Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (15 page)

the ‘‘I-do’s’’ had been taken care of. Of course, it was

extremely unlikely that Ellen was aware at the time

that Bobbie Jean had been so generous with Mike.

Besides, the very notion of my nervous Nellie of a

niece poisoning anybody was so ludicrous that an ab

breviated laugh escaped before I could squelch it.

Allison sounded perplexed. ‘‘Has something funny

occurred to you?’’

‘‘Oh, no. I wasn’t laughing. I was . . . umm, trying

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to clear this frog in my throat.’’ And to prove it, I treated her to a couple of insincere little coughs.

The conversation ended moments later—but not be

fore Allison brought up the country club again.

‘‘I realize you believe that one of my friends was

responsible for Bobbie Jean’s death. But you
will
in

vestigate the people at Silver Oaks with an open mind,

won’t you?’’

‘‘Naturally I will.’’

‘‘After all,’’ she asserted, ‘‘you never know.’’

A statement that, in a way, proved prophetic.

Chapter
14

Practically everything in my refrigerator had gone bad

at once: The milk had turned sour. The bread was

stale. The peaches were rotten. The onions were

squishy. And there were ugly green molds floating

around in the applesauce. That wasn’t the worst of it, though. My quart of Haägen-Dazs macadamia brittle

was now dangerously close to empty. So after slaving over the computer for a good six hours on Friday—

and still not managing to transcribe all of my notes—

on the way home from work I had to stop in at my neighborhood D’Agostino’s to do some replenishing.

I’d just closed the door to the freezer, after uncov

ering the one remaining container of macadamia brit

tle in the supermarket, when I turned around to find guess-who standing right behind me. ‘‘Hi, Desiree,’’

said Nick Grainger. ‘‘I see we have the same taste in flavors.’’ He gave me a buck-toothed (but very attrac

tively so) grin, and as is usual in his presence, my knees became totally untrustworthy.

Why,
oh
why,
hadn’t
I
applied
fresh
lipstick
before
leaving
the
office?
‘‘I’m afraid this is the last of the macadamia brittle,’’ I informed him, while simultane

ously wishing I could kick myself all the way to the Bronx.

Nick made a face. After which he demanded in

mock—or maybe not so mock—despair, ‘‘Please say

you’re joking.’’

‘‘I wish I were,’’ I responded as I tossed the ice cream into my shopping cart. ‘‘Well, I’d better be

going. It was nice—’’

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I was interrupted by my extremely irritated inner

voice.
You
idiot,
you!
When
opportunity
knocks,
you
suddenly
go
deaf.

It—my inner voice—had a point there.

‘‘Look,’’ I told Nick, ‘‘I’m willing to share. Why

don’t you stop down for dessert later?’’

Nick’s face went crimson. ‘‘I have these . . . uh . . . these plans for tonight. But thanks for the invitation. And . . . er, have a good evening.’’ Then he promptly,

well,
fled
would be the most accurate description of his leave-taking.

At that moment I came dangerously close to bawl

ing—and in the middle of D’Agostino’s, too. The man

I’d been having all these stupid daydreams about had just reacted like I was an infectious disease. And I really don’t take rejection very well. But then, show me somebody who does, and I’ll show you a great

big liar.

The telephone was ringing when I walked into the

apartment. I quickly snatched up the receiver. Fortu

nately I was in time to prevent the answering machine

from kicking in, something that always makes me

crazy. I mean, whenever I hear that recorded voice of

mine, I’m in trauma. Listen, you would be, too, if you

sounded like Minnie Mouse. (I keep telling myself that

some glitch in the equipment is warping the sound.

But I suppose it’s possible that I’m rationalizing.)

Anyhow, after the usual amenities, my friend the

former Pat Martucci, now Mrs. Burton Wizniak, got

to the reason for her call. ‘‘Have they found out yet what that woman—Bobbie Jean—died of?’’

‘‘Monkshood,’’ I told her.

‘‘Monks
what?
’’

‘‘Monkshood,’’ I repeated. ‘‘It’s some sort of poi

sonous plant. The murderer put the leaves in Bobbie

Jean’s salad.’’

‘‘Then she was
poisoned?
’’

‘‘That’s right.’’

‘‘Are there any suspects?’’

94

Selma
Eichler

‘‘There are four that I’m concentrating on at

present.’’

‘‘
You’re
concentrating on? Don’t tell me you’re in

vestigating this.’’ And then, not waiting for an answer:

‘‘I hope you’re at least getting paid for your efforts.
Are
you?’’ Pat demanded.

I danced around the question. ‘‘Why would I work

for nothing?’’

‘‘Yeah, just as I thought. You’re a real sucker, De

siree Shapiro. Do you know that?’’ I didn’t consider this worthy of a response. ‘‘And what happens when

you can’t afford to pay your rent?’’

‘‘I’ll move in with you and Burton, of course.’’

‘‘Smart ass,’’ Pat grumbled. ‘‘Well, take care of

yourself, okay? Just don’t pull any heroics.’’

Which was pretty funny, because I don’t
do
heroics.

I was putting away the groceries when I heard from

Ellen. ‘‘M-Mike just told me. About the monkshood,

I m-m-mean. Who do you think could have done a

thing like that? Do you think it was one of the ladies who sounded off about her on Sunday?’’

‘‘So far they’re at the top of my list.’’

