Unleavened Dead, page 12
“Maybe she doesn’t want another one. And how can you judge when the reaction to losing a job is disproportionate? Have you ever been in a situation where you’ve done a great job in a career you love and then they bring someone in from the outside who immediately dismantles what you’ve been doing and demotes you and …” Whoops. Yes, he had been in that situation. He had been given every reason to believe he would be named the new chief of police when the former one died. And then the Township Council went and appointed an inexperienced academic with no practical real life police skills, namely Steve, to reconstruct the police force.
Joe just stared at me for a few seconds while I felt my face flush. He otherwise ignored my faux pas as he asked, “And what was this ‘other matter’ you needed to discuss with them?”
“Clergy privilege.”
Len looked at me in surprise. “That’s one I didn’t think of.”
“Well, it’s true. I’ve been doing pastoral counseling with Trudy and Sherry, and I promise it had nothing to do with the murd … I mean accident.” Nothing directly connected with it, but I was really reaching here. If they knew the topic of our conversations, it would have given them more reason to suspect Sherry. Losing a job may not be a good enough motive to kill someone, but losing a job plus a mate might.
Merino took a deep breath before he asked, “And what about Ms. Finkel’s car?”
“What about it?”
“What condition was it in when you saw it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a mechanic. It had been raining, so it was wet. There was a dent on the front bumper, passenger side, but I don’t know how long it had been there.” Technically, I didn’t. It could have been there for ten minutes or a couple of hours.
“But didn’t Ms. Finkel or Ms. Meisner offer an explanation?”
“It would be hearsay if I told you.” I preened a bit as I looked at Len, who winked at me. “Ask them.”
“We have. And they said you were there last night and could corroborate their version.”
“Well, I can only confirm what they told me. Tell you what, you tell me what they said and I’ll let you know if it’s the same story.”
Merino shook his head. “Now I understand why you never remarried.”
“Oh, I did. But he was a typical male, too, convinced his way was the only one.”
“Let me guess. You divorced. Or he had himself committed.”
“Both. He married a lawyer who quit her job to become a party planner while he made partner. That’s commitment to a vision.”
Merino stood up and, after closing his notebook – I noticed he had stopped taking notes a while before – so did Ryan. I would have to find out his first name. I might be able to get away with call Merino by his first name, but not if I simultaneously called his subordinate by his title.
“Chief Goldfarb asked me to pass on a message to you. We will likely have to question Ms. Finkel again, this time as a formal interview at the station with her lawyer …” he glanced at Len, “present. He said he’ll be seeing you tomorrow afternoon, and requested that you not, and I am quoting here, ‘kill the messenger.’” He nodded goodbye to Len, then added, “And, Rabbi Cohen, we may need to speak with you again. Please cooperate.” He nodded again. “Good night and …” he hesitated, “Shabbat Shalom.”
I let them walk out by themselves, hoping someone had set the alarm and it would go off, embarrassing them. Unfortunately, no one had.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“So what do you think, Len?”
“I think you handled it well. Not the way I would have, but it doesn’t look as though you gave them any information they didn’t already have.”
“Good. But that’s not what I meant. Do you think they still have an open mind about the investigation, or have they already decided Sherry’s guilty? Are they looking into other possibilities, or just focusing on finding evidence against her? … Oh, no! I forgot to ask him if Steve gave him my message about the sexual abuse allegations!”
“You’ve lost me there, Aviva. But you may be right about their having tunnel vision when it comes to Sherry. What’s this about sexual abuse?”
“This morning, Liz told me that Moorhouse, the guy who was killed, had been in private practice in the area about twenty-five years ago. The school referred a lot of teenagers to him, particularly girls with eating disorders. Several of them accused him of sexual abuse, but he was able to deflect the suspicions and say the girls had come on to him and, when he rebuffed them, had conspired to have him arrested. The authorities, and the parents, believed him, but he still left Walford and relocated to California. Until now. I have Trudy checking to see if any of the accusers are still in the area. It seems to me they have a stronger motive for getting rid of Moorhouse than Sherry.”
“Interesting theory. And it would give the police another lead to follow.”
“Merino has probably left by now. I’ll call when I get home and leave him a message.”
We made it to the entry foyer, where someone was waiting. Guess who? “Oh, Janet, hi, I thought everyone had left.”
“No, I stayed to find out what you talked about. Did you tell him my doubts about the cause of the Fishers’ deaths?”
“I’m sorry, Janet. The subject was entirely different and I didn’t think of it at the time. I have to get in touch with the Lieutenant again anyway, and I’ll tell him then.”
“Okay, thank you. Let me know what he has to say.”
“Janet, come on. It’s late. Let the rabbi go home already.” Janet’s husband, Phil Brauner, was one of the nicest – and most patient – men I had ever met. As well as handy.
“Phil, I forgot. When you get the chance, the sliding closet door in the kindergarten room is off the tracks again. Could you please fix it when you get the chance? I’m worried it will fall on one of the kids.”
“No problem, Rabbi. I’ll get here on Sunday before classes and take care of it before the kids get here.”
“No rush. There’s no school for the next week. Spring break.”
“I’d rather get it done sooner than later.”
