Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (8 page)

Chapter
8

Allison phoned at around twenty to six.

Damn,
I muttered to myself the instant I heard her voice. But almost immediately I took heart. It seemed

she wasn’t calling to cancel after all.

‘‘I finished at the funeral home before I figured I

would. Would it be all right if we had our meeting ahead of schedule?’’ she asked, her voice tentative.

‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘If I leave my car parked where it is and hop a cab

over to your apartment, I could probably be there in ten minutes.’’

‘‘That’s fine.’’

‘‘Oh, I’m so relieved. That way I can be back in

Greenwich a bit sooner. I didn’t want to just burst in on you, though.’’

Now,
how
do
you
like
that?
I mean, if there’s one thing that irks me more than a person’s being late

for an appointment, it’s a person’s showing up before they’re expected. Listen, I can’t tell you how many

times some damn early bird has caught me either halfdressed or half-coiffed. And once, a couple of years ago—and I can still hardly bear to recall it—I even had to go to the door with a totally naked face.

I already liked Allison Lynton, but after that call

she shot up about a thousand points in my estimation.

Never mind that I happened to be fully clothed,

combed, and made up when she telephoned. Like they

say: It’s the thought that counts.

*

*

*

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I sat in one of the club chairs. Allison was directly across from me, perched on the edge of the sofa, sip

ping coffee. (I’d tried to persuade her to switch to tea—my coffee being a few steps down from sludge.

But she wasn’t a tea drinker. The proffered options

of wine, beer, and soda were also scratched. So, really,

my conscience was clear.)

Anyway, she looked tired, drawn. I had set out a

plate of cheese and crackers, along with an onion tart

that had been stored in the freezer for emergencies. Aside from the coffee, though, it was fairly plain that Allison wouldn’t be touching a thing. This meant that

I had to ignore my own stomach, which was threaten

ing to commence gurgling its complaints at any min

ute. But, listen, I didn’t want Mike’s mother to think I was a glutton or anything.

‘‘How are you feeling?’’ her appearance prompted

me to inquire.

‘‘Worried.’’ She smiled wanly. ‘‘About my friends,

of course, in the event Bobbie Jean’s death should

turn out to be what we’re all praying it wasn’t. But mostly about Wes. I knew his sister’s passing would

be tough on him, but I had no idea he’d take it
this
badly. He’s barely had anything to eat since Sunday.’’

And then about three seconds later, she tagged on,

‘‘Naturally I’m also terribly sad about Bobbie Jean.’’

Well, this mention of the dead woman was so obvi

ously an afterthought that I commented, ‘‘I have an

idea you weren’t too fond of Bobbie Jean.’’

‘‘What makes you think that?’’ I was attempting to

firm up an answer, but Allison held up her palm. ‘‘Never

mind.’’ For a moment her lips stretched into another sad smile. ‘‘My sister-in-law was intelligent and witty, even generous. Actually, she was better company than

most people I know. There were times I was fond of her in spite of myself. I say ‘in spite of myself’ because she was almost completely lacking in any sort of moral code. The truth is, she didn’t care who she stepped on—

or how hard—in order to get what she wanted.’’

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Selma
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‘‘I imagine, then, that she must have alienated an

awful lot of people.’’

‘‘She had quite a talent for it. And speaking of that,

something occurred to me after our conversation this

morning.’’

‘‘What’s that?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Bobbie Jean had had a

few altercations with some of the staff at Silver Oaks.

She could be very demanding. Maybe one of

them
. . . ?’’

‘‘Maybe. But tell me, have you come up with any

one else at the shower who was on less than friendly terms with her? Among the guests, I mean.’’

‘‘I’ve been racking my brain for some additional . . . I suppose I should call them ‘suspects.’ But if there
were
other enemies of Bobbie Jean’s at the shower—and with

my sister-in-law that’s a very real possibility—I’m not aware of it.’’

‘‘I take it she didn’t confide in you.’’

‘‘Not normally, no. But there were occasions when

she realized that I had to have learned of her most recent transgression, and she was worried that I might

tattle to Wes. So she’d initiate a heart-to-heart talk with me—or I should say, her version of one—in order

to defend her actions. You see, her brother was the only person in the world whose opinion really mat

tered to Bobbie Jean. She needn’t have been con

cerned, though. I avoided discussing her with Wes.

Her behavior not only upset him greatly, but we al

most invariably wound up in an argument. However,

when your conduct is that blatant, that
dreadful,
the word is bound to get around. So in spite of my keep

ing quiet, I’m afraid my husband wasn’t spared very

much.’’

‘‘He found out what had occurred between Bobbie

Jean and those four friends of yours?’’

Nodding, Allison set her cup on the table between

us. I looked down. She couldn’t have taken more than

four or five sips. Which, come to think of it, is more of my coffee than most people can manage.

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‘‘And I take it he was disturbed by whatever it was

she did to them?’’

‘‘He was appalled. He even persuaded her to see a

therapist a number of years back—for all the good

that did. Nevertheless, my husband constantly ended

up making excuses for her. He attributed his sister’s actions to the circumstances of her childhood, and evi

dently her analyst concurred. Whatever the cause,

though, the fact of the matter is that Bobbie Jean was

a sexual predator.’’

