Unleavened Dead, page 13
“Sorry, I meant, that erudite rabbinic scholar who has her own unique and eclectic style.”
“Better. Okay, here goes. You know about the guy who was run over in front of the Student Counseling Center at Triple-U? Is anyone covering the story?”
“Just tangentially. The police haven’t been too forthcoming, and Triple-U is bush league – or should I say piney league? – in Philadelphia. Talk around here is that it was some underage teens who were out for a joy ride and lost control of their speeding car in the rain.”
“Well, the talk around here is that my niece’s partner – female, not that it matters (So why did I add it?) – deliberately targeted the guy.”
“Why? Do they have any evidence?”
“Circumstantial only. She drives the same kind of car that the witnesses saw, a dark-colored SUV. And it got some front end damage that night. Worse, she’d had an altercation with the guy the previous day and everyone in the Counseling Center – she was the director – heard her say she could kill him. It’s an expression we all use, but … well, you can see how the police would view such a statement.”
“You said she ‘was’ the director.” One of the things that made Leesa such a good investigative reporter, instead of just a good reporter, is that she paid attention to details.
“Yeah, the guy – his name’s John Quincy Moorhouse, by the way – had just been hired by Triple-U to revamp the Center. His first act was to oust Sherry – Sherry Finkel, my niece’s partner.”
“The reception’s not great. Did you say ‘out’? Triple-U has a reputation for being pretty liberal. What difference would it make that she’s a Lesbian?”
“No, I said ‘oust,’ as in ‘get rid of.’ Not that it was couched in those words. It was more like, ‘I’m a Ph.D. in psychology and you’re only a licensed clinical social worker with a master’s degree, so I’m in charge. You can stay here on a per diem basis as a secretary.’ Or words to that effect. Sherry was furious, told him and the dean what they could do with their offer, and then punched out a cubicle wall after threatening to torture the bastards. Those words plus the damage to the Sherry’s car, which happened, according to Sherry, when she skidded into a light post in a parking lot – a deserted parking lot – the same evening Moorhouse was killed have made Sherry the odds-on favorite. Well, to the police, not to anyone who knows her.”
“Do you think there’s a gay bashing angle going on?”
“I’ve no reason to think so. As you said, everyone around here is pretty accepting, particularly for a semi-rural area.”
“Then I’m not sure what you want me to do with the story. I can understand that you want to help Sherry, but there’s no scandal here. It seems the police are just doing their job.”
“I haven’t gotten to that part yet. My secretary used to be the librarian at Walford Middle School, which twenty-five years ago was in the same building as Walford High. The two schools shared the same staff lounge. John Quincy Moorhouse was in private practice then, specializing in adolescent psych and eating disorders. He was also an outside consultant for the school district. According to Liz – Elizabeth Smithers, my secretary – a group of teenage girls accused Moorhouse of taking sexual advantage of them. When they tried to tell the authorities, including their parents, no one believed them. Moorhouse used some psychobabble about transference and accused the girls of fabricating the accusations to get revenge for his having rebuffed their advances. According to him, the young women were in a conspiracy to frame him and get him fired and … whatever the equivalent of being disbarred would be. He was believed, but he still left the area and relocated to California. Until now.”
“Interesting. I wonder if anyone at Triple-U was aware of the allegations when they hired him. Statute of limitations would have run out by now, I’m sure, but still, why would the university take a chance with its own reputation by hiring someone like him? I bet they didn’t know.” She stopped. I could picture her chewing off her lipstick while trying to think up different scenarios. “Aviva, am I right in thinking that you suspect one of his accusers – discredited teenage accusers – ran him over in revenge?”
“Exactly what I’m thinking.”
“Have you told the police?”
“Yeah, and they claim to be looking into the issue, but I doubt it. They weren’t even aware of it until I told them. And I’m afraid that now that they have Sherry in their crosshairs, they’re not even looking for other prey.”
“Those girls would now be, what, forty or so?” She paused again. “I wonder if any of them still live in the area.”