There were two things I could count on with the Brauners: Janet would gossip and Phil would do whatever needed to be done around the synagogue, from substituting for Ron – or me – to plunging the toilets.
When I got home, I called Merino’s office number – in a moment of weakness, he had actually given me the number to his direct line – to leave him a voice mail and was surprised when he picked up the phone. “Working late, aren’t you?”
“When it comes to a murder investigation, there’s no time clock. What can I do for you, Rabbi? And it’s just as late for you.”
“I was going to leave you a message before I forgot. I already did forget once. Did Steve give you my message about the sexual abuse accusations a group of teens brought against John Quincy Moorhouse when he worked in Walford twenty-five years ago?”
There was a pause. I couldn’t picture the Marine-trained, ramrod straight, never-let-‘em-see-you-sweat Merino hitting his head on his desk, but he probably considered it. “Yes, Aviva, I did get the message. We’re looking into it, but, frankly (my dear, I don’t give a damn?), there may not be anything to find after all this time. Do you really think a woman in her forties would still be holding a grudge after all these years?”
“Spoken like a man. Yes, I do. No one believed them, and, if they were telling the truth, they have never been able to trust again.”
“You said it, Aviva, not me: ‘if.’” He paused again. “We are checking it out, really. But I have to tell you, the circumstantial evidence against Sherry is beginning to pile up.”
“And you said it, Joe, not me: ‘circumstantial.’ Even if it were substantial, I would have trouble believing it. Oh, and another thing.”
“What now?”
“A different topic entirely. One of my congregants is convinced there was something, er, fishy about the Fishers’ deaths – the carbon monoxide case earlier in the week. She told me quite a few things that don’t jibe with the official findings. Who would I contact about it?”
“What is it about you, Aviva, that makes it impossible for you to accept the obvious?”
“Obvious doesn’t mean true.”
“On this one, you can bother someone else. Call the Fire Marshal, Bob Jeffers. And, Aviva? Do me a favor. Don’t tell him I sent you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I glanced at my watch and was surprised it was only a quarter to eleven. It felt as though it should be at least three in the morning. I knew it wasn’t too late to call Trudy, but it wouldn’t be too late in fifteen minutes either, so before I called her, I called Steve. I decided to call his cell, hoping he was at home and would have the cell turned off. Of course, he didn’t, as the cell was his lifeline to the police dispatcher.
“Goldfarb.”
“Hi, Steve, it’s Aviva. Bring an extra hoagie tomorrow. Ben Brofman’s coming, too.”
“With Sandy?”
“Fortunately, no. I’m hoping between the two of us we can eliminate him from our inquiries.”
“Please stop quoting cop shows. And what’s this ‘we’? Besides, I didn’t know there were any inquiries to eliminate him from.”
“I’m still not so sure the Fishers died accidentally. And Ben and Sandy had the motive.”
“But what about means and opportunity? Now you’ve got me spouting jargon. I’ll be happy to see Ben and warn him the roof leaks when there’s a nor’easter (Is Sandy psychic now?), but I’m not about to interrogate him about a crime I’m not sure even was committed.”
“Who said anything about an interrogation? We’ll just casually bring up the subject and see how he reacts.”
“You bring it up. I’m off-duty as of three hours ago.”
“I thought a cop is never off-duty.”
“I’m the chief. I just rewrote the rules. Good night, Aviva. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I called Trudy then. She picked up on the first ring, so either she was expecting a call or she wanted to grab the phone before the ringing woke up the kids. I had dialed the house land line without thinking.
Her disinterested “hello” indicated she was deep into something – I hoped it was computer research on Moorhouse’s background – and was so absorbed in what she was doing that she hadn’t looked at the caller identification.
“Hi, Trudy, it’s Aviva. I hope I’m not calling too late.”
“Oh, hi, um, no. I don’t know. I’ve no idea what time it is. Oh, only eleven. No, not too late. Why are you calling?” Sometimes Trudy’s lack of social skills made me wonder if she weren’t Josh’s biological mother instead of Sherry. There’s supposedly a strong genetic link in autism spectrum disorders.
“Several things, Trudy. First, how’s Sherry?”
“I don’t know. How is a murder suspect supposed to be? Angry, scared, indignant, depressed? Take your pick. She’s been all of them, sometimes simultaneously.”
“And the kids? How are they coping?”
“Simi’s too young to know, but she can sense the tension in the house and has been crankier than ever. Josh is too immature to understand the implications, so he thinks the whole thing is cool.”
“And you?”
“I’m doing what I always do under stress – work.”
“Have you been able to find out anything about what I told you about Moorhouse?”
“That’s why I’m working instead of researching the information. I came up against a blank. The event, if it was even in the papers, was so long ago the articles haven’t been archived on-line. And none of my usual sources panned out.”
“I wonder if those papers are on microfilm or microfiche at the central library.”
