Unleavened Dead, page 10
“Lynda, hi. It’s Aviva … yeah, I know I’m persona non grata, but I doubt they would fire you if they knew you had taken my call. I couldn’t get through on the other phones. Listen, I’ve got some important information, so put one of them on the phone, please. Preferably Trudy, because it will involve a computer search.”
I heard Lynda grumble something about not getting paid enough as she went to find Trudy. Her family was far from wealthy, and I hoped she didn’t decide to sell her “first-person-from-the-inside” story to a tabloid in exchange for tuition payments. Grad school’s not cheap, even at a state university.
“This had better be important. You’re not entirely forgiven yet.”
“You mean I’m partially forgiven?”
“Well,” Trudy sounded very reluctant to continue, “it turns out the police got their tip from Triple-U. Sherry’s co-workers were very eager to let the police know that she had been stomping around the department telling everyone she saw that she was ready to commit murder, but only after slow and extremely painful torture. She didn’t specify the victim, but everyone knew she had been meeting with the dean and Moorhouse just before she knocked over the wall of a cubicle she punched. If the dean shows up dead, Sherry’s really in trouble.”
“You mean she’s not in trouble?”
Trudy hesitated so long I thought the connection had dropped. “I don’t know. The police took Sherry’s car. It fits the description of the one seen by the witnesses. Aviva,” Trudy’s voice dropped to a whisper, “I’m really scared. What if Trudy was lying about how the car got damaged?”
“Now, stop it, Trudy. You know Sherry would never do anything to hurt someone else.” I wondered if Trudy realized she and I had just reversed roles, with her being doubtful and my assuring her that Sherry was innocent.
“You’re right. I know you are. But … Lynda said you had something important to tell me. What is it?”
“Get on the computer and use some of your illegal or quasi-legal or sources not available to mere mortals and find out everything you can about Moorhouse. Liz told me that when he left Walford in the late seventies or early eighties, he had been accused by some patients of sexual improprieties. By teenage patients. Any of them still in the area would have plenty of reason to want revenge. And, yes, before you ask, I did call and leave a message for Steve.”
“Steve wasn’t the one here. It was Lieutenant Merino. Maybe they feel Steve knows us too well. Not that makes any difference. Merino knows us, too. Anyway, I’m sure Steve will pass your message along.”
Unless they’ve already decided Sherry’s guilty and don’t investigate further. Trudy didn’t need me to voice my concern. I’m sure she shared it. And we both knew the Walford police had a history of making up their minds and ignoring contradictory evidence.
“I’m sure he will, Trudy, and I’ll make sure of it when I see him tomorrow. If I see him. I left him a pretty scathing message for having even considered the possibility Sherry could have anything to do with the hit-and-run.”
“Seeing him tomorrow? Oh, never mind. You’ll tell me about it when we wake up from this nightmare. In the meantime, thanks for the lead. I’ll check it out. And if I find out anything, tell Liz I owe her lunch. In fact, tell her I do anyway. Even if it doesn’t pan out, it’s another direction to search.”
We ended the call on a good note, with my promise to stop by on the weekend with my contributions to the seder. I really hoped we would be having a seder.
My third call was to the Walford Fire Chief. It went to his voice mail, and I explained I wanted to discuss the Fishers’ deaths and that I would call him again on Monday.
I took my shower and made the mistake of stretching out on the bed instead of the couch to read the paper. I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of an article about how the army was recruiting video gamers. I was dreaming about how the war in Afghanistan now going to be called Ender’s Game when Cat pounced on my stomach and discovered the Philadelphia Inquirer covering it made great crinkling noises that reminded him of mice. I’ve no idea how he would know what a mouse sounded like, since he had never seen one. Recognition of mouse squeaks must be hardwired into the feline brain.
I couldn’t yell at Cat for waking me, though, for, once again, he had prevented me from being late. Despite my brain’s being in its usual post-nap muddle – it was now three naps in three days; maybe it was time to call the doctor for a checkup – the admonitions about my choice of clothing were vivid in my mind as I stood in front of my closet. I chose a dark skirt and subtly patterned sweater. How boring.