“That’s what I’ve been wondering. My niece is a computer whiz of the first order – she made millions during the dotcom heyday and cashed in before the crash, that’s how good she is – and even she couldn’t find anything on line. Any newspaper articles were too long ago to have been digitized. I’m not sure when I’ll have the time to get to the library to check the microfilm or microfiche, and time is the one thing Sherry doesn’t have. I’m really afraid – and so is my niece – that they’re going to arrest her soon.”
“I don’t suppose the police would give you access to their files. No, why would they? A civilian with an axe to grind. And I’m guessing you’re not exactly flavor of the month after you made a fool of them last time.”
“Right. And it’s not fair. All I did was figure out who might have dunnit. They were the ones who told me the why. I couldn’t find a motive at all.”
“Yeah, they found the motive – after the murderer confessed. The fact is, the case was closed and you forced it open. And your ex can’t be seen as giving you any preferential treatment. Okay, I can see why you need me. If it turns out this Moorhouse scumbag was run over by a victim of past sexual assault, then I’ve got the story I’m looking for. And even if I can’t prove he was murdered in revenge, I can do an expose on Triple-U’s hiring practices and lack of background checks. Of course, the story would be even better if I can show the university knew about his past and hired him anyway. Hmmm, even if it turns out your niece’s partner was guilty – don’t get in a huff, I don’t know her, so I’m completely neutral, which is what you need right now – Triple U will still have some explaining to do. If I find anything, Aviva, I’ll even forgive you for having dragged me away from the jailbait I was fishing for. I’m going to go back to the bar to see if he’s still there, and tomorrow I’ll hit the newspaper morgues and the police, and get back to you as soon as I can. Fair enough?”
“More than fair, Leesa. And I will owe you, even if you do get a Pulitzer out of this story. But watch your metaphors – you use bait to catch fish, you don’t fish to catch bait.”
It was a lot later than eleven now, but I wasn’t tired. Too much adrenalin. And I still had one more task to do before going to sleep. I turned on my computer and, after waiting much too long for it to boot up, logged onto the New Jersey Birds e-mail list. I posted a message: “I know that birds sometimes nest in dryer vents. But what birds (wrens, chickadees?) would build a nest in a dryer vent? And which (if any) would build one by the beginning of April?” If anyone would know the answers to those questions, it was the members of the group. Some of them have been known to use the Latin instead of common names of birds. Some of them even can tell the difference between a Cooper’s Hawk and a Sharp-shinned Hawk at a glance. I can’t differentiate them unless they’re sitting next to each other and I have a bird guide with pictures of those particular individuals. In other words, I can’t.
Chapter Twenty-Six
I woke up to another dreary, chilly, rainy day. It was early April but felt like – well, like early April. At least it wasn’t snowing.
It was an understatement to say I hadn’t slept well. I wasn’t sure I had slept much at all, but must have because I didn’t remember looking at my clock any time between four and seven. Oh, well, sleep is overrated anyway, and three hours is more than enough. Yeah, right. So why couldn’t I stop yawning?
I stumbled into the bathroom, almost fell asleep standing up in the shower, and somehow found a pair of clean, run-free panty hose. As I walked downstairs, I glanced at my feet and realized I was wearing one black shoe and one navy blue one. Properly dressed in matching clothes (I hoped), I finally got to the first floor. I was staring into my nearly empty and incredibly clean refrigerator, trying to figure out how I had forgotten that I had bought a new one and why I hadn’t stocked it yet, before I woke up enough to recall I had put the Cheerios and paper bowls in the living room. I grabbed the remnants of a quart of milk and a banana that would be more at home in a cake batter than a cereal bowl, put them on the coffee table in the living room, and went outside to get the paper, where it had landed on the wet lawn instead of the relatively dry driveway. I definitely had to remember to tip the deliverer this Christmas. Maybe Easter, too, as then I wouldn’t have to wait another eight months until I got a newspaper that wasn’t soggy.
I sorted out the sections I don’t read – business, sports, classifieds – when I noticed the lead headline in the South Jersey section: “Local therapist leading suspect in hit-and-run death of her new boss.” Oh, shit. Sherry had made the news.
I quickly skimmed the article, which was, unfortunately, fairly factual and accurate. But there was no mention of Moorhouse’s cloudy past. In fact, the reporter didn’t seem aware that Moorhouse had ever been in Walford before being hired by Triple-U.
