Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (20 page)

pained me to think of what a little long-lash mascara could have done for those short, next-to-invisible

eyelashes.

However, Carla’s biggest mistake—looks-wise, I’m

talking about—was her hair. Kind of greasy, and a

nondescript shade of brown, it just hung there, com

pletely limp. Trust me, this wasn’t the best style for
anyone
. Even Heather Locklear might have had trou

ble pulling off a hairdo like that. But what made it such a disaster for Carla was how it accentuated her too-thin face—and the somewhat prominent nose in

the middle of it.

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And then there were those yellow teeth of hers.

Now, all this may sound pretty catty to you. But

seeing her again, I realized that Carla’s neglect in the appearance department might have facilitated Bobbie

Jean’s getting her hooks into Roy Connell. And I

found myself disturbed by the possibility that Carla’s new guy—this Len that Robin had mentioned—could

someday be faced with the same sort of temptation

her ex was. And could prove to be every bit as

shallow.

Anyhow, as soon as my visitor had made herself

comfortable on the sofa, I asked what I could get her to drink, and she said she’d love some red wine if I had it. I did.

After pouring two glasses of Beaujolais, I took a

chair opposite her and waved at the food on the coffee

table. ‘‘Help yourself,’’ I invited. And Carla did. To

tally ignoring the platter displaying those lovely vege

tables I’d so carefully picked over at the greengrocer’s,

she cut herself a slice of onion tart. And shortly after this, another.

The zeal with which Carla was attacking that tart

led me to conclude that if there was even a shred of hope there’d be any of it left over for my supper, I’d better restrict myself to the crudite´s. Which have

never been my hors d’oeuvre of choice.

At any rate, after we’d spent about ten minutes sip

ping and chewing and engaging in a fair amount of

polite conversation, I figured it was time to get down to business.

‘‘Tell me about your relationship with Bobbie Jean,

Ms. Fremont,’’ I began.

‘‘We didn’t
have
a relationship. And the name’s Carla, Desiree.’’

I nodded. ‘‘I understand she married your former

husband.’’

‘‘That’s right. She worked him pretty good, you

know—this, in case nobody told you, was while Roy

and I were still husband and wife. And then all of a sudden, before I was aware of what was happening,

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we weren’t anything to each other anymore.’’ Carla

brushed something—very likely a tear—from just

below her left eye before going on. ‘‘Bobbie Jean was

so much older than Roy, too,’’ she grumbled. ‘‘She

was past forty, for crying out loud. What could he

possibly have seen in a woman that age?’’ I winced. (I have a tendency to take comments of this nature

personally.) ‘‘And why would
she
have wanted
him,
for that matter? He wasn’t rich. He wasn’t really what

you’d call good-looking. And to be honest, he wasn’t even that bright.’’

‘‘Umm, you and Roy had been happy together be

fore Bobbie Jean entered the picture?’’

‘‘Yes, we were.’’ She sounded as if she was daring

me to challenge this.

‘‘I heard that less than a year after Roy and Bobbie

Jean were married, he died in an automobile

accident.’’

‘‘That’s right. And I hold Bobbie Jean responsible.’’

‘‘Why is that?’’

‘‘He had started to drink—quite a bit, too. Which

should give you some idea of how blissful he was with

his new little wifey. Roy seldom had more than one

glass of beer when he was living with me. Anyhow,

from what everyone said, Bobbie Jean did nothing

whatsoever to persuade him to cut down.’’

‘‘Maybe everyone was mistaken,’’ I ventured.

‘‘Maybe she tried, but she wasn’t successful.’’

Carla glared at me. ‘‘She actually encouraged his

drinking.’’

‘‘Are you saying Bobbie Jean wanted him to get

into an accident?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t go that far. But she enjoyed getting

crocked herself on occasion—ask Allison—and she

liked having Roy join her. The thing is, though, Bob

bie Jean was able to control the habit while Roy ap

parently wasn’t. And she just didn’t care enough about

him to see to it he went on the wagon—or, at the very

least, to make sure that he didn’t drive when he had a snootful.’’

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‘‘You’re certain she didn’t make the attempt?’’

Carla snapped out the next words. ‘‘Has anyone

bothered to fill you in on what happened that night—

the night he died?’’

‘‘All I was told is that your former husband was in a fatal car crash.’’

‘‘Then allow me to enlighten you. My ex and his

dear wife had been out to dinner with another couple,

and both Roy and Bobbie Jean had tossed back quite

a few. Well, when it came time to leave, Bobbie Jean informed Roy that he wasn’t in any condition to get behind the wheel and that she’d have Bill and Mau

reen O’Grady—the other couple—drop her off.’’

‘‘So she did try to talk him out of driving.’’

Carla’s voice rose. ‘‘Aren’t you paying attention?

She made a
statement
—that was all. According to the O’Gradys, she didn’t even
suggest
to Roy that he go with them, too.’’

‘‘Didn’t they—the O’Gradys—speak to Roy about

letting them take him home?’’

‘‘Of course. But he wouldn’t listen. And before they

could stop him, he just sped away. He might have

listened to his wife, though—if she’d taken the trouble

to reason with him.’’ Carla didn’t say anything more for a while, and I was about to break the silence when

she blurted out, ‘‘Look, if not for that ho he left me for, Roy Connell would be alive today. I don’t have the slightest doubt of that.’’