I was looking forward to services, hoping the familiar ritual would lull me into a sense of peace. I needed to meditate myself into a place where Trudy and Sherry could get legally married, where Sherry had a job she loved and wasn’t a murder suspect, where daughters loved their parents when alive and gave them respect and dignity after their deaths, where all my friends and colleagues made the right decisions and were happy in their personal and professional lives, and where I could wear jeans to work.
It wasn’t to be.
Chapter Twenty-One
Services were fairly well attended, mainly because it was the first appearance of one of our cantor Ron Finegold’s experiments to encourage group participation in the service. It was called “Mishpachot Shirot,” Families Sing, but it wasn’t a traditional choir: no one stood in front of the congregation performing, there were no solos or microphones, and a good singing voice was not a requirement. Anyone who wanted could join, as we defined “family” very broadly, figuring everyone had parents at some point, so everyone was part of a family. The only criteria were a loud voice and enthusiasm. He then scattered the singers throughout the room, with the idea that everyone else would join in when they heard the others singing. I thought it was a terrific idea, but I still planned to mouth the words. I did have a microphone, along with the world’s worst singing voice. Ron may not mind off-key singing, but I do, when I’m the one doing the singing.
We – or, rather, they – were well into a rousing rendition of Lecha Dodi, a medieval mystical song welcoming the Sabbath Bride, when the door opened and a couple quietly took seats in the back. I had to squint to make sure – I was past due to visit the optometrist – but it was definitely Ben and Sandy. I caught Ben’s eye and nodded to let him know I had seen them, but my curiosity about their presence would have to wait until the service concluded.
Up until then, I was beginning to relax and temporarily blank my mind to all but the service, but Ben and Sandy’s presence jolted me out of my peaceful reverie. Why were they here? Were they spying on me to find out how much I knew, or suspected? Were they (or Sandy at the very least) going to make veiled threats to keep me from talking about the wedding? Was I becoming increasingly and irrationally paranoid?
Ron’s experiment was a success, but I never did get into a state of bliss, or whatever. Instead, I was edgy and distracted. I doubt if anyone noticed – I had been doing the services for so long, I was relying on muscle memory. But my discussion that evening on the origins of April Fools’ Day and its connections with Purim (yeah, I was a month late) and the popularity of vernal equinox celebrations in many cultures was too much fun for me not to enjoy. I particularly liked the story about the history professor who, in nineteen eighty-three, publicized his theory that April Fools’ Day originated when Constantine allowed his court jester to rule the empire for the day. The punch line is that the professor’s story was itself a hoax, a perfect example of an April Fools’ Day joke. And the Jewish connection (and probably a tipoff that the story was a fabrication): the jester’s name was Kugel.
During the announcements following the Mourners’ Kaddish and before the closing hymn (Adon Olam, which despite its serious meaning, is often sung to the melody of a pop tune), I publically welcomed Ben and Sandy to our community. I noticed Janet looked startled when she heard the name and then looked around to match it to a face. After the services, she stood impatiently waiting for the others who wanted to greet me to leave, then took me aside. I looked longingly at the table with the rapidly disappearing éclairs and was glad I had sampled one (okay, two) earlier.
“Why do I know the name Rabbi Benjamin Bronfman? I’ve heard of him before, and not in connection with B’rith Abraham.”
“I’m not sure, Janet. We were classmates, but he hasn’t lived on the East Coast in a while. His current pulpit is in Eugene, Oregon.”
Whoops. Janet’s face is pretty readable and the satisfied nod she gave told me she had figured out how she knew the name. “Of course. Eugene. I heard about him from Florence. He did the wedding. I wonder if he’ll pay a condolence visit to Audrey and convince her she’s making a mistake not to have a full funeral and sit shiva.”
“I really don’t think he’ll have the time. I think he’s going back as soon as Shabbat’s over. And I doubt if he had any connections with Audrey except for the wedding.” I did know they were staying until after the seders with Sandy’s parents, but I didn’t want Janet to have the chance to let them realize just how many people locally may have heard about the wedding. Although it still wasn’t clear if anyone knew George wasn’t Jewish. From the little I knew of Florence – and the even less I knew of her husband, Milton – as thrilled as she had been that Audrey had gotten married, she hadn’t been thrilled that Audrey had “married out.”