‘‘That p-poor woman,’’ Ellen murmured, starting to

choke up.

‘‘Listen, Ellen, I don’t approve of murder—you

know that. But ‘poor woman’ hardly describes Bobbie

Jean Morton. Your almost-future-aunt was a sexual

predator who didn’t mind messing up somebody’s life

in order to get what—or I should say
who
—she wanted.’’

‘‘I’m aware of that. Still, I kind of liked her those two times I met her. And Mike really cared for her. Maybe she just couldn’t help herself.’’ Before I could argue this point, Ellen added, ‘‘Anyway, I know you’ll

be investigating her death, so please promise me you’ll

be careful.
Very
careful.’’

‘‘I promise.’’

And now she shifted gears. ‘‘I haven’t had any din

ner yet, Aunt Dez. Have you?’’

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Well, I’d been trying to make up my mind between

an omelette, a ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwich, and

that onion tart I’d returned to the freezer after Alli

son’s visit. None of which I was especially excited

about. And besides, if I stayed home I’d spend my

time alternating between cursing Nick Grainger and

licking my wounds. And those were a couple of other

things that didn’t appeal to me much. So I told Ellen that, no, I hadn’t eaten yet, either.

‘‘Good. You’ll have something here. Mike’s at the

hospital, and I could use the company. Besides, I’m

dying for you to see my gifts.’’

‘‘Oh, then you’re home. I thought you were calling

from Macy’s.’’

‘‘I left work early—an upset stomach.’’

Since dinner at Ellen’s invariably means Chinese

food, I was taken aback. ‘‘You just told me you have an upset stomach.’’

‘‘
Had.
I’m fine now.’’

‘‘Still, I think it would be better if you limited your

self to tea and toast tonight. And maybe some Camp

bell’s chicken noodle soup.’’

‘‘Believe me, Aunt Dez, I’m feeling much, much

better. And whether you join me or not, I’m going to be ordering from Mandarin Joy.’’ Mandarin Joy being

Ellen’s local Chinese restaurant, which would very

likely be facing bankruptcy if she ever moved out of the neighborhood.

I allowed myself to be convinced. ‘‘Okay,’’ I said,

‘‘if you’re certain you’re up to it.’’

We settled on the menu over the phone. And after

that I hurriedly put on some lipstick—which wound

up so far outside my natural lip line that it looked as if I’d gone to the Lorraine Corwin school of mouth

extension. Then I practically had a fight to the death with my hair, and as it unfailingly does on humid days,

my hair won. Luckily I had a fallback position: a wig that looks exactly like my own glorious hennaed

tresses but is far better behaved.

Twenty minutes later I was on my way out the door.

96

Selma
Eichler

Then I remembered.

I all but ran back to the kitchen and grabbed the

macadamia brittle from the freezer. I was going to be sharing it tonight after all.

Eat
your
heart
out,
Nick
Grainger.
At some point during the thirty-five-minute cab ride

from East Eighty-second Street to Ellen’s place on

West Nineteenth, I thought about the fact that Mike

would soon be coming into what his mother had re

ferred to as ‘‘a fairly substantial sum of money.’’ And

I wondered if I should tell Ellen what I’d learned. I immediately decided against it. It was up to Mike to inform his future bride about a thing like that. Maybe

he already had, for all I knew—although this I seri

ously doubted. I mean, my niece does a lot of things very well. But keeping secrets from her dear old Aunt

Dez is not one of them.

Anyway, we had a delicious—and huge—dinner:

dim sum, Chung King spare ribs, shrimp with garlic

sauce, and lemon chicken. And if Ellen had even the remnants of an upset stomach, she hid it admirably.

Once we’d cleared away the dishes, we settled down

with our ice cream and coffee. (There’s no law that says you have to have tea with Chinese food, you

know.) Now, I’d intended to stop off for Haägen Dazs

Belgian chocolate—Ellen’s favorite—before coming

here. But the instant I got downstairs it started to rain,

and half a dozen people were already jockeying for

taxis. Then out of nowhere this beat-up relic with a noisy muffler sputtered to a stop directly in front of me to let out a passenger. And who am I to ignore kismet? Besides, macadamia brittle is Ellen’s second

favorite flavor. Or so she claims.

At any rate, after gorging ourselves on the ice

cream, it was time to look at the shower gifts, which were presently occupying so much of Ellen’s small liv

ing room that you had to be extra cautious about

where you placed your feet. I have to tell you, though,

that she’d made quite a haul. Everything from the

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practical (see ‘‘three toaster ovens’’) to the exotic (how does a mother-of-pearl caviar spoon strike

you?).

‘‘Allison offered to let us keep the presents at her house for a while,’’ Ellen told me once I’d finished oohing and ahhing. ‘‘We have to wait until Mike has a chance to drop them off there, though.’’ And then right out of left field: ‘‘She must have used the side door.’’

Well, although I manage to decipher Ellen’s non

sequiturs at least sixty percent of the time—after all, I’ve had plenty of practice—just then I was stumped.

‘‘Okay, I give up. Who and what are we talking

about?’’

My niece looked at me pityingly, as if I was no

longer as sharp as I once was. ‘‘The killer. Listen, Madam X had to . . . to doctor that salad before we were called in to eat, right? Well, I can’t imagine her being able to sneak in and out of the dining room

unnoticed if she used the double doors in the front—

not with all of us milling around like that. And since the back entrance is almost directly opposite the