Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (2 page)

Club.

‘‘Wow,’’ Ellen murmured, craning her neck to take

in all she could. ‘‘Wow,’’ she said again.

A minute or two later the parking attendant re

lieved us of my Chevy. Ellen was still glancing around

as we walked toward the front door. There was some

thing akin to reverence in her tone when she mur

mured, ‘‘What a beautiful place. I’ll bet lunch here will be quite an experience.’’

How right she was.

Chapter
2

I was reaching for the doorknob when the door swung

open from the inside.

‘‘We’re joining Mrs. Morton for lunch,’’ I told the

smiling, well-groomed strawberry blonde with her

hand on the knob.

‘‘Of course. Right this way, please.’’

We followed the woman down a winding corridor,

at the end of which was a richly burnished wooden

door. She pulled it open, then stepped aside. I gave Ellen a little push over the threshold.

‘‘SURPRISE!’’ exploded around us.

We were in a long, somewhat narrow rectangular

space just off the closed dining room. And seventythree enthusiastic ladies with good, strong voices had gathered here to fete my niece. But it took some time

before this registered on Ellen. I could almost hear her thinking
Surprise?
What
surprise?
Then Allison rushed over to embrace her, and after that a pretty fair portion of the other women present closed in on her, pecking away at her cheeks and squeezing various

parts of her person and demanding to know if she’d

suspected anything. And somewhere along the line she

got the message that she was the guest of honor, that this was
her
surprise.

Ellen was still attempting to collect herself when

her mother-in-law-to-be removed a glass of cham

pagne from the tray of a passing waiter and pressed it into her hand. ‘‘You look like you can use this,’’

she announced. ‘‘You, too, Desiree.’’ She snatched up

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

7

a second glass for me and then one for herself. ‘‘Let’s

not forget the mother of the groom.’’

For a few minutes Ellen continued to hold court,

although her loyal subjects were already proving

themselves to be not all that loyal. Doubtless because in addition to the champagne, there were now trays

laden with mini crabcakes, tiny potato puffs, and bitesize quiches to compete for one’s attention. A number of Ellen’s friends and coworkers at the store—Ellen’s a buyer at Macy’s—had just disengaged themselves

from the group when Bobbie Jean joined us.

An attractive, if somewhat flashy platinum blonde,

Bobbie Jean was on the short side and quite thin, al

though very buxom, her stretchy lime green V-necked

top barely managing to make it across her chest. I

wondered idly what kind of bra she had on. I mean, the thing pushed her breasts up practically to her chin.

Obviously, Bobbie Jean didn’t have any qualms when

it came to showing off her gift from Mother Nature. Which, I conjectured, might have contributed in some

small way to the lady’s having acquired three hus

bands—so far.

‘‘Bobbie Jean—who’s soon to be your
Aunt
Bobbie

Jean—worked very hard to make today a success,’’

Allison apprised Ellen.

Ellen gushed her thanks, and the four of us visited for a couple of minutes. Suddenly Ellen was enveloped

in an enthusiastic bear hug, courtesy of the good

buddy she always refers to as ‘‘Ginger, who lives in my building.’’ (I don’t recall my niece’s ever men

tioning Ginger without tagging on that part about the building; it appears to have replaced the girl’s last name.) Anyhow, it seemed that Ginger had appointed

herself the event’s unofficial photographer, and she

quickly began clicking away and barking commands at

our little foursome as if she were Steven Spielberg or somebody. After about half a dozen photos—and with

no end in sight—Ellen and I tried to persuade her

that she had enough pictures of us. Whereupon Bob

8

Selma
Eichler

bie Jean, taking advantage of this slight delay in the action, made her escape. Two more photos followed,

and then Ginger finally marched off to spread her tal

ent around—but not before we’d extracted her prom

ise to restrict herself to candid shots from now on. Moments later I had a chance to exchange brief

pleasantries with a few friends of my own: Pat Mar

tucci (only she’s not Pat Martucci anymore, having

recently become Mrs. Burton Wizniak) and my neigh

bors Barbara Gleason and Harriet Gould. All of

whom have known Ellen for years.

Allison must have been waiting for me to free up,

because the instant I became available she took my

arm. ‘‘C’mon, Desiree, there are a few people I want to introduce you to.’’

She propelled me toward two women who were

standing and whispering together a short distance

away. My first thought was that they seemed almost

conspiratorial, which I considered more or less borne out when, on seeing us approach, they stepped quickly

apart. And if that wasn’t telling enough, two bright red spots put in an immediate appearance on the

cheeks of the younger of the pair.

‘‘Meet my good friends Robin Fremont and her

daughter, Carla Fremont. Robin and I also live next

door to each other,’’ Allison informed me.

‘‘
And
we’re cousins—if a few times removed,’’

Robin interjected.

‘‘That’s true, too. This is Ellen’s aunt Desiree,’’ Alli

son went on. ‘‘Mike raves so much about this future aunt of his that I’m getting a little jealous. In fact, I seriously considered slipping some arsenic in her drink

before.’’ Both Fremonts tittered politely, and Robin

extended her hand to me. It would have been quite a feat, however, if Carla had managed to do the same, considering that she was presently holding a glass of champagne in her right hand and a napkin with a

small stash of hors d’oeuvres in her left. She smiled apologetically. It wasn’t much of a smile, because

Carla, poor thing, had large yellow teeth. Maybe

MURDER
CAN
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ON
YOUR
SHOWER

9

someone should have clued her in on porcelain ve

neers. I got the impression, however, that it probably wouldn’t have made any difference if they had. Judg

ing from her rumpled yellow cotton dress and crinkled

stockings, Carla wasn’t really that into appearances.