“Probably, but I don’t read anything unless it’s on a monitor. And the screens on those readers don’t count as monitors as far as I’m concerned. And I don’t have the time. In case you’ve forgotten, we have forty people coming for a seder on Monday night. Sherry’s been bipolar all day, cycling between mania and catatonia. And I keep going back and forth between thinking we should just cancel, and then thinking we shouldn’t. It might be good for Sherry to have a task that has to be completed by Monday night. And I’m sure it will be good for her to have her family and close friends around. And there’s my mother and brother to worry about. Plus, I don’t know what we should tell them about the whole thing, or if we should just pretend everything’s fine.”
I heard Trudy take a deep breath. She paused so long I wasn’t sure if she had disconnected. But then she whispered, “Aviva, I’m scared. What if they arrest her? And, no, before you make some snarky comment, I’m scared for her, not for how I would manage to put together a seder meal by myself.”
“I know that, Trudy. I wasn’t even thinking such a thing.” I was, but only because I know how much she hates to do anything domestic.
I wasn’t sure this was the best time to pass on Steve’s message that Sherry was going to be questioned again, so I didn’t. My excuse for not telling Trudy was that Merino said the message had been for me, and implied Steve had sent it only so I would let him into the house the next day without putting myself at risk of being arrested for assaulting the police chief. Instead, I went back to what we could do about Trudy’s futile search for information about Moorhouse that could help take the attention away from Sherry.
“Trudy, I won’t be able to get to the library to look through the old newspapers until … I don’t know when. I guess I could go tomorrow after services, but I have to cook and bake and Steve’s been trying to tell me something for a couple of days and is stopping by tomorrow with lunch before he goes to his daughter’s house. Ben Bronfman is coming for lunch, too. And the library opens too late on Sunday for me to get there before the wedding I’m officiating at and closes too early for me to get there afterwards. So, Monday morning, at the earliest….” I stopped as I had a brainstorm. “I won’t be able to go, but I just thought of someone who can. I’ve got to get off the phone and call her before it gets any later. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I was already checking the address book on my cell for Leesa Monaghan’s phone number and didn’t even wait for Trudy to say goodbye – not that she would have – before I pushed the flash button to get a new dial tone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I had met Leesa years earlier when she had studied with me for her conversion to Judaism. She was engaged at the time to a Jewish guy, and we became so close during our sessions together that she asked me to officiate at the wedding, too. The marriage didn’t last, but the Judaism did. In fact, after the divorce, Leesa refused to date any guy who wasn’t Jewish. Her last name was a definite hindrance, but she had not taken her ex’s name. As she explained, it wasn’t only for feminist reasons or professional – she was just beginning to make a name for herself as an investigative reporter in the local area – but because his last name was Lesser. “Leesa Lesser? Uh, uh, no way.” Being an African-American probably didn’t enhance her chances of meeting too many Jewish guys either. She denied that racism had a role in the breakup of her marriage, but I always wondered. From what I had observed at the wedding, neither family was too thrilled with their respective kids’ choice of mate.
Leesa was quite a bit younger than I am – I could have been her mother – yet she and I had stayed in touch off and on over the years. I had followed her career as she went from free lancing for small weeklies to full-time reporting on a small daily to writing a muckraking column on a midsized daily. She had recently been hired by the Philadelphia Gazette, a fairly new publication that was trying to break the hold of the Inquirer and Daily News by printing synopses of the articles in a small-page format on recycled and recyclable paper, easy to read over a latte or on the subway, and posting the in-depth analyses of major stories, with frequent up-dates, on line. She was a night owl, so I knew she would still be up. I hesitated for a moment wondering if she might be on a date, or if I would be interrupting the post-date happenings. But I called anyway.
The cacophony in the background told me she was either on a date or trolling for one. “Yeah, who is it? This better be a tip for a story that will get me my much-deserved and overdue Pulitzer, or I’ll be royally pissed.”
“Leesa, it’s me, Aviva. Get yourself to a quiet spot. You play this story right, and who knows what awards you’ll win.”
Leesa put her hand over the receiver, but I could still hear her bullhorn voice. “Hey, guys, don’t leave without me. I have to take this call. It’s my rabbi.” She spoke back into the phone. “Aviva? You there? I’ll call you back as soon as I find a place where we can talk without my screaming.”
Leesa kept her word, as any good journalist would. Within five minutes, my phone rang. She sounded much more sober (in the sense of “not drunk,” as well as in the sense of “serious”) than five minutes earlier. “Okay, Aviva, I’m guessing that since you called me on Shabbat you need to tell me something that will save a life. Spill.”
“Where are you? It’s much quieter than when you answered my call. And it’s too cold to stand in the parking lot.”
“I’m in the women’s bathroom. Erase your mental picture. I’m in the anteroom on a comfy settee, not in a stall. I was in the process of charming a very cute and very young guy, and Jewish, too, so you had better have a great story. I’m still the newbie at the Gazette, and if I don’t come up with something spicy I’ll be writing obituaries and wedding announcements until I retire. I’ll be forever in your debt if you get me out of the back pages.”
“I’ll cancel that debt now if you’ll run with this story. But you have to promise not to reveal you got the info from me.”
“You? Who? Never heard of you. Oh, you mean that short, zaftig old lady rabbi? The one who hasn’t figured out yet that unruly frizz went out with the Sixties?”
“Hey, if you want to know what I have to say, you had better be nice to me.”
