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Authors: Selma Eichler
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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
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
57
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
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
MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
57
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
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