Desiree Shapiro’s niece, Ellen, will soon be saying, “I do.” So Manhattan’s pudgiest P.I. teams up with Ellen’s future mother-in-law, eager to give the bride a truly memorable shower. And memorable, it is. After all, when a guest takes a few bites of her salad, then promptly keels over, it’s not something anyone present is likely to forget.
Naturally, being a dedicated foodie, Desiree knows plenty of “to die for” dishes, but a green salad isn’t one of them. And once she begins to look into the victim’s death—and life—Desiree is convinced she’s dealing with a homicide. And that a number of backbiting society ladies had every reason to want to scheming, man-hungry Bobbie Jean dead. Meanwhile, Desiree has a new love interest. But in her book, romance takes a back seat to murder. Especially when the police are perilously close to arresting an innocent woman for the crime.
Includes a tasty new recipe from desiree shapiro!
Ellen's bridal shower.
It has to be really, really special, I'd been reminding myself from the instant the planning began. After all, this was a very important day in the life of my favorite (and only) niece.
And special it was.
This, however, had nothing to do with the ambience—although you couldn't have asked for a setting lovelier than the Silver Oaks Country Club. With its stately Colonial-style mansion set high up on a sweeping, impeccably groomed front lawn, the place looked like something straight out of Gone with the Wind, for heaven's sake.
It had nothing to do with the food, either. Even though my cohostess and I had agonized over the menu options for hours. And every dish—from the filet mignon and salmon Florentine to the three dessert choices—was, I expect, very tastefully prepared. The fact is, as it turned out, our painstaking efforts and the kitchen's expertise went equally unappreciated.
And it certainly wasn't the gifts that made this event so memorable. All of that extravagant silver and china and crystal, in company with the requisite cookware and toaster ovens (there were three of these), remained in their beribboned wrappings, unopened. Not destined to catch so much as a single light ray on this sunshiney mid-August afternoon.
No.
What did make this an affair that no one who attended is likely to forget was something horrific, chilling—unimaginable.
It happened right in the middle of the salad course.
Suddenly, the woman seated directly across from me dropped her fork and pitched forward on her elegant, damask-covered chair, uttering strange, guttural sounds and snatching frantically at her throat.
And at that moment Ellen's bridal shower turned into a death watch.
Chapter 1
I'd been practically wired on my way over to Ellen's that Sunday morning. I mean, I wanted so much for her to be surprised by the bridal shower that Allison Lynton—mother of the bridegroom—and I were throwing for her. And of course, there was a better than even chance that some blabbermouth had already managed to give the whole thing away.
As soon as Ellen got in the car, though, I could tell from her expression, which was more or less placid—for Ellen, anyway—that she had no idea what had been planned.
Weeks ago Allison's future sister-in-law, Bobbie Jean—a member of Silver Oaks—had telephoned her, ostensibly to extend an invitation to lunch at her club. ``We have to start getting to know each other,'' the woman had declared—they'd met only once before at a gathering of some kind. ``After all, in a few months we'll be family. And speaking of family, your future mother-in-law—she'll be there, too, of course—tells me you have an aunt in Manhattan you're very close to—a private investigator, she said. I'd like to have her join us if she can make it.''
And now, here we were, driving out to Forsythe, Long Island—and Ellen's surprise.
In spite of her comparative equanimity when we'd greeted each other, it didn't take long before she began to fret. Which was predictable. I swear, Ellen wouldn't be Ellen if she didn't continually find ways of inflicting herself with agita. ``I hope Bobbie Jean likes me—she's Mike's only aunt,'' she murmured, Mike being Ellen's almost-husband.
``Why wouldn't she like you?'' I countered.
``I don't know—chemistry maybe. You never can tell about those things.'' After about five seconds of silence, which were accompanied by a couple of barely audible sighs, she was able to find something else to pick away at. (And believe it or not, Ellen is really much less of a worrywart than she'd been before love came into her life.) ``Maybe I should have stuck with the brown.''
``What brown?''
``The brown two-piece linen,'' she responded in a voice that told me she'd expected me to divine what brown. ``I tried it on before the turquoise this morning. And I really liked the way it looked on me—when I first get into it, anyway. But then five minutes later, you would have thought I'd been sleeping in it for a week.''
Oh, I see. We're talking about a dress. ``What you're wearing is perfect,'' I responded, reaching over and patting the cotton suit skirt. ``Turquoise is a wonderful color for you.''
``Do you really think so?''
``Absolutely.''
``It's as flattering as the brown?''
I gritted my teeth. ``More so.''
Now, why my niece is so unsure of herself I'll never be able to figure out. Listen, if I were the one who looked like Audrey Hepburn I'd thumb my nose at the world and wear orange with purple polka dots if I felt like it.
