!

‘‘I’d been trying to reach Ellen since last night,’’

36

Selma
Eichler

Margot went on. ‘‘I couldn’t wait to find out about all the lovely gifts she’d received. And here she tells me that she hasn’t even
seen
them yet. She informs me that they’re still sitting at that Silver Oaks Country Club’’—

with the tone she employed, Margot might have been

talking about some rat-infested hovel—‘‘because one

of the guests died in the middle of the shower.’’

I have no idea how she managed it, but Margot

made it sound as though Bobbie Jean’s death were

my fault. Worse yet, she even had me experiencing

guilt pangs about it.

‘‘Uh, how are you feeling, Margot? How’s the

ankle?’’ I inquired politely. The truth is, I was hoping

to hear that she was in a lot of pain.

‘‘That’s not important now. I’m terribly sorry about

the dead woman, of course.’’ (
What
a
crock!
) ‘‘But unfortunately there’s nothing I can do about that. The

reason I’m calling is that
somebody
has to check and find out when Ellen will be able to retrieve her pres

ents. You wouldn’t mind following up on that, would

you? You know how busy Ellen is at the store.’’

And
I
suppose
I
spend
my
time
glued
to
the
TV

watching
all
those
judge
shows.
That
is,
when
I’m
not
lunching
at
Le
Cirque
and
exchanging
snippets
of
gos

sip
with
ladies
decked
out
in
Armani.
I bit back this snotty retort, however, which was on

the very edge of my tongue, substituting a bland,

‘‘She’ll be able to get them anyday, I’m sure.’’

The fact is that I hadn’t given a thought to those gifts since yesterday. Not with a probable murder to occupy my mind.

‘‘I’d like to think I can count on you to make certain

of that,’’ Margot persisted.

‘‘All right,’’ I told her resignedly.

‘‘Good. I’ll take you at your word then. Well, see

you at the wedding.’’

‘‘I’ve been just fine, Margot,’’ I grumbled, slamming

down the dead receiver in my hand. ‘‘Thank you ever

so much for asking.’’

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

37

As is usual following one of my infrequent chats

with Ellen’s mother, it took me a few minutes to calm

myself. Which is ridiculous. I should have been able to just shrug her off—her and these irritating little conversations she never fails to initiate. After all, ours

is a contentious relationship of many years’ standing. Listen, from the second she first took a look at me—

no, even before that face-to-face meeting—Margot

was not pleased with Ed’s selection of a future spouse.

And she didn’t do a helluva lot to conceal it, either. Mostly her antagonism stemmed from the very strong

feelings she held about the members of her family

marrying within their religion. Her expectations of her

brother’s swapping vows with a nice, Jewish girl, how

ever, wound up in the junk heap when he told her

about his (nonpracticing) Catholic fianceé.

So why, you might ask, had she refrained from

throwing a few tantrums over Ellen’s choosing a Prot

estant for a mate?

Had she come to acknowledge that individuals—and

this would include her daughter—are entitled to make

their own decisions about a matter this vital? Or could

it be that she now regarded religion as less of a crite

rion in selecting a mate?

Uh-uh, to both of the above. Mike escaped Margot’s

displeasure because my sister-in-law has a kind of . . .

well, let’s be nice and call it
flexibility.
All it took to convince her that Michael Lynton was the perfect man

for Ellen was the MD after his name. Listen, tag one of those things onto ‘‘Desiree Shapiro’’ and I could have been a (practicing) Buddhist, and Margot would

have clasped me to her bosom. She’d even have been

willing to overlook that on my person is a lot more weight than she deems it seemly to schlep around.

Plus, I’ll bet she’d also have closed her eyes to my having had countless suppers at her home without

once making a fuss over her potato pancakes.

Anyway, I intended to check into those shower gifts.

But not because I told Margot I would. In spite of it.

38

Selma
Eichler

*

*

*

I didn’t sleep well that night.

I was feeling incredibly frustrated.

You see, under normal circumstances, if there’s any

indication that I might be dealing with a homicide, I don’t hang around waiting for the autopsy report to

confirm it. By the time that happens—I’ve known the

toxicology findings to take as long as a couple of

months—the trail could be colder than Margot’s atti

tude. (I can’t help it; after every exposure to that woman, it’s a while before I’m able to expel her from

my head.) Not that I intended to leave my investiga

tion in limbo until I got the official word in this in

stance, either, you understand. But unlike my usual

practice of plunging right in, I’d allowed an entire day

to go by without making a single inquiry into Bobbie Jean’s death.

The trouble was that I needed to talk to Allison in order to learn something about the motives of those

four suspects I was zeroing in on. She might even be able to offer up a few other possible assassins that I wasn’t aware of. As antsy as I was to speak to Allison

Lynton, however, I hadn’t felt that today was the ideal

time to phone her. After all, she had to handle the arrangements at the funeral home; also, she had a

freshly grieving husband to attend to. Actually, it

would probably be best to put things on hold until

after Wednesday night’s viewing.

But patience never having been one of my virtues,

this just didn’t appear feasible. So at the risk of being

considered insensitive by the family of my nephew-to

be, I planned on getting in touch with Allison

tomorrow.

I mean, it would really be asking too much of myself

to continue cooling my heels like this.

Chapter
7

As soon as I was settled in my office on Tuesday, I phoned Ellen at the store to find out if, by any chance,

she’d contacted the country club about her shower

gifts yet.

‘‘Oh, didn’t I mention it to you last night? There

was a message from Silver Oaks on my machine when

I got home from Greenwich—they wanted me to call

back so they could arrange to have the gifts delivered

to me. They have an employee who lives in Manhat

tan, and this person volunteered to drop off the pack

ages at my apartment. Isn’t that nice?’’