Janet’s next words let me know I had underestimated Florence’s acceptance of Audrey’s marriage to a non-Jew. “Florence was overjoyed they found a rabbi. After you said you wouldn’t do the ceremony – and, by the way, I don’t care what anyone else says, you were right – she was worried they would have to use a justice of the peace. It’s just not the same, though, without a chuppah.”
“What anyone else says”? After today’s job assessment, I was sensitive to every nuance of every criticism or even casual comment. But I had bigger worries. I caught a faint gasp to my left and looked over to see a pale Ben and glaring Sandy standing within earshot. I didn’t know how much they had overheard, but obviously it was enough. Or, rather, too much.
I tried to act nonchalant. “Ben and Sandy! Shabbat Shalom! What a surprise to see you here tonight! I’m honored.”
“I did a service tonight at B’rith Abraham. It was an early one – a lot of the congregants don’t like to drive late at night – and it was over early enough for us to be able to come here and see you.” Ben was talking to me, but he kept glancing at Janet, who stood expectantly by my side.
“I hope you enjoyed our service,” said Janet. I should have known better than to think she would leave without my having to introduce her to Ben and Sandy. I didn’t have to introduce them, though; Janet introduced herself. “Janet Brauner. And you must be Rabbi Bronfman and this is …?”
“Oh, um, this is my wife, Sandy.” The three shook hands. Janet was oblivious to their body language, Ben broadcasting discomfort and Sandy defiance.
It didn’t help when Janet added, “I know all about you from Florence Fisher. Such a tragedy. I’m sure you heard all about it?” She continued after Ben and Sandy nodded. “You know, Florence was my best friend. We lived next door to each other for years, until they bought the house in Serenity Acres – dumb name, sounds more like a cemetery than an active-adult community – oh! That was an insensitive comment.” Janet giggled nervously, but recovered quickly. “It was strange not to live next to them, and the people who bought their house, well, a lovely young couple, but so young and with two toddlers who make an infernal racket all day with their Tyke Trikes or whatever they’re called. I’ve been thinking Phil and I should move to Serenity Acres. Our house is really too big for the two of us, and I wish Phil would stop fixing things and just take it easy. Plus, a house a few doors down from the Fishers just went on the market – the husband died of a stroke and the wife moved to Chicago to be closer to her son – and, talk about coincidences, my sister Charlotte – you remember my sister Charlotte Silver, don’t you, Rabbi Cohen? Oh, of course, you do. She used to live next door to Marilyn Phillips, the one who lost her daughter, and she went with you to clear out Madison’s dorm room during that whole unfortunate incident last year – um, where was I? Oh, yes, Charlotte bought the house across the street from the Fishers only a few months ago. In fact, I was staying there the night the Fishers … er, died…. The sound of the emergency vehicles woke me up only a couple of hours after I had finally fallen asleep. I hadn’t slept well. I never do in a strange bed, but Charlotte’s husband went to some kind of convention or something and she doesn’t like to stay alone”
Janet must have realized she had been rambling on too long, because she suddenly stopped. I thought at first she had remembered something, but if she had, she would have just tacked on another sentence. Maybe she had just run out of breath.
If she had, she quickly replenished her lungs. It was surprising that Janet, after years of smoking, didn’t run out of breath more often. I realized I hadn’t seen her sneak out for a smoke the whole evening; Shabbat or not, she still managed to feed her addiction. Maybe she had finally quit. She claimed she had after a bout of lung cancer followed by a heart attack, but I had my doubts. I stopped the needless speculation to focus in on what she was saying. For some reason, she had changed the topic.
“So, Rabbi Bronfman, what did you think of Cantor Finegold’s choice of tune for Adon Olam?”
“Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever heard it sung to Yellow Submarine before.”
“You’ll find we do a lot of things here they don’t do at B’rith Abraham.” Janet paused. “Although Rabbi Cohen is a lot more traditional in some ways than people realize.”