‘‘You sound like you still have a great deal of bitter

ness toward Bobbie Jean.’’

‘‘You’d better believe I do! And the fact that she’s gone doesn’t make me loathe the woman any less,

either. She not only wrecked my marriage, she was

also responsible for Roy’s death. And, God help me,

I really loved the man. But that all happened a long time ago. Too long ago, I should point out, for me to suddenly decide to take my revenge at your niece’s

shower. Besides, I’d been very involved with someone

else until recently—until this past weekend, to be

precise.’’

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I was genuinely saddened by this revelation. Consid

ering all she’d been through courtesy of the victim, the girl certainly deserved some happiness in her life. Unless, of course, she’d had a hand in Bobbie Jean’s demise. (As I’ve said before, I don’t condone mur

der—no matter what.) But anyway, I didn’t quite

know how to respond—after all, I had no clue as to how Carla herself felt about the breakup. So out came

the old standby. ‘‘Oh,’’ I murmured.

My visitor smiled crookedly. ‘‘Yeah, ‘Oh.’ I wanted

him to commit, and he wanted a little time to think it over—three or four years’ worth. But why am I

going into this?’’

‘‘Maybe it will still work out,’’ I suggested timidly.

‘‘I don’t even care anymore,’’ she stated with an

unconvincing display of bravado. ‘‘There’s only one

thing that concerns me now.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘How do I tell my mother?’’

‘‘She likes this man?’’

‘‘My mother, Desiree, would like Count Dracula if

there were any possibility of his becoming her son-in

law. She used to fall all over Roy, too, when I started

bringing him around.’’

‘‘She must have been pretty devastated by what

Roy . . . when Roy became involved with Bobbie

Jean.’’

‘‘She was. Particularly because she was so worried

about me—I was inconsolable for a while.’’ And now

Carla eyed me suspiciously. ‘‘But don’t you dare get it into your head that my mother was the one who

poisoned that bitch.’’ And unexpectedly, she grinned.

‘‘My mother wouldn’t have the
patience
to bide her time for seven years—not for
anything
.’’

Carla took a sip of wine now, then very purposefully

set the glass on the coffee table. ‘‘And speaking of the poisoning, I understand that Bobbie Jean’s
terribly

unfortunate passing was caused by something in her

salad.’’

‘‘Yes, whoever did this included the leaves of an

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extremely toxic plant—it’s called monkshood—with

the rest of the salad greens.’’

‘‘I only regret that she didn’t have a long, agonizing

death. That would have been a fitting end for Bobbie Jean Morton.’’

Merely considering this alternative brought a smile

to Carla’s lips and a sparkle to her brown eyes. I half anticipated that any minute now she’d start to rub her

hands together with glee. But she confined herself to celebrating the thought with another generous piece

of onion tart.

‘‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Bob

bie Jean?’’ I brought up at this point.

‘‘No. Believe me, there wasn’t one person at the

club that day with the
cojones
to murder somebody.’’

‘‘Well, forget about who murdered her, then. Let’s

talk about who would have liked to. Naturally, I’m

only referring to the women who attended the

shower.’’

‘‘Well, I can name two ladies who no doubt would

have been happy to see Bobbie Jean dead and buried,

but it’s hard to picture either of them actually
doing
anything to speed up the process. Anyhow, there’s

Grace Banner, for one. Grace and her husband were

stupid enough to go partners in a restaurant with good

ole Bobbie Jean, and it seems that she gave the Ban

ners a pretty rotten time of it, suing them for theft or fraud or something. Then there’s Allison’s exroommate, Lorraine . . . Lorraine . . .’’

‘‘Corwin,’’ I supplied.

‘‘Yeah, her. Bobbie Jean stole her fiance´. But that

goes back thirty years, if not longer. Still, they say Lorraine never got over it. She never did marry.’’

‘‘Anyone else?’’ I asked automatically.

Carla hesitated long enough to allow me to hope.

Could it be that she was going to hand me another, more promising suspect? ‘‘Carla?’’ I prompted.

‘‘She would never have killed her, though.’’ And

then with emphasis: ‘‘Absolutely not.’’

‘‘Who’s that?’’

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Once again the girl hesitated, avoiding my eyes now.

‘‘Listen, there’s no way she’d have poisoned her hus

band’s sister.’’

‘‘
Allison?
You’re talking about
Allison?
’’ My voice had shot up so high that my throat ached.

Carla scowled. ‘‘I just
said
that I was positive she didn’t do it.’’ A moment later she reflected quietly, ‘‘I

can’t imagine what it must have been like for Allison,

though, having to put up with that woman all these

years. Some of them with the bitch living under her own roof, too. And it had to be doubly tough on her in view of the fact that Wes thought Bobbie Jean prac

tically sprouted wings.’’

Not quite accurate, of course. I mean, Wes actually

had a pretty good fix on his sibling’s character; he simply chose to dump all the blame for her flaws on the poor thing’s having had such an unfulfilled child

hood. Carla’s assessment hardly merited a correc

tion, however.

‘‘But you’re still certain Allison didn’t do it,’’ I put to her. It was half statement, half question.

‘‘That’s right. The Lyntons have always had a great

marriage—in spite of Bobbie Jean. And I can’t con

ceive of Allison’s murdering the sister Wes was mis