Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (34 page)

pool, too. So be sure to bring along a swimsuit.’’

Now, I’m pretty comfortable with my appearance.

But still, I scrupulously avoid the kind of clothes that practically invite the world to count my dimples. (And

I’m not talking about the ones I don’t have on my

face, either.) So, naturally, bathing suits would have to occupy a space at the very top of my ‘‘What Not to Wear’’ list. Although I admit that I did allow Jackie to badger me into buying a swimsuit that time I ac

companied her to Aruba (which is a whole other

story). The way you dress in the tropics is one thing, though. But to prance around in something like that

in Queens, New York? I’d die first!

‘‘That sounds wonderful, Harriet. And I’d love to

go. But I have to follow up on a couple of leads con

cerning the poisoning, and it’s not something I can

postpone.’’

‘‘I can’t convince you to change your mind?’’

‘‘Uh-uh. I’d better not weaken. But thanks for

thinking of me. And thank Steve for me, too.’’

I hope you realize that I hadn’t lied to Harriet—

not unless you insist on being really technical. After all, I did have a couple of leads. And I did intend to pursue them. The one
teeny
little falsehood to come out of my mouth was that I’d claimed I would be

doing the pursuing tomorrow, when in actuality I

hadn’t the slightest notion yet how I should even go about it.

But anyway, I had to acknowledge that Harriet was

right; I needed some time off from the investigation. And while I initially toyed with the idea of calling a friend and taking in a movie or even getting some

last-minute theater tickets, before long I was derailed by a pretty heavy case of the guilts. Which led me to

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decide that I’d devote Monday to a project I’d sorely neglected since becoming involved with Bobbie Jean’s

murder: cleaning my apartment.

And I ask you, can you think of a more fun way to

spend a holiday than scrubbing out your toilet bowl?

Chapter
36

On Monday I came to the conclusion—and not for

the first time, either—that it really
isn’t
fun to scrub out your toilet bowl. Or mop your floors. Or scour

your tile. Or even polish your furniture, for that

matter.

For a moment my mind leapt back a few years to

the days when I could leave a lot of that nasty business

to Charmaine, my every-other-week cleaning lady.

Unfortunately, however, Charmaine wasn’t around

anymore. Oh, I don’t mean that she died. You see,

right from the beginning she just wouldn’t show up

half the time. And then eventually she stopped show

ing up any of the time.

At any rate, having spent over four hours that after

noon doing battle with grime and gunk, after supper

I lay prostrate on the sofa, watching TV. It was almost

ten when Nick phoned. His voice was an instant pickme-up.

‘‘I hope I didn’t wake you,’’ he said.

‘‘Oh, no. I’m a night person. I’ll be up for hours yet.

How was your weekend at the beach with Derek?’’

‘‘Great. He’s a terrific little guy.’’ He laughed. ‘‘And

I’m not the least bit prejudiced, I swear. What about you? Were you able to take some time off from your work to enjoy yourself?’’

‘‘Actually, yes—one evening anyway,’’ I informed

him, hoping this might cause the man to wonder what

I’d been doing that night. And who I’d been doing

it with.

But if Nick was engaging in any wondering, he cov

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Eichler

ered it up quite nicely. ‘‘I’m glad to hear it. Uh, the reason I’m calling, Desiree, is because I’m going to have to break our date for next Saturday.’’

‘‘Oh.’’

‘‘I’m really sorry, but Tiffany is anxious to fly to Las Vegas with her boyfriend tomorrow. He’s in a

rock band—he’s quite a bit younger than Tiffany—

and the group’s been booked at one of the clubs out there. She asked if Derek could stay with me until she

gets back next Sunday, and I couldn’t say no.’’

‘‘Of course not. We can do it another time. How

will you manage with your son, though? Being at work

all day, I mean.’’

‘‘Tiffany thinks of everything,’’ he stated, the merest

hint of sarcasm in his voice. ‘‘She’s arranged for a former nanny of Derek’s to pick him up at school and

bring him here. She’ll prepare his dinner and look

after him until I come home.’’

‘‘Well, then, it doesn’t sound as if there’ll be any problem.’’

‘‘Actually, I’m very happy that Derek will be with

me for so many days. The only thing I regret is having

to cancel with you.’’

‘‘Like I said, we’ll do it another time.’’

Nick thanked me for being so understanding and

said he’d call me soon to reschedule.

Naturally, I was disappointed that I wouldn’t be

seeing Nick this weekend, but I managed to console

myself. After all, it wasn’t as if this thing between us—

whatever it was—was over before it started. We’d be

getting together again before long.

Nevertheless, it
was
something of a letdown, so to take my mind off it—and with the television blaring—

I shifted my focus to Lorraine Corwin. And that’s

when this nagging little doubt took hold of me and

refused to let go.

Yesterday I’d pooh-poohed all of Chief Porchow’s

objections to my explanation of the murder. But this evening, revisiting my conversation with him, I began

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

223

to wonder if perhaps he’d made one point that I’d

been too quick to dismiss.

And while I didn’t actually consider it
crucial
to my theory, I found myself suddenly having second

thoughts. And they were troubling.

