Murder Can Rain on Your Shower (9 page)

52

Selma
Eichler

Lorraine’s fiance´. Actually, the two of them even

moved in together for a while.’’

‘‘I gather that ended the engagement.’’

‘‘It did,’’ Allison said flatly.

‘‘What happened with Robin Fremont?’’

‘‘Bobbie Jean set her sights on Carla’s husband.

And before long Roy became Bobbie Jean’s husband

number two.’’

‘‘I suppose that’s also the reason Carla felt as she did about Bobbie Jean.’’

‘‘Can you blame her?’’

‘‘Of course not. Bobbie Jean and Roy eventually

divorced, though.’’

‘‘No, he was killed in a car crash less than a year into the marriage.’’

‘‘Umm, Mike mentioned that there was something

else Robin held against your sister-in-law, apart from Bobbie Jean’s wrecking her daughter’s marriage.’’

‘‘Oh,
that
. In light of all of Bobbie Jean’s other transgressions, it’s really pretty minor.’’ Allison hesi

tated for a moment before adding resignedly, ‘‘I imag

ine you want to hear about it anyway, though.’’

‘‘Please.’’

‘‘Well, when Bobbie Jean was in her twenties, she

claimed that she caught Robin in a me´nage a` trois with the Fremonts’ gardener and pool boy. Robin,

however, insisted that it was Bobbie Jean who was

part of that precious trio.’’

‘‘I assume you believed Robin’s version.’’

‘‘Considering my sister-in-law’s past, it was no

contest.’’

Naturally, I could see where Robin would have been

furious at Bobbie Jean for fabricating a tale like that. But angry enough to commit murder? And over some

thing that took place so long ago? Uh-uh. I moved

on. ‘‘Incidentally, whatever happened to Bobbie

Jean’s first husband?’’

‘‘Lyle Polansky? The marriage lasted less than three

months. That was twenty-five years ago, and she

hadn’t seen or heard from him since. Bobbie Jean

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used to say that she realized it had been a big mistake

from the instant they said their I-do’s.’’ Allison peered

at her watch again. ‘‘I really must be going.’’

‘‘I understand. But I’d appreciate it if you could

spare just a minute or two to tell me about Grace

Banner.’’

She heaved a deep sigh. ‘‘All right. But I definitely have to be on my way after that.’’

‘‘Thank you,’’ I murmured.

‘‘For a short time Bobbie Jean and the Banners—

Grace and her husband—co-owned a restaurant. After

about a year Bobbie Jean got this notion that the

other two had been engaging in some financial hanky

panky. And she took them to court. She lost, but

Grace and Karl felt that the action against them had caused irreparable damage to their reputations, so

they sued Bobbie Jean for slander. They also lost.’’

‘‘Is there a chance your sister-in-law was right, that there
was
something fishy going on?’’

‘‘None. She was mistaken. Grace and Karl Banner

are good people,
honest
people. Anything question

able that was going on at that restaurant was strictly in Bobbie Jean’s head.’’

And with this, Allison reached for the handbag on

the seat cushion alongside her, obviously preparing

to rise.

Now, I hated to detain her any further, but I felt I had no choice. ‘‘Just one more question,’’ I put in hurriedly, experiencing, even as I said this, what must have been guilt pangs. (Unless, of course, they were hunger pains.) ‘‘What became of husband number

three?’’

‘‘Geoffrey Morton had a heart attack six months

ago and made Bobbie Jean a widow for the second

time,’’ Allison informed me tersely.

‘‘How many years had they been married?’’

‘‘Close to three. They separated three or four

months before he died, though—a ‘trial separation,’

they called it.’’

‘‘So they might have gotten together again.’’

54

Selma
Eichler

‘‘There was that possibility.’’

‘‘You sound skeptical.’’

‘‘I was hoping they could work things out. I even

thought that a stable relationship might put an end to

my sister-in-law’s destructive behavior. But I can’t

really say that I was overly optimistic about a

reconciliation.’’

At this juncture Allison very purposefully picked up

her handbag. But before she was able to make her

escape, I managed to squeeze in a few other questions.

‘‘Why is that?’’

‘‘Because there was so much friction in the

marriage.’’

‘‘Friction?’’ I repeated, keeping my fingers crossed

that she’d expand on this.

‘‘Geoffrey was British,’’ she added then, ‘‘and at

first Bobbie Jean attributed all their difficulties to liv

ing in England. She didn’t care for it there.’’

‘‘But there was more to it than that?’’

‘‘Apparently.’’ I wasn’t at all sure Allison would say

anything further. However—and you could tell this

was almost against her will—she went on. ‘‘Bobbie

Jean convinced Geoffrey to ask for a transfer to his company’s New York office. And two years before his

death they pulled up stakes and moved to Long Island.

Unfortunately, though, the move wasn’t the cure-all

she’d been counting on.’’

At last a determined-looking Allison got to her feet.

‘‘I appreciate all the time you’ve given me,’’ I said sheepishly. ‘‘It wasn’t my intention to keep you here this long, honestly.’’

‘‘Well, at any rate, now you have an idea of what

transpired between Bobbie Jean and those friends of

mine.’’ She screwed up her mouth. ‘‘Although some

friend I turned out to be, right?’’

