Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (3 page)

Lunch was about to be served.

Entering the spacious, high-ceilinged room, I

glanced around me with a deep sense of satisfaction. The ten round tables were covered with white lace

cloths and set with white-and-gold china, gleaming

gold-and-silver flatware, and sparkling glassware. Each

table had a different floral arrangement as a center

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piece, all of them quite magnificent. A bottle of red wine and a bottle of white had been placed on either side of the centerpieces.

It was really more like a wedding than a shower, I decided happily. And so what if, even sharing the ex

penses with Allison, I could conceivably be in hock

for the rest of my natural life. I mean, how often did my only niece get married? Besides, if I didn’t spend the money on this I’d just wind up wasting it on things

that would give me a lot less pleasure—like rent and utility bills.

I crossed the room to the table closest to the front, which a small white sign identified as table #1 and

which I would be occupying along with Ellen, Allison,

Bobbie Jean, and three of Allison’s young cousins,

sisters from Connecticut. I located my place card; it was between Ellen’s and one of the Connecticut sis

ters’. But before my bottom even touched the chair,

I checked out the corner a few yards to my left, where

the gifts had been stacked. There was a veritable

mountain of packages here, I was gratified to note,

each one more extravagantly wrapped than the next.

Our salads were already awaiting us when we sat

down, so everyone began to eat pretty much at once. I don’t believe I’d had more than four or five bites when I happened to look over at Bobbie Jean. I could

tell immediately from the way her eyes bulged that

she was in great distress. A second later, her fork clat

tering onto the table, she grabbed for her throat. She attempted to speak, but all she was able to produce were the god-awful gurgling sounds of utter des

peration.

I half-rose, thinking she could be in need of the

Heimlich maneuver.

Allison put a hand on my shoulder, restraining me.

‘‘Where’s Karen?’’ she shrieked. ‘‘We need a doctor

here!’’

A cacophony of nervous babble ensued, the collec

tive outpouring of just about everyone present. Then, from somewhere behind me, a commanding voice cut

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

13

through the clamor. ‘‘I’m coming! Please, everybody,

stay where you are.’’ A scowling, matronly-type indi

vidual marched quickly over to Allison. ‘‘What’s

wrong?’’

‘‘Oh, Karen, thank heaven.’’ Allison nodded in Bob

bie Jean’s direction. ‘‘It’s my sister-in-law. She . . . you’d better see to her.’’ But Karen was already crouching beside the stricken woman. ‘‘Karen’s a physician—my

neighbor,’’ Allison murmured to me.

‘‘Move away, will you?’’ the doctor snapped to

those of us sharing the table with Bobbie Jean. And as we hastily vacated our seats and scurried off to the

side: ‘‘Somebody call 9-1-1!’’

‘‘I’ll do it,’’ Amy, one of the Connecticut sisters, volunteered, fishing her cell phone from her purse.

‘‘I’m going to need help getting her on the floor!’’

Karen hollered.

A nearby waiter, who must have weighed upward

of two-hundred-fifty pounds hustled over. ‘‘I’ll take

care of it.’’

With Karen barking instructions, he effortlessly

lifted the petite victim from her chair and carefully laid her on the floor, placing her on her left side. And now, as the physician knelt alongside her pa

tient, a hush descended on the room, with only the

terrible sounds of Bobbie Jean’s retching intruding on

the silence.

Swiftly, Karen unhooked Bobbie Jean’s bra, loos

ened her clothes, and pulled off her panty hose. Then,

taking Bobbie Jean’s pulse, she called out, ‘‘Allison, does your sister-in-law have any sort of health prob

lems? Epilepsy, diabetes, severe allergies—anything

that could account for this?’’

‘‘No, nothing.’’

I suddenly realized that I was holding my breath,

in apparent empathy with Bobbie Jean’s respiratory

difficulties. As I began to breathe normally, I glanced at the doctor’s face.

What I saw there sent a chill through me.

At this point, obviously alerted by one of the staff,

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Selma
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the smiling strawberry blonde who’d greeted us at the

door rushed in. But she wasn’t smiling anymore.

‘‘How is she?’’ the strawberry blonde asked Karen.

‘‘Not good, I’m afraid,’’ the doctor replied grimly.

‘‘Not good at all.’’

Chapter
3

‘‘Gangway!’’ one of the paramedics shouted.

As they propelled the gurney out of the rear door,

they were only a few feet in front of me. And I caught

a glimpse of Bobbie Jean lying there motionless, the only sign of life the rapid blinking of her eyes.

I reached for Allison’s hand and squeezed it. She

acknowledged the gesture with a small, sad smile.

Our entire party was presently clustered at the back

of the room, politely ordered there by the young po

liceman (and I’m talking barely old enough to have

acquired peach fuzz, for heaven’s sake), who had

shown up immediately following the arrival of the

EMS. And now, almost simultaneously, Allison and I

swiveled our heads in his direction. We watched Baby

Face hold a whispered consultation with the straw

berry blonde, then secure both the rear and side en

trances to the dining room. After which he shifted his

attention to the shower guests.

‘‘We’re going to need some information from all of

you,’’ he announced in a nervous, high-pitched voice.

‘‘So please, everyone, take your belongings and follow

Ms. Kramer. And please don’t touch anything, okay?