As it was, though, I had on a conservative powder-blue A-line. I mean, not having been blessed with Ellen's bone structure and being a little more than a little overweight, I consider it only prudent to forgo orange outfits with purple polka dots.
A good ten seconds passed before Ellen became anxious again. ``I really don't know Allison—Mike's mother—all that well, either.''
``But you did say that she's a very nice woman.''
``She seems to be. Still...''
``And I'm sure she is a very nice woman. So will you please relax for a few minutes and stop driving us both crazy?''
``I'm sorry. It's only that I do want Mike's family to like me.''
``And they will.'' I smiled encouragement. ``How can they help it?''
For most of the rest of the trip Ellen was pretty quiet. While it couldn't have been easy for her, I think she finally ran out of nervous-making material. At any rate, it was just past noon when we drove up the magnificent front driveway of the Silver Oaks Country Club.
``Wow,'' Ellen murmured, craning her neck to take in all she could. ``Wow,'' she said again.
A minute or two later the parking attendant relieved us of my Chevy. Ellen was still glancing around as we walked toward the front door. There was something akin to reverence in her tone when she murmured, ``What a beautiful place. I'll bet lunch here will be quite an experience.''
How right she was.
Chapter 2
I was reaching for the doorknob when the door swung open from the inside.
``We're joining Mrs. Morton for lunch,'' I told the smiling, well-groomed strawberry blonde with her hand on the knob.
``Of course. Right this way, please.''
We followed the woman down a winding corridor, at the end of which was a richly burnished wooden door. She pulled it open, then stepped aside. I gave Ellen a little push over the threshold.
``SURPRISE!'' exploded around us.
We were in a long, somewhat narrow rectangular space just off the closed dining room. And seventy-three enthusiastic ladies with good, strong voices had gathered here to fete my niece. But it took some time before this registered on Ellen. I could almost hear her thinking Surprise? What surprise? Then Allison rushed over to embrace her, and after that a pretty fair portion of the other women present closed in on her, pecking away at her cheeks and squeezing various parts of her person and demanding to know if she'd suspected anything. And somewhere along the line she got the message that she was the guest of honor, that this was her surprise.
Ellen was still attempting to collect herself when her mother-in-law-to-be removed a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and pressed it into her hand. ``You look like you can use this,'' she announced. ``You, too, Desiree.'' She snatched up a second glass for me and then one for herself. ``Let's not forget the mother of the groom.''
For a few minutes Ellen continued to hold court, although her loyal subjects were already proving themselves to be not all that loyal. Doubtless because in addition to the champagne, there were now trays laden with mini crabcakes, tiny potato puffs, and bite-size quiches to compete for one's attention. A number of Ellen's friends and coworkers at the store—Ellen's a buyer at Macy's—had just disengaged themselves from the group when Bobbie Jean joined us.
An attractive, if somewhat flashy platinum blonde, Bobbie Jean was on the short side and quite thin, although very buxom, her stretchy lime green V-necked top barely managing to make it across her chest. I wondered idly what kind of bra she had on. I mean, the thing pushed her breasts up practically to her chin. Obviously, Bobbie Jean didn't have any qualms when it came to showing off her gift from Mother Nature. Which, I conjectured, might have contributed in some small way to the lady's having acquired three husbands—so far.
``Bobbie Jean—who's soon to be your Aunt Bobbie Jean—worked very hard to make today a success,'' Allison apprised Ellen.
Ellen gushed her thanks, and the four of us visited for a couple of minutes. Suddenly Ellen was enveloped in an enthusiastic bear hug, courtesy of the good buddy she always refers to as ``Ginger, who lives in my building.'' (I don't recall my niece's ever mentioning Ginger without tagging on that part about the building; it appears to have replaced the girl's last name.) Anyhow, it seemed that Ginger had appointed herself the event's unofficial photographer, and she quickly began clicking away and barking commands at our little foursome as if she were Steven Spielberg or somebody. After about half a dozen photos—and with no end in sight—Ellen and I tried to persuade her that she had enough pictures of us. Whereupon Bobbie Jean, taking advantage of this slight delay in the action, made her escape. Two more photos followed, and then Ginger finally marched off to spread her talent around—but not before we'd extracted her promise to restrict herself to candid shots from now on.
Moments later I had a chance to exchange brief pleasantries with a few friends of my own: Pat Martucci (only she's not Pat Martucci anymore, having recently become Mrs. Burton Wizniak) and my neighbors Barbara Gleason and Harriet Gould. All of whom have known Ellen for years.
Allison must have been waiting for me to free up, because the instant I became available she took my arm. ``C'mon, Desiree, there are a few people I want to introduce you to.''