‘‘
A
sexual
predator?
What was so wrong with her childhood?’’

‘‘Their mother—hers and Wes’s—passed away when

she was only five. And apparently Bobbie Jean was

devastated—she’d been devoted to the woman. The

father was a wealthy businessman. He died less than a

year after Wes and I were married, but I can certainly

confirm my husband’s contention that he was an ex

tremely cold person. Also, it seems that when the chil

dren were growing up, the man was so consumed with

making money that he had very little time to spare

for them. And to make matters worse, Wes, who was

ten years older than Bobbie Jean, was away at prep

school and then college during most of her formative years. She was raised by a series of nannies, and from

what I understand, she never really bonded with any

of them.

‘‘According to Wes—and here again the analyst

reached the same conclusion—his sister, feeling as

alienated and unloved as she did, developed very low self-esteem.’’ Something closely resembling a sneer

crept into Allison’s voice as she said, ‘‘Her emergence

into the sort of woman she eventually became was

supposedly the result of a desperate search for love.’’

Now, granted Bobbie Jean’s early life fell short of

being idyllic. But as far as I was concerned, that didn’t

earn her any God-given right to be a bitch for the rest

of her days. I have this thing about our being responsi

ble for our own actions, regardless of the baggage we carry around. ‘‘Listen,’’ I remarked, ‘‘maybe the Bos

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Selma
Eichler

ton Strangler wasn’t blessed with such a hotsy-totsy

childhood, either. And who knows what kind of par

ents Fidel Castro had. Or how much affection was

lavished on little Josef Stalin, for that matter.’’

‘‘Exactly. But long ago I gave up trying to make

that point with my husband. I’m certain he blames

himself to a great degree for having been away from home so much of the time when Bobbie Jean was

little. He did approach his dad about attending a col

lege here in New York, but his father was adamant

that he go to Yale.’’

‘‘Are you sure I can’t get you something else to

drink?’’ I said then. ‘‘Something cold, maybe?’’

‘‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’’ Allison glanced at her

watch. ‘‘And I do have to be getting back to Con

necticut.’’

Well, I realized I’d promised both Allison and my

self that our meeting would be brief. But at this junc

ture we hadn’t even touched on the topic I considered

most crucial to my investigation. ‘‘I won’t detain you much longer. But if you could just fill me in on the nature of your friends’ grievances against Bobbie

Jean . . .’’

Allison’s expression communicated that she was not

exactly delighted to comply. ‘‘You know, it occurred

to me during the drive to Manhattan that I wouldn’t be able to give you a truly accurate picture of what actually transpired in any of those cases. None of the events were that recent, and I’ve no doubt forgotten many of the details. I think it would be best if you spoke to the women themselves. I’m sure they’d have

no problem revealing to you precisely how Bobbie

Jean messed up their lives.’’

‘‘But
you
do? Have some problem with discussing these matters with me, I mean.’’

‘‘It isn’t that. I really don’t recall just what went on.’’

Naturally, I was skeptical—to say the least. I figured

Allison was disinclined to relate information that

might conceivably give one—or all—of her buddies a

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51

strong motive for doing away with the deceased. Plus,

some of her reticence could also stem from a desire to avoid besmirching the memory of her dead sisterin-law—any more than she already had, that is—

mostly, I felt, out of loyalty to Wes.

Still, if I was able to convince Allison to provide me with even a vague idea of what dire deed Bobbie Jean had done to each of my suspects, it could prove helpful. Suppose, for example, that one of these ladies

was resistant to meeting with me. I could come back at her with something like, ‘‘You might as well talk to me. I’ve already discovered that Bobbie Jean de

frauded you of a million dollars.’’ Or whatever. What I’m trying to say is that anything I learned today might

provide me with some leverage in the future.

However, being that I regarded Allison Lynton as a

decent sort of person who was in a very uncomfortable

position, I was reluctant to badger her. But I managed

to overcome the reluctance. ‘‘Look, I’ll be frank. I’m hoping I’m wrong, but I’m now pretty much convinced

that Bobbie Jean’s death was premeditated murder. If

you would just tell me the
kind
of thing she pulled in each instance, it could make a difference in my

investigation.’’

‘‘Kind of thing?’’ Allison echoed.

‘‘Did your sister-in-law, the sexual predator, wreck

any marriages? Seduce a boyfriend or two? Or what?

It isn’t necessary that you go into the nitty-gritty. You

can speak in general terms.’’ And here I threw in what

must have been the clincher: ‘‘I’m sure your husband’s

primary concern right now is to find out what hap

pened to his sister.’’

Allison didn’t say anything immediately, probably

because she was still wrestling with herself about how

much she
should
say. But at last she murmured, ‘‘I may as well start with Lorraine. You remember, she’s

the very tall woman with the big hat.’’

Yeah.
The
one
who
was
so
taken
with
me,
I thought sarcastically. But I merely nodded.

‘‘Bobbie Jean made a play—a successful play—for