Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (32 page)

tial to her that she get in and out of that dining room

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in a great big hurry. Actually, I have a theory with respect to the exact way the killer—Miss Corwin—

added the poison to the salad.’’

‘‘All right. Let’s hear it,’’ Porchow instructed, his curiosity apparently causing his irritation with me to dissipate—or at least go on hiatus.

‘‘I believe she mixed in the poison with her finger.’’

‘‘Her
finger?
But why? Why not use a spoon?’’

‘‘Because a gloved finger is more efficient. If she

performed that little chore with a utensil of some kind,

she’d first have had to get it out of her handbag. And

then, when she was through, it would have been neces

sary to deposit whatever it was in a bag or container of some sort before returning it to her purse. I realize

I’m talking a matter of seconds here. But I don’t think

it’s an exaggeration to say that every second was pre

cious to the murderer.’’

‘‘True,’’ Porchow murmured thoughtfully. ‘‘But if

the woman used her finger, the same thing would

apply insofar as timing—at any rate, once she’d fin

ished doctoring the salad. She’d then have had to do something about the gloves, correct?’’

‘‘Sure, but that’s the beauty part. She could sneak

out of the dining room and go across the hall to the ladies’ room
while
still
wearing
them.
There, of course, she could remove them where no one would catch her

at it: in one of the stalls.’’

‘‘And once this was accomplished?’’

‘‘You mean what do I believe happened to the

gloves?’’

He nodded.

‘‘Well, I can’t picture her stowing them away some

where and risking that they’d eventually be found. No,

I think Miss Corwin must have stuffed them into a

plastic bag and carried them around in her purse for the rest of the afternoon. It’s doubtful she’d have re

garded this as much of a gamble, either. After all, she had to be aware that it wouldn’t immediately be established that a homicide had even been committed.

So what were the odds of anyone’s checking out the

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personal belongings of the guests? And if one of the other ladies should happen to ask about the gloves,

she could simply claim that she’d removed them in

order to eat her lunch. Which is exactly what I figured

when I saw her later on.’’

‘‘I don’t know . . .’’ the chief mused, idly picking up one of the prints and examining it. ‘‘Wait a min

ute,’’ he said sharply. ‘‘If Ms. Corwin had it in mind to do what you’re accusing her of, what about this

ring of hers? Taking off the gloves would have necessi

tated that she first slip off the ring. Then once the gloves were off, she’d have had to put it back on

again, this time on her bare finger—I’m assuming she

wore the ring for the remainder of the afternoon.’’

His raised eyebrows indicated that he was expecting

validation.

‘‘Yes, of course she did. But, really—’’

‘‘You’re going to tell me that it was no big deal. That the ring could come off and on in a hurry. Still, the woman would have wanted to return to the other

guests as soon as possible. So if she was planning to commit a quickie little murder that day, why saddle

herself with an extra piece of business to contend

with—no matter how minor? Wouldn’t it have been

more expedient to leave the ring home?’’

I laughed. ‘‘Consider who we’re talking about here.

I don’t believe Lorraine Corwin would have regarded

that as an option. She would have felt naked if she hadn’t dressed up those plain white gloves with a

flashy piece of jewelry. Listen, you’ve no doubt paid Miss Corwin a visit. Was she or wasn’t she wearing a few tons of jewelry at the time?’’

Porchow couldn’t suppress a grin. ‘‘Well, she
was
pretty weighted down.’’

And now, tilting back in his chair, the chief cleared

his throat. ‘‘I have to admit that you’ve presented me with a very interesting theory today, Ms. Shapiro.’’

His tone, which bordered on apologetic, tipped me off

as to what would follow. But even though I’d been

forewarned, the next words utterly destroyed me.

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(Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating the least little bit, but

this is exactly how I felt at that instant.) ‘‘The problem

is, though, that you haven’t provided me with a shred

of proof.

‘‘Let’s begin with the first point you made—I’m re

ferring to a familiarity with Silver Oaks. I won’t even dispute that your niece’s party wasn’t Ms. Corwin’s

introduction to the club. But the fact remains that this

might hold true for one or more of the other suspects,

as well.’’ It would have been too much to expect him not to throw Allison at my head again. Which, of

course, he did. ‘‘We
know
, for example, that Ms. Lyn

ton had been there before that Sunday.’’

I decided that a reminder was in order. ‘‘But we

can actually
prove
Lorraine Corwin
lied
about this. And I still maintain that nobody but the perpetrator would be aware of the significance of having some

familiarity with the place.’’

Now, I suppose I should interject here that it was

a vague recollection of something Allison had told me

that sent me scurrying to my file last night. It didn’t take long, either, to confirm that Lorraine had men

tioned to her friend how much she’d enjoyed the food

on a visit to Silver Oaks the previous year.

Checking further, I’d located another pertinent con

versation, one that had pretty much slipped my mind. Grace Banner had also talked about Lorraine’s prais

ing the food there. In fact, Grace had even joked that

this was what had motivated her to attend the shower.

