Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (36 page)

and then canceling our plans for this Saturday, I

haven’t caused you to miss out on something else.’’

Now, I don’t know for sure why I did it. I have a suspicion, though, that most women come into this

world equipped with this special gene that prevents

them from overlooking an opportunity like the one

I’d just been handed. Anyhow, after a slight—but

meaningful—pause, I proceeded to protest too much.

‘‘Oh, no. Don’t give it another thought. Please. I as

sure you I didn’t pass up anything important.’’

‘‘That’s good,’’ Nick said evenly. But I have a feel

ing this was because there really wasn’t much else he
could
say.

The conversation ended with Nick’s promise to call

the following week. He was anxious, he said, to set up another date as soon as he was certain his ex was, in fact, back in town.

The grin was still on my face when I curled up in one of the living room chairs with a mystery by a

‘‘highly talented’’ new author. One of the attorneys at

Gilbert and Sullivan had insisted on lending it to me.

‘‘You
must
read it. It’s absolutely wonderful,’’ she’d gushed. I swear, the woman practically had it winning

the Edgar. Less than an hour later I put down the

book in disgust. I didn’t object to all those dead bodies

piling up, but the writer’s throwing in a dead
animal?

Well, that’s where I drew the line. (Okay, so I’m

weird.)

I was about to switch on the TV when the phone rang.

‘‘Ms. Desiree Shapiro?’’ an unfamiliar male voice

inquired.

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‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘There’s something I need to ask you.’’

‘‘Who is this?’’

‘‘I can’t tell you that. Not until you answer a ques

tion for me.’’

‘‘A question?’’ I repeated stupidly.

‘‘That’s right. Suppose I know something about

what took place at Silver Oaks a couple of weeks ago.

That’s not to say I actually
do
know anything. But, for argument’s sake, let’s say that I do. Understand?’’

‘‘Uh, sure, I understand. What’s your question?’’

My heart was pounding so loudly that I could barely hear my own words.

‘‘If it so happened that I
could
provide you with that information, would you have to give the cops

my name?’’

Afraid of scaring the man off, I thought it best not to respond to this directly. ‘‘Are you in some sort of trouble with the law? Is that why you don’t want to identify yourself?’’ I was making these little clicking sounds when I spoke, the kind that come from your

mouth’s being bone dry.

My caller was indignant. ‘‘For your information,

lady, I’ve never gotten so much as a parking ticket.’’

‘‘Well, why won’t you—? Wait. Are you in this

country illegally or something? Is that it?’’

‘‘Do I
sound
like I am, for crying out loud?’’

‘‘No, but—’’

‘‘I was born in the good ole U.S. of America.’’ This

proud declaration was followed by a short span of

silence. Then: ‘‘But . . . well, there could be a problem

about my girlfriend, who lives with me—we’ve been

together over two years now. She’s an illegal. From

Central America.’’

‘‘Listen, I’ll be honest with you. The police
would
require that I give them your name. In fact, they’d no

doubt want to speak to you themselves. But they

couldn’t be less interested in your girlfriend’s immigra

tion status, honestly. Besides, I can’t see any reason for them to even learn she exists.’’

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ON
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‘‘But if they
do
find out about Marisol, would they report her to the INS?’’

‘‘Only if she robbed a bank.’’

The man laughed halfheartedly. Following which

there was another brief silence. Then he conceded

with a certain amount of resignation, ‘‘I guess Domi

nick had it straight after all—Dominick Gallo, I mean.

The two of us are waiters at Silver Oaks, and Dom’s been on my case to do what he calls ‘the right thing’

since this happened. ‘Maybe she put something in this

Mrs. Morton’s water glass or fooled around with her

salad,’ he said when I told him what I’d seen. But this

was even before the police had any idea what caused her death. And then while he was away on vacation,

Dom heard from one or two of the other waiters that

Mrs. Morton really had been poisoned. And right

away he got on the horn to bug me about spilling

what I knew. But charity begins at home, correct?’’

‘‘Yes, but your coming forward won’t affect your

home situation. Anyway, I’m glad you finally got in

touch with me.’’

‘‘Hey, after you convinced my buddy that the dead

lady practically walked on water, forget about it. He wouldn’t let up. I used to be married to this incredible

nag, Ms. Shapiro, but trust me, these last coupla days Dom’s been making her look like a mute. Anyway,

he kept yammering at me that I was worrying for

nothing. And I did feel bad that, in a way, I was allowing somebody to get away with murder—particu

larly once I found out that the victim was such a good

person. Dom finally persuaded me to at least give you

a call and talk to you.’’

‘‘I hope I’ve managed to reassure you.’’

To my surprise, there was no further hesitation. At

this point the man simply went into his story. ‘‘On the

day of the murder, I was just walking into the dining room with the condiments when I saw somebody

ducking out the side door—the staff uses the back

entrance. I didn’t get a look at the woman’s face, but she was tall—very tall—and she was wearing a black

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and-white outfit with a real short skirt. And oh, yeah, she had on this huge black hat.’’

‘‘And this was after the salads had been

distributed?’’