In bed that night, a single word kept repeating in

my head:
Why?

It was a long time before I was finally able to drift off into a fitful sleep.

Now, my friend Barbara has always maintained that

when you finally give up (consciously, at any rate)

trying to figure out something that’s been puzzling

you—this is when your brain is apt to start operating at top efficiency.

And damned if my eyes didn’t fly open at around

three thirty a.m.

‘‘Lucrezia Borgia,’’ I said aloud.

Chapter
37

I had, of course, made a colossal mistake.

I’d tried to convince Chief Porchow (and myself, as

well) that Lorraine’s putting on the topaz ring that Sunday could be attributed to her ostentatious nature.

Very likely because it was the only explanation that occurred to me. But as I’d come to appreciate last

night, this really wasn’t logical.

Listen, it was apparent that Bobbie Jean’s murder

had been carefully planned. And while Lorraine might

be incredibly showy, she was also a very sharp lady. So why would she take the time to fiddle with that

ring of hers while carrying out the serious business of poisoning her longtime enemy?

Which question is what led me to the sleep-induced

realization that the ring had be an essential element of Lorraine Corwin’s plot.

I gave thanks to the powers that be that I’d paid

attention in history class the day Mr. Fenstermacher

told us about Lucretia Borgia, that devious member

of fifteenth-(or was it sixteenth-?) century Italian no

bility, who’d employed
her
ring to carry death to her foes. In fact, at the time, I remember thinking what a wonderful idea this was and lining up a few candidates

for future consideration.

Naturally, having experienced this epiphany, it was

impossible for me to fall back to sleep that morning. I was too wound up to even try.

Getting out of bed, I went into the kitchen and

made some coffee. I stood over the glass container,

watching it fill up but not really seeing it. What I
did

MURDER
CAN
RAIN
ON
YOUR
SHOWER

225

see was that enormous topaz ring, its secret compart

ment wide open and packed almost to overflowing

with little shreds of monkshood leaves. I mean, shades

of that Borgia woman!

At any rate, a couple of minutes later, coffee cup

in hand, I sat down at the kitchen table to reconstruct

the crime, making a couple of important changes to

my original assessment.

I could now envision Lorraine emptying the monks

hood from the hidden compartment in her ring into

Bobbie Jean’s salad. What quicker, more efficient way

to dispense a poison? (And how that must have ap

pealed to Lorraine’s flair for the dramatic!) I then

pictured her snapping the compartment shut and hast

ily mixing in the bits of leaves with the gloved fore

finger of her left hand, just as I’d imagined before. This accomplished, she would have hurried across the

hall to the powder room.

Naturally, I couldn’t be sure of her next move. But since there was at least the chance—even if a minis

cule one—that some tiny pieces of monkshood had

found their way onto the exterior of the ring, it was hard to believe the woman would risk transferring it to her bare skin without first taking precautions. So in this updated version of my script, I had her slip the

ring from her pinkie and wash it thoroughly with soap

and hot water—keeping the gloves on for protection,

of course.

And now I played devil’s advocate.
But
what
if
someone
should
happen
to
walk
in
on
her
while
she
was
engaged
in
tidying
up?
I put to myself.
Or
suppose
the
powder
room
attendant
should
notice
her
scrubbing
away
like
that?

I decided this wasn’t a problem. Lorraine could sim

ply claim that she’d just handled this very sticky

hors d’oeuvre.

On second thought, however, it was possible none

of this was necessary. Maybe there was some kind of cleaning solution for the ring sitting in her handbag. Anyway, the rest of the scenario remained pretty

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Selma
Eichler

much unchanged from the original. In the privacy of

a stall, she’d have removed the gloves and deposited them in the plastic bag she carried in her purse. After

which she would have put on the ring again, this time

transferring it to another finger—the third, as I re

called—where it no doubt fit better once the gloves

were eliminated.

I leaned back in the chair at that moment, satisfied that I had it straight at last.

As eager as I was to provide Chief Porchow with

this latest—and accurate—version of the homicide

(plus, as a by-product, dazzle the man with the bril

liance of my reasoning processes), I elected to wait until nine before trying to reach him. I mean, I consid

ered it unlikely that the top guy in the department would have assigned himself to night duty.

Come eight fifty-five, however, I was too antsy to

contain myself any longer. I lifted the receiver.

A funny thing, though. The instant I began dialing

the Forsythe station house, my entire body turned

cold. Suddenly I had the premonition that I’d find

myself up against a brick wall again.

It required a major effort to ignore the invisible

hand that was clutching at my chest. Certainly, I as

sured myself, Chief Porchow would determine that

this new theory had to be explored. . . .

The chief wasn’t in, I was told by the woman who

took the call. A snap of her gum immediately enabled

me to identify the owner of the voice.

‘‘Is he expected today?’’

‘‘Yeah, at around ten thirty. You wanta leave a

message?’’

‘‘Yes, thanks. Would you please tell him that De

siree Shapiro phoned and that it is absolutely
urgent
that I speak to him as soon as he gets in.’’ I gave her my number, after which, at her request, I spelled out my last name—twice. ‘‘Desiree’’ required a third