Janet gave Ben a seemingly innocent smile, but I knew what was behind it. So did he, judging from the way he gulped. Sandy’s glare was so icy it could have caused frost bite. But then Sandy did something unexpected: she smiled. To anyone who didn’t know her, the smile seemed gracious. To me, it seemed predatory. Then she launched surprise number two. Looking straight at Janet, she said, “I’m going to get some coffee. May I get anyone something to drink?”
“Why, thank you, dear,” Janet answered. “I do believe I would like some coffee.
We serve only decaf, though, so if you’re looking for high octane, you’re out of luck. Please put a largish amount of skimmed milk in it for me.” She looked at the rest of us. “I would much prefer half-and-half, but my doctor has me on a strict regimen. If it tastes good, I can’t have it.” She giggled at her own joke, but after her heart attack last year, it wasn’t a joke.
“Nothing for me, thanks,” I answered. Sandy ignored me. Ben didn’t seem to have heard Sandy, or maybe she already knew her husband’s answer.
While Sandy went to get the coffee, Ben and Janet made small talk. Or, rather, Janet did. Ben just smiled and nodded. I looked over at the table where the coffee urn was, and thought I saw Sandy put her hand into her pocket and add something to one of the coffee cups she had filled. I mentally shrugged; we had probably run out of artificial sweetener again and she used her own. I thought nothing more about it. Then.
“Um, Janet, excuse us, please. I want to introduce the Bronfmans to Meryl before she leaves.”
As we walked away, Sandy hissed in my ear (she had to bend almost in half to reach it), “I thought you said you hadn’t told anyone.”
“I didn’t. Didn’t you hear Janet say she had heard about Ben from the Fishers? I had no idea they were such close friends. And, no, before you ask, I don’t know who else they may have told. My suggestion is don’t volunteer any information; in fact, just smile and avoid answering any questions or comments others make. It will blow over. It’s no big deal.”
“Yes, it is a big deal, Aviva. Ben’s professional reputation is at stake.” What professional reputation? As a screw up?
If B’rith Abraham had done its research properly, which was doubtful, they would have known that Ben wasn’t the best candidate out there. But maybe he was the only one desperate enough to accept them.
“Aviva’s right, Sandy. Let’s not make a big deal of it, and maybe it will blow over.”
Sandy turned her glare on him now. If she kept this up, no amount of Botox would ever erase her scowl lines. “Right, blow over, just like every other time you’ve done something stupid.”
As we walked across the room, I tried think of a way to get Ben by himself so I could figure out if he had been involved with the Fishers’ deaths, or if he knew anything about whether
Sandy was involved. “What are you doing tomorrow?” I directed my question to Ben, ignoring Sandy.
“I’ll be conducting services at B’rith Abraham.”
“They’re getting a free weekend out of Ben. But at least we got them to agree to pay for our transportation for this visit, as well as our moving expenses this summer.” I didn’t tell Sandy it was fairly standard for a congregation to pay moving expenses. One of the reasons I didn’t tell her is because I wasn’t sure it was standard. I had never moved farther than fifteen miles to change jobs, and didn’t have all that much to move in any case, with the exception of a back breaking number of cartons of books. Members of Mishkan Or hired a U-Haul and helped me schlep everything from my Center City apartment to my new townhouse. I had no idea what it would cost to move a household from Eugene to Walford. The other reason I didn’t say anything is that if I were wrong, Sandy would know and counter with statistics about rabbinic contracts.
“That’s great,” I glanced briefly at Sandy and turned back to Ben. “Why don’t you come by my place for lunch after services? It will give you a chance to see Steve again. He’s coming by with tuna-cheese hoagies, not exactly a traditional Shabbat luncheon, but all I can offer this close to Pesach.”
“I’ll be at my parents’ house helping them clean for Pesach,” Sandy interrupted. “Ben will just be in the way, so he can go alone.” I guess I was too subtle in addressing the invitation to Ben only. And the poor guy – after thirty-plus years of marriage, he still needed her permission. Maybe Sandy saw him as the substitute for the children they never had. When I had the time, or interest, I would try to figure out how much Sandy’s childless state had influenced her brash personality. Probably not at all, as she had always been obnoxious, even as a newlywed.
