Murder Can Rain on Your Shower

CAN
RAIN

ON
YOUR

SHOWER

A
Desiree
Shapiro
Mystery

Selma
Eichler

‘‘Tired
of
glamorous
private
investigators
so
svelte
they
could
be
fashion
models?

Has
author
Selma
Eichler
got
a
heroine
for
you.’’

—
South
Florida
Sun-Sentinel

Raves
for
Selma
Eichler
and
the
Desiree
Shapiro
mysteries

Murder
Can
Cool
Off
Your
Affair

‘‘A laugh-out-loud riot. I love Desiree’s sense of

humor.’’

—
Mystery
News

Murder
Can
Upset
Your
Mother

‘‘Eichler scores again. . . . [A] delicious cozy.’’

—
Publishers
Weekly

Murder
Can
Spoil
Your
Appetite

‘‘Desiree Shapiro is a shining creation.’’

—
Romantic
Times

Murder
Can
Singe
Your
Old
Flame

‘‘Witty dialogue . . . charming New York setting . . . hilarious characters.’’

—
Publishers
Weekly

continued
. . .

Murder
Can
Spook
Your
Cat

‘‘A very realistic character. . . . [T]he mystery is cre

atively drawn and well-plotted.’’

—Painted Rock Reviews

Murder
Can
Wreck
Your
Reunion

‘‘Another wildly hilarious mystery.’’ —
The
Snooper

Murder
Can
Stunt
Your
Growth

‘‘Poignant and satisfying. . . . [T]he real pleasure of this book is spending time with Desiree Shapiro . . . just plain fun to read.’’

—I Love a Mystery

Murder
Can
Ruin
Your
Looks

‘‘Funny and warmhearted.’’

—Grounds for Murder (San Diego)

Murder
Can
Kill
Your
Social
Life

‘‘Full of food, fun, and a fast-paced plot . . . Selma Eichler’s debut novel is a sure winner.’’

—Tamar Myers

MURDER

CAN
RAIN

ON
YOUR

SHOWER

A
Desiree
Shapiro
Mystery

Selma
Eichler

SIGNET

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

London WC2R ORL, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road,

Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

ISBN: 1-4362-7898-8

Copyright © Selma Eichler, 2003

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. To my husband, Lloyd Eichler,

who contributed greatly to this book

with his helpful critiques, constant encouragement,

and willingness to eat leftovers.

Many thanks to:

Major Alan G. Martin of the New York State Po

lice, whose willingness to answer a million questions on law enforcement continues to lend authenticity to

my story lines.

Martin Turkish, MD, for helping me see to it that

my dying victim received the proper medical care.

David Gruber, Esq., of Lehman and Gruber, who

provided important legal information.

My editor, Ellen Edwards, who read this manuscript

with such a perceptive eyes.

Prologue

Ellen’s bridal shower.

It
has
to
be
really,
really
special,
I’d been reminding myself from the instant the planning began. After all, this was a very important day in the life of my favorite

(and only) niece.

And special it was.

This, however, had nothing to do with the ambi

ence—although you couldn’t have asked for a setting

lovelier than the Silver Oaks Country Club. With its stately Colonial-style mansion set high up on a sweep

ing, impeccably groomed front lawn, the place looked

like something straight out of
Gone
with
the
Wind
, for heaven’s sake.

It had nothing to do with the food, either. Even

though my cohostess and I had agonized over the

menu options for hours. And every dish—from the

filet mignon and salmon Florentine to the three des

sert choices—was, I expect, very tastefully prepared.

The fact is, as it turned out, our painstaking efforts and the kitchen’s expertise went equally unappre

ciated.

And it certainly wasn’t the gifts that made this event

so memorable. All of that extravagant silver and china

and crystal, in company with the requisite cookware

and toaster ovens (there were three of these), re

mained in their beribboned wrappings, unopened. Not

destined to catch so much as a single light ray on this sunshiney mid-August afternoon.

No.

What
did
make this an affair that no one who at

2

Selma
Eichler

tended is likely to forget was something horrific, chill

ing—
unimaginable
.