‘‘Yeah. Maybe five, ten minutes later. To be on the

safe side, though, I’d put the time I spotted her as between one o’clock, which is approximately when we

finished laying out the salads, and one fifteen or even one twenty—that’s about when everyone came in to

lunch.’’

Hallelujah!
I could have kissed the guy—whoever he was. Which reminded me:
Who
was
he?

‘‘Uh, I can’t thank you enough for your help,

Mr.—?’’

‘‘Dreher. Frank Dreher. And listen, I’m really sorry

for not leveling with you when you questioned all of us at the club that day. I didn’t like lying like that, but well, there was the situation with Marisol and—’’

‘‘The important thing,’’ I said, only too happy to

give him absolution, ‘‘is that you made up for it

tonight.’’

Well, here it was. The confirmation I needed.

I felt like singing at the top of my lungs. I felt like twirling around the room until I collapsed from ex

haustion. But since I happen to be a tone-deaf klutz, I remained seated and picked up the phone instead.

It was very unlikely Porchow would still be at the

station, but certainly somebody there could get in

touch with him and have him contact me.

I laid the phone back down.

What if the chief didn’t consider the evidence of

that sterling American citizen Frank Dreher up to his standards, either?

I mean, he could always cite an innocent reason for

Lorraine’s having been in the dining room then. Like maybe she’d merely stepped in for a second to check on the seating arrangements.

And this is when I realized there was no other way.

I had to get my hands on that topaz ring.

Chapter
39

In view of the fact that I was about to embark

on a mission, I didn’t go into the office on Wednes

day. I did, however, remember to notify Jackie of

my intention to play hooky. (I like to think I

reported in to her because this was the courteous

thing to do—and not a result of my being just plain chicken.)

At any rate, I phoned Lorraine Corwin at her office

at about ten, and she acted as if we’d been in touch on a regular basis.

‘‘Hi, Dez,’’ she said casually, ‘‘what’s up?’’

‘‘I have to see you, Lorraine.’’

‘‘Sounds serious. Can you give me a little hint as to

what it’s about?’’

‘‘Allison.’’

‘‘I don’t understand.’’

‘‘I suppose you’re aware that the police are now

looking at Allison for her sister-in-law’s murder.’’

But she wasn’t. Aware, I mean. Apparently—and

understandably—Allison hadn’t been too anxious to

disclose the reason she’d come under suspicion, not

even to her closest friends.

‘‘Oh, my God,’’ Lorraine whispered. And then she all

but bellowed, ‘‘How the hell did they come up with
that,
for Christ’s sake! Never mind. When do you want to

get together? I could meet you after work, say about five, five thirty?’’

Well, that wouldn’t do at all. ‘‘I can’t make it then. I have an appointment that should last until eight

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o’clock. I could stop off at your apartment at around eight thirty, though, if that’s okay with you.’’

‘‘Then eight thirty, it is.’’

In the early afternoon I went down to the jewelry

district on West Forty-seventh Street and canvassed

the stores for a very large topaz ring. At the fifth shop

I found one of fairly decent dimensions—although not

quite in the category of Lorraine’s colossus. But I fig

ured that if a person wasn’t really that focused on the

ring, it just might serve my purpose. Anyhow, after a great deal of haggling, I got the price reduced to three

hundred ten dollars.

When I left with my new acquisition, the merchant’s

thundering voice followed me out onto the sidewalk.

‘‘You’re a thief, lady, you know that? You committed

highway robbery here today!’’

Sitting in the taxi that evening, on my quest to ‘‘bor

row’’ the murder ring, I was about as nervous as I’ve ever been in my life. I patted my handbag. Nestled

inside, ready for action (heaven forbid!), was my

trusty little .32-caliber security blanket, which I almost

never carry and would probably faint if I had to fire. Still, it was a comfort to know it was there.

I suppose it would have been smart to review my

strategy. Only I didn’t exactly have one. The extent of my plan had been, first, to gain access to Lorraine’s

apartment, which I was about to do. Then I’d have to

learn where she kept her jewelry and somehow man

age to substitute today’s purchase for the real thing in order to delay the woman’s discovering that her

own ring was missing. These matters accomplished,

I’d do my damnedest to persuade Porchow to submit

Lorraine’s weapon of choice to toxicology.

Now, as to explaining to him how the ring had come

into my possession, the truth is, I hadn’t an idea in my head. At that point I also refused to contemplate any of the other issues that, sooner or later, could be staring me in the face. Such as what I’d do if I was

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SHOWER

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unable to locate the thing or if the good chief declined

to have it tested or if the toxicologists failed to find any evidence of monkshood on it. I did concede, how

ever, that in the latter two instances I’d have to dream

up some sneaky way to return the ring—and, with any

luck, before Lorraine realized that it wasn’t the genu

ine article lying there in her jewelry box or drawer or wherever.

But I’d worry about all that stuff when I had to. I mean, that ring was my one shot at apprehending Bob

bie Jean’s killer. So I was going to get ahold of it—

or die trying. (Although, hopefully, only in a manner of speaking.)

The cab pulled up in front of one of those stately old buildings on the Upper West Side that, with some

help from Publishers Clearing House, I’m looking for

ward to living in one day. The doorman advised me

that Ms. Corwin was expecting me and indicated the