I’ll be with you as soon as I take care of a coupla things.’’

Ms. Kramer, a.k.a. the strawberry blonde, shep

herded us through the double doors that led into the rectangular space—the Minerva Room, it was called—

where this ill-fated party had originated.

‘‘The police would like to keep this section of the house cordoned off,’’ she explained, ‘‘so please, come

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Selma
Eichler

with me.’’ She led us through an archway at the far end of the room, then down a long hallway to a large,

open sitting area. It was furnished with some hand

some, highly polished mahogany tables, a number of

which displayed a selection of magazines, with two

of the tables containing a telephone, as well. Most

prominent here, however, were the upholstered pieces,

which consisted of half a dozen overstuffed chairs and

three plump sofas, all covered in the same fabric—a

cheerful, floral chintz that contrasted sharply with the mood of our gloomy little gathering.

Ms. Kramer addressed us somberly. ‘‘I can’t even

express to you how sorry I am that Ms. Morton has

been taken ill like this. She’s
such
a lovely person—

all of us at Silver Oaks are extremely fond of her. I know our entire staff will be praying for her speedy and complete recovery.

‘‘I do apologize that there isn’t enough seating in

here to accommodate everyone, but this is the best

option we have available right now. Please make your

selves as comfortable as you can. The police officer

will be with you in a few minutes, and he assured me you won’t be detained for very long. I’m going to have

to leave you, but if I can be of assistance to anyone, just pick up one of the phones. I’m on extension five—

Janice Kramer.’’ And now, true to her word, the

woman, after favoring us with a faint smile, turned

and left.

The available seats were instantly preempted by the

swiftest of our company. Naturally, I remained a

standee. I was leaning against a table, absently riffling

through an
Architectural
Digest
, my mind occupied with unwanted thoughts about the improbability of

our ever seeing Bobbie Jean again, when Harriet

Gould came up alongside me and touched my arm.

‘‘Do you think she’ll make it?’’

I censored myself. ‘‘I hope so,’’ was as much as

I said.

At that moment we were joined by the rookie cop,

who immediately busied himself with taking down

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

17

names, addresses, and telephone numbers, at the same

time establishing everyone’s relationship to the victim.

A little more than a half hour after Bobbie Jean

had been dispatched to the hospital—and only a few

minutes after the young policeman had finished col

lecting his information—we were joined by the For

sythe chief of police himself, along with another of his officers.

The chief was rather attractive. I mean, he had good

features, a full head of wavy gray hair, and a tall, lanky physique. His tan uniform was neatly pressed

and an excellent fit. In fact, only a slight potbelly—

and it was borderline, at that—disqualified him from

being considered a hunk. Presupposing, of course, that

you’d rate anyone a hunk who was most likely on the

less desirable side of fifty.

‘‘I’m Chief Porchow,’’ he apprised us, ‘‘and this is Sergeant Block.’’ He indicated the short, portly man

who’d accompanied him and who was standing with

arms folded and feet apart, gazing ceilingward with a scowl that appeared to be a permanent part of his face.

‘‘I assume you’ve already met Officer Smilowitz.’’ The chief inclined his head toward the rookie. A pause fol

lowed, after which Porchow cleared his throat. ‘‘I’m very

sorry to have to tell you this, but Ms. Morton was pro

nounced dead on arrival at the hospital.’’

There were gasps and outcries and murmurs of sor

row from the assemblage.

‘‘Can any of you shed some light on what happened

here this afternoon?’’ he asked. ‘‘How did the de

ceased seem earlier today?’’

A mingled response of ‘‘fine,’’ ‘‘okay,’’ ‘‘good,’’

‘‘all right.’’

One of the women inquired about the cause of Bob

bie Jean’s demise.

‘‘We don’t know yet,’’ he said tersely. ‘‘Anyone

have any idea if she’d been ill recently?’’

The replies included a lot of head shaking and a

smattering of negatives.

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Selma
Eichler

At this point Officer Smilowitz came over to confer

with his superior, handing him a notebook and jabbing

his finger at one of the entries, which prompted Por

chow to call out, ‘‘Where is Ms. Allison Lynton?’’

Allison held up her arm. ‘‘Here I am.’’ The chief

nodded and walked toward the back of the room,

where a very unnerved Allison and I had been talking

quietly for the past five minutes.

‘‘I understand Ms. Morton was your husband’s

sister.’’

‘‘Yes, that’s right.’’ There was a barely perceptible quaver in her voice.

‘‘What about other close relatives? Was she

married?’’

‘‘Widowed.’’

The questioning continued for a brief time: Had the

dead woman currently been living with anyone? Did

she have any children? Were her parents still alive?

Allison answered with a string of no’s.

‘‘Well, are
you
at all familiar with her medical history?’’

‘‘I am. And she’d always been in very good health.’’

‘‘Would you, by any chance, have the name of her

physician?’’ Porchow put to her then.

‘‘Bobbie Jean and I have—we
had
—the same pri

mary physician. His name is Dr. Anders Krauss. His

practice is in Connecticut—Greenwich. I can give you

the phone number, if you like.’’

‘‘I’d appreciate it.’’

His interrogation of Allison concluded, Chief Por

chow spoke to the room in general. ‘‘There’s a possi

bility I may need to talk to all of you again. But right