She propelled me toward two women who were standing and whispering together a short distance away. My first thought was that they seemed almost conspiratorial, which I considered more or less borne out when, on seeing us approach, they stepped quickly apart. And if that wasn't telling enough, two bright red spots put in an immediate appearance on the cheeks of the younger of the pair.
``Meet my good friends Robin Fremont and her daughter, Carla Fremont. Robin and I also live next door to each other,'' Allison informed me.
``And we're cousins—if a few times removed,'' Robin interjected.
``That's true, too. This is Ellen's aunt Desiree,'' Allison went on. ``Mike raves so much about this future aunt of his that I'm getting a little jealous. In fact, I seriously considered slipping some arsenic in her drink before.'' Both Fremonts tittered politely, and Robin extended her hand to me. It would have been quite a feat, however, if Carla had managed to do the same, considering that she was presently holding a glass of champagne in her right hand and a napkin with a small stash of hors d'oeuvres in her left. She smiled apologetically. It wasn't much of a smile, because Carla, poor thing, had large yellow teeth. Maybe someone should have clued her in on porcelain veneers. I got the impression, however, that it probably wouldn't have made any difference if they had. Judging from her rumpled yellow cotton dress and crinkled stockings, Carla wasn't really that into appearances.
Robin, on the other hand, was fashionably turned out in an obviously expensive black moire[aa suit. Large boned and very substantially built, Robin Fremont wore her thick salt-and-pepper hair brushed away from a face that vaguely resembled Allison's but lacked the other's delicate features. (Have I mentioned how lovely Ellen's prospective mother-in-law is—with a slim figure, beautiful silver hair, and the most gorgeous green eyes?)
At any rate, in between bites of stuffed mushrooms and sips of champagne, Allison and I chatted with mother and daughter for a short time. After which we were off for more introductions.
Even from a distance I'd been intrigued by one of the women I met—well, almost met, if you want to be technical—this almost-meeting captured on film by our zealous, although now very unobtrusive photographer, Ginger. Anyhow, the lady was tall to begin with. And in her skinny spiked heels she had to be well over six feet, towering above everyone else in sight. She was dressed entirely in black and white, in a too-low-cut print top and matching too-short skirt. She had on white gloves that reached midway up her forearms, the left-hand pinkie of which was adorned by a huge—and I mean huge—topaz ring. When it came to jewelry, though, this woman didn't seem to know the meaning of restraint. In addition to the ring, she sported long topaz earrings and three gold neck chains, plus a very large gold, sapphire, and pearl pendant, which I believe was supposed to be an abstract representation of some kind of flower. (Trust me, ``hideous'' would not have been too strong a word to describe that piece.) An enormous black picture hat that managed to conceal about half her face completed the outlandish outfit.
Before Allison had a chance to get out so much as a single syllable, the woman confronted her. I might as well not have been there. ``Did you see her come up to me before?'' she demanded, viciously spearing a cucumber canape[aa from the tray of a haughty-looking waiter and popping it into her vivid red mouth. And now, her voice still more strident: ``Well, did you?''
``No, I didn't,'' Allison responded softly.
``She was actually trying to make nice to me!''
``Uh, listen, Lorraine, it's been so many years, and I—''
At that moment an elderly lady leaning heavily on an ornate cane stopped to speak to us, and Allison broke off abruptly. Then while Lorraine was occupied with the newcomer, Allison took the opportunity to slip away, yours truly in tow.
``Don't mind Lorraine,'' she said. ``She's really a very good person. It's just that there's someone here today that she's terribly upset with—and understandably so. Pretty paper, isn't it?'' she observed almost in the same breath, most probably in order to change the subject.
``Very.'' The wallpaper rising above the four-foot-high wooden wainscoting that encircled the room was a floral in beautiful, muted pastels reminiscent of a Monet painting.
Allison took a brief detour to the powder room at this juncture, following which she was back to determinedly squiring me around to acquaint me with the other guests. We paused to greet a pair of late arrivals, and then we walked over to a short, waiflike woman with dark, lifeless hair and a sallow complexion. Like Lorraine, she also appeared to have an archenemy at the shower. I got the idea that it could be the same archenemy, too.
``I figured that I'd be able to handle seeing her again,'' she said, frowning. ``But when she came over to me before and acted as if nothing had happened... well... that was too much.''
``I wish I could have spared you this, but—''
``I didn't mean... It's certainly not your fault, Allison.'' Suddenly the woman became aware of her failure to acknowledge me. ``Oh, I'm so sorry. My manners are as rotten as my disposition is today. I'm Grace Banner.''
``And I'm Desiree Shapiro.'' I took the hand she held out. It was icy cold.
What was going on here anyway?
``You're Ellen's aunt!'' The tone had me feeling like a minor celebrity. ``I've heard so many nice things about your niece. I'm looking forward to getting to know her. Ellen's mother—is she here, too?''
