Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (33 page)

cided that if Mrs. Corwin had given birth to any stupid

children, none of them was named Lorraine.

By the time I got home I’d managed to work my

way through all the sticking points. Which left me with

one small question: What next?

Chief Porchow had requested—no,
mandated
—that

I desist from checking into Bobbie Jean’s murder. But

while I didn’t have the slightest idea where I could go

with my investigation at this stage, I had every inten

tion of going
somewhere
with it. And it isn’t that I was so sure the Forsythe police wouldn’t eventually

arrive at the truth—they might very well. I just

couldn’t afford to chance it. Listen, if I left it to them,

any day now I might be baking Allison a cake with a file in it.

It was when I was standing in front of the door

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to my apartment, turning the key in the lock, that I determined what my next move had to be.

Right after supper I dialed Dominick Gallo’s home

number. Last week his answering machine had notified

me that the vacationing Silver Oaks waiter was due

home today. And I didn’t care if he hadn’t even had a chance to unpack yet; I’d waited long enough to talk

to him. The truth is, while I didn’t expect to learn anything from Gallo, I considered him a loose end.

And I hate loose ends.

‘‘Hello,’’ said a rich baritone voice.

‘‘I’d like to speak to Mr. Gallo, please.’’

‘‘You already are,’’ the man responded. I could ac

tually hear the smile.

I gave my name and explained that I was a private

investigator looking into the death on Sunday, August

seventeenth, of Mrs. Bobbie Jean Morton. ‘‘The au

topsy report shows that Mrs. Morton was poisoned,’’

I apprised him.

‘‘I heard.’’

‘‘You
did?
’’ I mean, Gallo had gone away some

where the day after the murder—when the cause of

death had yet to be established. ‘‘Didn’t you just re

turn from vacation?’’

‘‘Yup, a few hours ago. But a couple of the people I work with at Silver Oaks got in touch with me while

I was up in the Poconos—they filled me in on what

happened. And then about an hour before you called,

I spoke to the Forsythe Chief of Police—he’d left a message on my machine last week. I told him I didn’t

know anything.’’

‘‘It’s always possible that you know more than you

think you do, Mr. Gallo. That’s why I’d appreciate it if we could talk in person for a few minutes. How

about tomorrow?—at any place that’s convenient for

you. I could drive out to Silver Oaks or we could meet

somewhere or we could do this at my office or in your

home.’’ The words tumbled out on top of each other

before the man had an opportunity to interrupt.

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The second I concluded my pitch, however, I had

doubts about the necessity for a meeting. I imagine

I’d requested it out of habit—I’ve discovered that it normally pays to interrogate somebody face-to-face.

Besides giving you a much better chance of wearing

down your subject, other factors come into play, as

well. You’d be surprised at what you can learn from a

twitching upper lip or a pulsating vein. In this instance,

though, it was extremely improbable that there was

anything
to
learn. The dismal results of that afternoon I’d spent seeking information from the other Silver

Oaks employees had to be regarded as an indication

of what I could look forward to with Gallo.

I was actually relieved when he nixed the idea of a get-together. ‘‘Driving out to Long Island to see me would be a waste of your time, Ms. Shapiro. Believe me.’’

‘‘Well, okay,’’ I agreed readily enough. ‘‘But there

are a couple of matters I would like to cover with you.

We could do it now, though, on the phone.’’ I threw in, ‘‘I promise that it won’t take long,’’ as an incentive.

‘‘All right.’’

I proceeded to ask Dominick Gallo pretty much

what I’d asked his coworkers. At this juncture, how

ever, it was mostly to establish some sort of rapport with him before posing the only question that really mattered anymore.

At any rate, going through the motions, I estab

lished that Gallo knew the victim only by sight. Also, that he had no knowledge—or so he claimed—of any

romantic entanglement and/or feud she might have

had with either a Silver Oaks employee or one of her

fellow country club members. In fact, he assured me

he’d never heard anybody mention her name.

And then I put the big one to him: ‘‘Did anything

take place that Sunday that struck you as being at

all unusual?’’

Gallo hesitated before replying. It was only a splitsecond pause. And I probably wouldn’t have been aware of it if I hadn’t been so anxious for a positive

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response—my low expectations notwithstanding.

‘‘No, nothing.’’

‘‘Listen, if there
was
something, please tell me.’’

‘‘But—’’

Before he could reiterate his denial, however, I

went to work on the man. ‘‘Look, Mr. Gallo, I find

it extremely difficult to accept the possibility of any murderer’s not being apprehended. But that the killer

of Bobbie Jean Morton might never be brought to

justice is something I refuse to let myself so much as consider. Please. Let me tell you a little about this woman.’’

And then, with no compunction whatsoever, I pro

ceeded to lie my glorious hennaed head off. ‘‘She was

very special—a warmhearted, generous, and muchloved human being. Nobody I’ve come into contact with has had anything but praise for that lady.’’ (I almost gagged here, recalling how—whenever they

spoke of the dead woman—the suspects all sounded

as if their tongues had been dipped in venom.) ‘‘Bob

bie Jean Morton donated untold sums to charitable

causes. She did volunteer work at the hospital. And

she delivered meals to homebound AIDS patients.