I didn’t think a response was expected, and anyhow,

I didn’t know what to say to this. ‘‘Umm, I’m going to need the telephone numbers of those women from

you,’’ I brought up instead. ‘‘I’ll be contacting them to schedule appointments. And, Allison? It would be

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ON
YOUR
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55

really helpful if you’d phone them and request that

they agree to see me. Uh, and if you could do it as soon as possible . . . ?’’

‘‘I’ll make the calls in the morning.’’

Minutes later we were standing at the half-open

door.

Allison looked so forlorn that, for her sake, I forced

myself to voice what I’d been refusing to allow myself

to so much as think about since Sunday.

I broached the subject with, ‘‘It might be worthwhile

if you tried coming up with the names of other people

who have had problems with your sister-in-law. I’m

referring to people who didn’t attend the shower.’’

‘‘I don’t understand.’’

‘‘Well, we’ll probably know more when the autopsy

report comes in, but there’s always the chance that a slow-acting poison had been administered to Bobbie

Jean days or even weeks earlier.’’

In a case like that, of course, the list of suspects could be practically endless. And this was particularly true when you had a victim like Bobbie Jean Morton.

But Allison brightened. ‘‘I’ll do that,’’ she said,

sounding upbeat for the first time that evening.

I, on the other hand, was—for obvious reasons—

not at all happy with this theory.

In fact, I was feeling pretty damn queasy as I closed

the door behind her.

Chapter
9

I had to give Allison time to contact those four sus

pects and pave the way for me. So somehow I man

aged to keep my itchy forefinger away from the

telephone dial all of Wednesday morning.

However, at precisely two o’clock—which is when I got

back from lunch—I couldn’t contain myself any longer.

I kicked off with a call to Lorraine Corwin, mostly because I wanted to get that one over with. I mean, not only did I have a decidedly negative impression

of Ms. Corwin, but I figured her to require some

heavy-duty persuasion when it came to scheduling an

appointment with me.

I was so wrong.

After reminding her we’d met at the shower (I

couldn’t say, ‘‘almost met,’’ could I?) and that I was Ellen’s aunt, I explained that I was a PI looking into Bobbie Jean’s death.

‘‘I remember you. You’re the woman with the beau

tiful red hair.’’

I almost fell off the chair.

‘‘Well, thank you. Uh, I suppose you’ve spoken to

Allison today,’’ I said, as, almost of its own volition, my hand went to my head and began playing with my

sticky, oversprayed coiffure.

‘‘No, why?’’

‘‘She was going to request that you get together

with me to talk about Bobbie Jean.’’ I hastily threw in the usual lie: ‘‘I won’t take up much of your time.’’

‘‘Could be Allison did phone. I’ve been out of the

office all day—I just this second walked in—and I

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haven’t had a chance to check my messages yet. When

would you like to have this talk?’’

‘‘As soon as you can make it.’’

Lorraine’s tone was regretful. ‘‘I can’t do it today anymore. Is tomorrow okay?’’

‘‘Fine. What time?’’

‘‘I live here in the city, so I’m pretty flexible. I’d really prefer it if we could make it around eight

o’clock, though, if that’s all right with you.’’

‘‘Sure.’’

‘‘We could meet for coffee,’’ she suggested, men

tioning a coffee shop on West Fifty-second Street,

near her workplace. ‘‘They make a great cuppa, and

they don’t care how long you sit around.’’

‘‘Sounds ideal. Well, see you tomorrow night.’’

The receiver was more than halfway to its cradle

when Lorraine shouted something.

I quickly brought it up to my ear again. ‘‘What

was that?’’

‘‘I meant eight in the
morning
—before work.’’

‘‘Oh. That’s even better.’’

But I hung up grousing to myself.
Eight
in
the
morn

ing?
Who
sets
something
up
for
that
hour,
anyway?

(Listen, I’m lucky if I can drag my behind out of the apartment in time to get to the office by nine thirty. Which only happens on my good days.)

Well, I did say that I wanted to get together as soon

as possible.

Still, my initial dislike for Lorraine Corwin momen

tarily flared up again. I mean,
eight
a.m.?
The woman had to be crazy! Regardless of her appreciation of my

glorious hennaed hair.

I reached Grace Banner at work—she was a sales

person at a leather goods store in Greenwich. She’d

already been contacted by Allison and would have no

problem telling me whatever I wanted to know about

her relationship with Bobbie Jean.

‘‘But do you really think she was
poisoned
?’’ she ventured timidly.

58

Selma
Eichler

‘‘It hasn’t been ruled out. And the thing is, if it should turn out that she
was
murdered, it’s more likely that the killer will be identified if the investigation begins now, while the evidence and everyone’s recol

lection of that day are still fresh.’’

‘‘I understand. Do you have any idea when we’ll

find out for sure what happened to her?’’

‘‘It’s hard to predict. It could be today; it could take months.’’

‘‘Oh, my.’’

‘‘Listen, would it be possible to arrange something

for tomorrow? I could drive up to Connecticut.’’

‘‘You don’t have to do that. As it turns out, Thurs

day’s my day off, and for weeks now I’ve been looking

for an excuse to come into Manhattan for some

shopping.’’

It was agreed that Grace would be at my office at

three thirty.

That’s three thirty
p.m.,
of course.

Robin Fremont wasn’t home, and I elected not to

leave word on her answering machine. As difficult as

it is to believe, not everyone is so pleased to hear from me that they’re motivated to return my call. I would try her again later.