This exchange between the two women not only veri

fied that Lorraine was already acquainted with the

country club, but simultaneously implied that Grace

was not.

My notes with regard to the questioning of Robin

Fremont added even more substance to the growing

suspicion that Bobbie Jean’s killer had been uncov

ered at last. Robin had said plainly that she and her daughter wanted to see what the club was like, hinting

that it could be the site for the girl’s maybe future wedding.

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Well, I’d learned since then that this insinuation

about a wedding site had been just plain baloney. Nev

ertheless, there was nothing in my file to dispute that the occasion of Ellen’s shower marked the first time

Robin (and Carla, as well) had been to Silver Oaks. Ditto Grace Banner. And my opinion of the truthful

ness of both ladies was reinforced about a thou

sandfold once I was struck by the very serviceable

nature of Lorraine Corwin’s gloves.

But back to Porchow . . .

Shaking his head, he was now asserting almost pity

ingly, ‘‘If lying amounted to evidence of murder, most

of the people I know would be behind bars. And I’m afraid I’d have to join them.’’

‘‘But the gloves,’’ I protested.

‘‘I’m getting to that. Look, I agree that already hav

ing the gloves on would have saved valuable time. But

I can also make the argument that the
real
perpetrator might not have been clever enough to consider some

thing like that.’’

‘‘I still don’t—’’

‘‘I’m not saying you’re wrong about any of this, Ms.

Shapiro. But I’m not persuaded that you’re right, ei

ther. Listen, I appreciate your wanting to help. But I have to stress that if Ms. Morton’s killer is to be apprehended, it’s crucial that the police department

be allowed to do its job without outside interference. I can’t—and won’t—tolerate anything that might com

promise our investigation. Understood?’’

‘‘Understood,’’ I answered meekly.

Now, having recently managed to convince the chief

that I had designs on him—and in light of the degree of panic this appeared to generate in the man, I had to assume that he hadn’t yet entirely disabused himself

of this notion—Porchow did a surprising thing just

then. Getting up from his desk, he walked over to me

and gently placed a hand on my shoulder. I can only surmise that this had been prompted by my expres

sion, which must have led him to conclude that the

possibility of my suicide could not be disregarded.

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There was a note of genuine kindness in his voice

when he said, ‘‘But if anything substantial should

occur to you based on what you’ve
already
observed, give me a call, and I promise you I’ll look into it.’’

Which didn’t make me feel the least bit better.

Based
on
what
I’d
already
observed?
Was I sup

posed to experience an epiphany, for heaven’s sake?

And what in hell did he mean by ‘‘substantial,’’

anyway?

Chapter
34

Driving back to Manhattan, I succeeded admirably in

driving myself crazy. (Pun intended.)

I admit that, emotionally speaking, I’d had my ups

and downs—mostly downs—during the course of this

damn investigation. But until now I hadn’t felt good enough about my progress to be this miserable on

learning that I hadn’t really made any headway. If you

know what I mean. This afternoon, however, I’d have

had to climb up to reach rock bottom.

It wasn’t just depression I was wrestling with,

though. Almost as soon as I got behind the wheel I began to saddle myself with self-doubt, as well.

Was I positively, one hundred percent certain that

Lorraine Corwin had murdered Bobbie Jean?

For a few seconds there, I actually wavered. Chief

Porchow didn’t consider that lie about Silver Oaks,

coupled, of course, with what I continued to regard as

the all-important gloves, to be sufficient proof of the woman’s culpability. Well, maybe I shouldn’t be that

satisfied with the conclusion I’d arrived at, either.

But, no. The police had to be concerned with what

would stand up in a court of law, while my sole inter

est was the truth. And I still maintained that only the guilty person would have recognized the significance

of a previous visit to the club. Plus, Lorraine was the one suspect who didn’t have to waste precious seconds

in the dining room pulling on a pair (probably
two
pairs) of gloves. As for Porchow’s argument that the

‘‘real’’ perp might not have been smart enough to fig

ure out the advantage of wearing gloves to Ellen’s

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shower, well, with speed so crucial to the lady’s getting

away with murder, how could that have failed to occur

to her?

This thought led me to the chief’s observation about

the ring, and I couldn’t help but smile. Even with the key element of speed in mind, the flamboyant Lor

raine’s very nature seemed to dictate that she couldn’t

not
wear a ring of some kind to spiff up her attire. After this I must have concentrated entirely on the

road for all of about two or three minutes before I was back to taxing my poor, put-upon brain. I sud

denly recalled that it was Lorraine who’d first intro

duced the possibility of Bobbie Jean’s death having

been a homicide. It was on the day of the shower, in fact—just before the woman left for home. I wondered

briefly whether she would have brought up a thing

like that if she herself had committed the crime.

Why not, though? Lorraine wasn’t delivering this

opinion to the authorities. But then again, suppose she

had
mouthed off to the police. What harm would there have been in that—even if they later discovered

there’d been foul play? If anything, with Lorraine’s

being the one to broach the subject, she’d probably

have been viewed as a rather unlikely assassin. I de