``No, she'd planned to come—she's living in Florida now—but two days ago she broke her ankle, so she wasn't able to make the trip.''
``That's a shame.''
``Yes, isn't it?'' I agreed, hypocrite that I am. What else could I say though? That I was delighted that an act of God—Margot had fallen off her kitchen step stool—had spared me her company today?
``Ellen must be so distressed that her mother isn't able to share such a happy occasion with her.''
I bristled inwardly at the observation. After all, it wasn't as if I'd willed Margot to take the header, for heaven's sake. (This sister of my much-loved late husband, Ed, was, as you must have gathered, not exactly dear to my heart.) I was spared any further need to defend myself to myself, however, because just then the double doors that led into the adjoining dining room opened wide.
Lunch was about to be served.
Entering the spacious, high-ceilinged room, I glanced around me with a deep sense of satisfaction. The ten round tables were covered with white lace cloths and set with white-and-gold china, gleaming gold-and-silver flatware, and sparkling glassware. Each table had a different floral arrangement as a centerpiece, all of them quite magnificent. A bottle of red wine and a bottle of white had been placed on either side of the centerpieces.
It was really more like a wedding than a shower, I decided happily. And so what if, even sharing the expenses with Allison, I could conceivably be in hock for the rest of my natural life. I mean, how often did my only niece get married? Besides, if I didn't spend the money on this I'd just wind up wasting it on things that would give me a lot less pleasure—like rent and utility bills.
I crossed the room to the table closest to the front, which a small white sign identified as table #1 and which I would be occupying along with Ellen, Allison, Bobbie Jean, and three of Allison's young cousins, sisters from Connecticut. I located my place card; it was between Ellen's and one of the Connecticut sisters'. But before my bottom even touched the chair, I checked out the corner a few yards to my left, where the gifts had been stacked. There was a veritable mountain of packages here, I was gratified to note, each one more extravagantly wrapped than the next.
Our salads were already awaiting us when we sat down, so everyone began to eat pretty much at once. I don't believe I'd had more than four or five bites when I happened to look over at Bobbie Jean. I could tell immediately from the way her eyes bulged that she was in great distress. A second later, her fork clattering onto the table, she grabbed for her throat. She attempted to speak, but all she was able to produce were the god-awful gurgling sounds of utter desperation.
I half-rose, thinking she could be in need of the Heimlich maneuver.
Allison put a hand on my shoulder, restraining me. ``Where's Karen?'' she shrieked. ``We need a doctor here!''
A cacophony of nervous babble ensued, the collective outpouring of just about everyone present. Then, from somewhere behind me, a commanding voice cut through the clamor. ``I'm coming! Please, everybody, stay where you are.'' A scowling, matronly-type individual marched quickly over to Allison. ``What's wrong?''
``Oh, Karen, thank heaven.'' Allison nodded in Bobbie Jean's direction. ``It's my sister-in-law. She... you'd better see to her.'' But Karen was already crouching beside the stricken woman. ``Karen's a physician—my neighbor,'' Allison murmured to me.
``Move away, will you?'' the doctor snapped to those of us sharing the table with Bobbie Jean. And as we hastily vacated our seats and scurried off to the side: ``Somebody call 9-1-1!''
``I'll do it,'' Amy, one of the Connecticut sisters, volunteered, fishing her cell phone from her purse.
``I'm going to need help getting her on the floor!'' Karen hollered.
A nearby waiter, who must have weighed upward of two-hundred-fifty pounds hustled over. ``I'll take care of it.''
With Karen barking instructions, he effortlessly lifted the petite victim from her chair and carefully laid her on the floor, placing her on her left side.
And now, as the physician knelt alongside her patient, a hush descended on the room, with only the terrible sounds of Bobbie Jean's retching intruding on the silence.
Swiftly, Karen unhooked Bobbie Jean's bra, loosened her clothes, and pulled off her panty hose. Then, taking Bobbie Jean's pulse, she called out, ``Allison, does your sister-in-law have any sort of health problems? Epilepsy, diabetes, severe allergies—anything that could account for this?''
``No, nothing.''
I suddenly realized that I was holding my breath, in apparent empathy with Bobbie Jean's respiratory difficulties. As I began to breathe normally, I glanced at the doctor's face.
What I saw there sent a chill through me.
At this point, obviously alerted by one of the staff, the smiling strawberry blonde who'd greeted us at the door rushed in. But she wasn't smiling anymore.
``How is she?'' the strawberry blonde asked Karen.
``Not good, I'm afraid,'' the doctor replied grimly. ``Not good at all.''
—Reprinted from Murder Can Rain On Your Shower by Selma Eichler by permission of Berkley, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Copyright © 2003, Selma Eichler. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
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and she doesn’t pass a bakery without a slight detour.”—Joan Hess
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