Free Murder Can Rain on Your Shower by Selma Eichler

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.
    I had better luck with Robin’s daughter. She was
    between patients when I dialed the Manhattan dental
    office where she was employed as a hygienist.
    Replying to my question, the girl told me she’d just
    been handed a message slip with the notation that
    Allison had phoned her at around eleven. But having
    been tied up until about five minutes ago, Carla hadn’t
    gotten back to her yet. ‘‘To be truthful, I was a little surprised that she telephoned me here; we don’t really
    talk that often.’’
    ‘‘I was under the impression that in addition to
    being distant cousins, you’re also good friends.’’
    ‘‘Oh, we are. We’re just not in constant touch, that’s
    all. Allison and my mother are very close, though—
    MURDER CAN RAIN ON YOUR SHOWER
    59
    dating from when I was still toddling around in dia
    pers—and the two of them are always yakking on
    the phone.’’
    I explained the reason Allison was attempting to
    contact her.
    ‘‘Is it definite then?’’ She sounded excited, almost
    ghoulish.
    ‘‘Is what definite?’’ I inquired, just to be certain I hadn’t misinterpreted the question.
    ‘‘That Bobbie Jean was poisoned?’’
    ‘‘No, it’s not definite, but it is pretty likely.’’ And I proceeded to go into my spiel about how important it
    was that I start checking things out before too much time went by.
    Well, Carla was more than willing to sit down with
    me. In fact, unless I was very much mistaken, the word
    was ‘‘eager.’’ No doubt she was unable to resist this opportunity to rant to a brand-new set of ears about the woman who’d appropriated her husband.
    The only problem was that Carla’s job prevented
    her from meeting with me during the day. And she
    already had previous engagements for both tonight
    and tomorrow night that she didn’t feel comfortable
    canceling. Plus—delaying things even further—she
    would be going out of town for the entire weekend
    when she finished work on Friday.
    We left it that she would stop by my apartment on
    Monday at seven p.m.
    Just before five I gave Robin another try—no an
    swer yet. After which I headed home.
    Then, following a quick supper, I dressed for that
    evening’s sad event.
    There must have been a couple of hundred people
    gathered at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home to
    attend the viewing. Most of them wore dark clothes
    and somber expressions and spoke in hushed tones.
    But I had my doubts that more than a handful of them
    truly mourned the deceased.
    60
    Selma Eichler
    Standing on tiptoe, I was searching for someone I
    knew in the jam-packed room when I spied Wes Lyn
    ton about ten yards away. He was having a conversa
    tion with a short, squat man and a shorter, squatter woman. I was just about to start planting my elbows in some ribs in order to reach him when suddenly the
    crowd between us dispersed for two or three seconds,
    and Wes spotted me, too. He held up his forefinger,
    which I read as, ‘‘Be with you in a minute.’’ And after
    a few words to the people he was standing with, he made his way toward me.
    ‘‘Desiree,’’ he said, his arms outstretched, ‘‘how nice
    of you to be here.’’ I gave him a brief hug and mum
    bled my condolences.
    Now, the one other time I’d met Mike’s father, I’d
    been instantly struck by his aristocratic good looks. A
    tall man and slender, his only slightly thinning hair was a beautiful silver, like his wife’s. His brown eyes were warm and intelligent, his Roman nose the perfect
    fit for his arresting, angular face. I recall thinking at the time that if I had to cast a wealthy and successful physician of sixty or so, I’d do my damnedest to snag Wes