Robin, on the other hand, was fashionably turned

out in an obviously expensive black moire´ suit. Large boned and very substantially built, Robin Fremont

wore her thick salt-and-pepper hair brushed away

from a face that vaguely resembled Allison’s but

lacked the other’s delicate features. (Have I men

tioned how lovely Ellen’s prospective mother-in-law

is—with a slim figure, beautiful silver hair, and the most gorgeous green eyes?)

At any rate, in between bites of stuffed mushrooms

and sips of champagne, Allison and I chatted with

mother and daughter for a short time. After which we

were off for more introductions.

Even from a distance I’d been intrigued by one of

the women I met—well, almost met, if you want to

be technical—this almost-meeting captured on film by

our zealous, although now very unobtrusive photogra

pher, Ginger. Anyhow, the lady was tall to begin with.

And in her skinny spiked heels she had to be well

over six feet, towering above everyone else in sight. She was dressed entirely in black and white, in a toolow-cut print top and matching too-short skirt. She had on white gloves that reached midway up her fore

arms, the left-hand pinkie of which was adorned by a huge—and I mean
huge
—topaz ring. When it came to

jewelry, though, this woman didn’t seem to know the

meaning of restraint. In addition to the ring, she

sported long topaz earrings and three gold neck

chains, plus a very large gold, sapphire, and pearl pen

dant, which I believe was supposed to be an abstract representation of some kind of flower. (Trust me,

‘‘hideous’’ would not have been too strong a word to describe that piece.) An enormous black picture hat

that managed to conceal about half her face com

pleted the outlandish outfit.

10

Selma
Eichler

Before Allison had a chance to get out so much as

a single syllable, the woman confronted her. I might as well not have been there. ‘‘Did you see her come up to me before?’’ she demanded, viciously spearing

a cucumber canape´ from the tray of a haughty-looking

waiter and popping it into her vivid red mouth. And now, her voice still more strident: ‘‘Well, did you?’’

‘‘No, I didn’t,’’ Allison responded softly.

‘‘She was actually trying to make nice to me!’’

‘‘Uh, listen, Lorraine, it’s been so many years, and I—’’

At that moment an elderly lady leaning heavily on

an ornate cane stopped to speak to us, and Allison

broke off abruptly. Then while Lorraine was occupied

with the newcomer, Allison took the opportunity to

slip away, yours truly in tow.

‘‘Don’t mind Lorraine,’’ she said. ‘‘She’s really a

very good person. It’s just that there’s someone here today that she’s terribly upset with—and understand

ably so. Pretty paper, isn’t it?’’ she observed almost in the same breath, most probably in order to change the subject.

‘‘Very.’’ The wallpaper rising above the four-foot

high wooden wainscoting that encircled the room was

a floral in beautiful, muted pastels reminiscent of a Monet painting.

Allison took a brief detour to the powder room at

this juncture, following which she was back to deter

minedly squiring me around to acquaint me with the

other guests. We paused to greet a pair of late arrivals,

and then we walked over to a short, waiflike woman

with dark, lifeless hair and a sallow complexion. Like Lorraine, she also appeared to have an archenemy at

the shower. I got the idea that it could be the same archenemy, too.

‘‘I figured that I’d be able to handle seeing her

again,’’ she said, frowning. ‘‘But when she came over to me before and acted as if nothing had happened . . .

well . . . that was too much.’’

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CAN
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ON
YOUR
SHOWER

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‘‘I wish I could have spared you this, but—’’

‘‘I didn’t mean . . . It’s certainly not
your
fault, Allison.’’ Suddenly the woman became aware of her

failure to acknowledge me. ‘‘Oh, I’m so sorry. My

manners are as rotten as my disposition is today. I’m Grace Banner.’’

‘‘And I’m Desiree Shapiro.’’ I took the hand she

held out. It was icy cold.

What
was
going
on
here
anyway?

‘‘You’re Ellen’s aunt!’’ The tone had me feeling like

a minor celebrity. ‘‘I’ve heard so many nice things

about your niece. I’m looking forward to getting to

know her. Ellen’s mother—is she here, too?’’

‘‘No, she’d planned to come—she’s living in Florida

now—but two days ago she broke her ankle, so she

wasn’t able to make the trip.’’

‘‘That’s a shame.’’

‘‘Yes, isn’t it?’’ I agreed, hypocrite that I am. What else could I say though? That I was delighted that an act of God—Margot had fallen off her kitchen step

stool—had spared me her company today?

‘‘Ellen must be so distressed that her mother isn’t

able to share such a happy occasion with her.’’

I bristled inwardly at the observation. After all, it wasn’t as if I’d
willed
Margot to take the header, for heaven’s sake. (This sister of my much-loved late hus

band, Ed, was, as you must have gathered, not exactly

dear to my heart.) I was spared any further need to defend myself to myself, however, because just then

the double doors that led into the adjoining dining

room opened wide.