It happened right in the middle of the salad course.

Suddenly, the woman seated directly across from me

dropped her fork and pitched forward on her elegant,

damask-covered chair, uttering strange, guttural sounds and snatching frantically at her throat.

And at that moment Ellen’s bridal shower turned

into a death watch.

Chapter
1

I’d been practically wired on my way over to Ellen’s that Sunday morning. I mean, I wanted so much for

her to be surprised by the bridal shower that Allison Lynton—mother of the bridegroom—and I were

throwing for her. And of course, there was a better than even chance that some blabbermouth had already

managed to give the whole thing away.

As soon as Ellen got in the car, though, I could tell

from her expression, which was more or less placid—

for Ellen, anyway—that she had no idea what had

been planned.

Weeks ago Allison’s future sister-in-law, Bobbie

Jean—a member of Silver Oaks—had telephoned her,

ostensibly to extend an invitation to lunch at her club.

‘‘We have to start getting to know each other,’’ the woman had declared—they’d met only once before at

a gathering of some kind. ‘‘After all, in a few months we’ll be family. And speaking of family, your future mother-in-law—she’ll be there, too, of course—tells

me you have an aunt in Manhattan you’re very close

to—a private investigator, she said. I’d like to have her join us if she can make it.’’

And now, here we were, driving out to Forsythe,

Long Island—and Ellen’s surprise.

In spite of her comparative equanimity when we’d

greeted each other, it didn’t take long before she

began to fret. Which was predictable. I swear, Ellen wouldn’t be Ellen if she didn’t continually find ways of inflicting herself with
agita
. ‘‘I hope Bobbie Jean

4

Selma
Eichler

likes me—she’s Mike’s only aunt,’’ she murmured,

Mike being Ellen’s almost-husband.

‘‘Why wouldn’t she like you?’’ I countered.

‘‘I don’t know—chemistry maybe. You never can

tell about those things.’’ After about five seconds of silence, which were accompanied by a couple of barely

audible sighs, she was able to find something else to pick away at. (And believe it or not, Ellen is really much less of a worrywart than she’d been before love

came into her life.) ‘‘Maybe I should have stuck with the brown.’’

‘‘What brown?’’

‘‘The brown two-piece linen,’’ she responded in a

voice that told me she’d expected me to
divine
what brown. ‘‘I tried it on before the turquoise this morn

ing. And I really liked the way it looked on me—

when I first get into it, anyway. But then five minutes later, you would have thought I’d been sleeping in it for a week.’’

Oh,
I
see.
We’re
talking
about
a
dress.
‘‘What you’re wearing is perfect,’’ I responded, reaching over and

patting the cotton suit skirt. ‘‘Turquoise is a wonderful

color for you.’’

‘‘Do you really think so?’’

‘‘Absolutely.’’

‘‘It’s as flattering as the brown?’’

I gritted my teeth. ‘‘More so.’’

Now, why my niece is so unsure of herself I’ll never

be able to figure out. Listen, if
I
were the one who looked like Audrey Hepburn I’d thumb my nose at

the world and wear orange with purple polka dots if I felt like it.

As it was, though, I had on a conservative powderblue A–line. I mean, not having been blessed with Ellen’s bone structure and being a little more than a little overweight, I consider it only prudent to forgo orange outfits with purple polka dots.

A good ten seconds passed before Ellen became

anxious again. ‘‘I really don’t know Allison—Mike’s

mother—all that well, either.’’

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

5

‘‘But you did say that she’s a very nice woman.’’

‘‘She seems to be. Still . . .’’

‘‘And I’m sure she
is
a very nice woman. So will you please relax for a few minutes and stop driving us both crazy?’’

‘‘I’m sorry. It’s only that I do want Mike’s family to like me.’’

‘‘And they will.’’ I smiled encouragement. ‘‘How

can they help it?’’

For most of the rest of the trip Ellen was pretty

quiet. While it couldn’t have been easy for her, I think

she finally ran out of nervous-making material. At any

rate, it was just past noon when we drove up the mag

nificent front driveway of the Silver Oaks Country