Not only that, but she made every effort to keep her good works a secret. I think you should know this,

too. Mrs. Morton recently lost a husband she was very

much in love with. And almost simultaneously she had

to grapple with some additional personal problems,

problems that required a great deal of courage for her

to overcome. That’s not all, either. . . .’’ I went on in the same vein for a short while longer. And when I was through I’d almost convinced myself that Mother

Teresa wasn’t worthy to so much as touch the hem of

Bobbie Jean’s skirt.

‘‘I wish I could help you, Ms. Shapiro. It sounds as if Ms. Morton was a wonderful person. But, honestly,
I
didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary going on that day.’’

Now, I could have sworn he’d given that ‘‘I’’ just

the least bit of emphasis. ‘‘Who did, then?’’

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Selma
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‘‘I don’t understand what you mean.’’

‘‘
You
didn’t notice anything suspicious. But some

body else saw or heard something and told you about

it. Am I right?’’

Seconds ticked off before Gallo politely declared,

‘‘No, you’re not.’’

‘‘Look, I hope you’ll do whatever you can to per

suade this individual to come forward.’’ I was almost pleading with the man. ‘‘I realize that a lot of people want to avoid getting involved in anything like this. But you have to wonder—don’t you?—how these

same people would feel if someone close to them were

harmed and all the witnesses shut
their
eyes to what had occurred.’’

‘‘I take your point, Ms. Shapiro. But you’ve got this

wrong. Nobody mentioned spotting anything peculiar.

Not to me, anyway.’’

My sigh came all the way from my toes. ‘‘All right. Let me give you my phone number, though—just in

case.’’

I recited the number, and then we said good-bye.

But just before we hung up, Dominick Gallo mur

mured so softly that the words were all but inaudible,

‘‘I really am sorry.’’

Chapter
35

Postponing dinner for a while, I sat down at the

kitchen table with a cup of coffee. (I figured if that God-awful stuff didn’t shoo the cobwebs from my

head, nothing would.) It took only five or six sips be

fore I deemed myself fit to analyze my conversation

with Gallo.

Predictably, I began by challenging myself.

When I’d asked the man whether he was aware of

anything unusual transpiring that Sunday, had I
really
picked up on a telltale bit of hesitation? And later, with regard to this same topic, had he
really
empha

sized the ‘‘I’’? (As in ‘‘
I
didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary going on that day?’’)

After all, how likely was it that the very last em

ployee of Silver Oaks that I questioned was the indi

vidual who could help me nail the killer? I reminded myself that if I’d actually heard what I thought I had, Gallo wasn’t the one who could wrap up this case

for me. It was some nameless, shadowy friend of his, someone I’d probably interrogated earlier.

Of course, I still had to concede the possibility that my imagination had been on overdrive, being that I

was so desperate to get Lorraine Corwin into one of those fashionable prison jumpsuits I’ve always ad

mired on TV.

Well, one thing was definite, anyway. I’d done ev

erything I could to induce Gallo to put a little pressure

on his buddy—assuming, that is, there even was such

a buddy. I mean, by the time I was through painting that laudatory word picture of Bobbie Jean, I wanted

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Selma
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the amoral witch for my very best friend, for heav

en’s sake!

Nevertheless, I made up my mind that if Dominick

Gallo didn’t contact me in the next few days, I’d take

another stab at him.

And now I switched to the problem of the moment:

figuring out how to move the investigation in the

meantime.

But before I had a chance to give this any serious consideration, Ellen called to let me know how much

she and Mike had enjoyed last night’s dinner.

It was a pretty short conversation, and I had just

gotten back to taxing my brain to come up with a

couple of interim plans, when Harriet phoned. ‘‘I

haven’t talked to you in a while,’’ she told me, ‘‘so I thought I’d say hi.’’

I was surprised to hear from her. ‘‘I expected that you and Steve would have gone someplace for the

holiday.’’

‘‘No, we’re where we usually are—right across the

hall from you. We’d intended to get away, but then

Steve’s boss invited us to this barbecue he was having

this afternoon—we just got home a few minutes ago,

as a matter of fact. If you ask me, the man purposely scheduled it for today so his executives would be stuck

in town for the Labor Day weekend.’’

‘‘The guy must be a real sweetheart.’’

‘‘That he is. But anyway, how are you doing?’’

‘‘So-so.’’

‘‘No luck with finding the murderer yet, huh?’’

‘‘Not really.’’

‘‘Listen, Steve and I are going to his cousins’ place in Queens tomorrow. And if you have nothing else

planned, why don’t you drive out there with us?’’

‘‘Gee, Harriet, I—’’

‘‘Don’t tell me you’re too busy with work. We all

need a break sometimes. And you’d certainly be wel

come there. Steve’s already checked with them about

bringing a friend—we were both hoping I could per

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suade you to come along. Anyway, Mel and Ramona

assured him that they’d be delighted to have you.’’

Well, why not? I
could
use a break. I was all set to say yes when Harriet added, ‘‘They have a beautiful