It was early, and I was sure that even if Leesa had gotten more sleep than I had, which wasn’t difficult, my call would go straight to her voice mail. It didn’t.
“Leesa Monaghan, ace reporter.” She sounded chirpier than anyone should at that hour, especially someone who had been bar hopping the night before.
“Leesa, Aviva here. Any luck last night?”
“If you mean with the hottie, no. But it didn’t matter anyway, because I decided to go to the paper and check out the morgue.”
“In the middle of the night? Oh, right, nothing will stop you in your pursuit of fame, fortune, and a Pulitzer. Well, here’s something for you. Have you seen this morning’s Inquirer yet?” Stupid question. Of course she had, probably while I was sleeping. Or not sleeping.
“Stupid question. Of course I did, as soon as it was published. I always check all the local papers first thing, followed by the nationals. And if I’ve got time, the internationals. So, yes, I did see the article about Sherry, and, yes, I did notice they didn’t mention the sexual assault accusations. In fact, I’ve already written an article about it. The only problem is that I don’t have any evidence yet to back up what I wrote. But I’m working on it. That’s why I’m in the morgue, sneezing from all the musty papers and newsprint.”
“Why are you a journalist if you’re allergic to newsprint?”
“I thought it would all be digital. Anyway, let me get back to my research. I really hope I find what I’m looking for. I hate to do rewrites, but I don’t think the legal department will let us run the article unless I can corroborate my information. And my editor’s kind of a stickler for facts: ‘If I want to read fiction, I’ll buy the National Enquirer!’ Besides a libel suit will do nothing to get me out of the back pages.”
“Not to mention that you want to be the one to break this news. I have to leave for services soon, but leave me a message on my home number if you find anything. And be sure to include the internet link to the article!”
I thought I would be the first to arrive at Mishkan Or, but Phil Brauner had beaten me there. He was in the hallway, leaning against the wall and making notes on a scrap of paper with a tiny golf pencil. “Oh, um, boker tov, Rabbi.” His already florid face reddened more as he put the paper and pencil into his back pocket. “Sorry, I just wanted to jot down some numbers before I forgot – I wanted to look at that sliding door in the nursery room as soon as possible, so I could save some time. It’s a good thing I did. The door’s not just off the track; the track is bent. I’ll have to get to a hardware store to pick up some supplies. But I’ll get it fixed, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, Phil. And don’t you worry, I’m sure you’ll be forgiven for working on Shabbat. After all, it’s in a good cause – I hate to think of what would happen if the door fell on a child. And you know that the kids tend to hang out in here when they’re supposed to be in services.”
“I know, you know, the parents know, but I don’t think the kids know the adults know. Ah, let them have fun. At least they’re in the building. And the door won’t fall. I took it off the track and put it flat on the floor.”
“Phil, I’ve said it before – this place would disintegrate without you. Please, don’t tell me you’re thinking of moving to Florida.”
“Nope, Arizona.” He laughed when he saw my face. “Just joking. We’re here for good. Been here too many years to think about moving, although Janet’s making noises about getting a place in Serenity Acres. I wouldn’t be surprised if she decides we should buy the Fishers’ place. If fact, she probably will. She figures it will go cheap, since most people won’t want to live where a couple died or where there’s a problem with carbon monoxide.”
“How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts and I know how to check to make sure appliances work okay. But I like our place. Those houses don’t have a basement and I doubt if there’s enough room for a workshop in the house. Janet would never let me use one of the extra bedrooms for one. And we would want to use the garage for the cars so we don’t have to clean ice off the windshields in the winter.”
“Makes sense. Where is Janet today?” It wasn’t like her to let me get in the door without accosting me.
“She said she had an upset stomach and felt like sleeping late. I wouldn’t be surprised if I get home and find she went to her sister’s so she can snoop around the Fishers’ house. I just hope she doesn’t make any decisions without me.”
“Would she dare?” I laughed, knowing that’s exactly what she would do. Before he could think of a rejoinder, I heard some voices in the lobby and excused myself to get ready for services.
Nothing unusual happened during services, giving my mind time to wander. I wondered if Phil was right that the house would be sold for less than market value. And if that lower price would fit my budget. Not that I have much of a budget, but I try not to spend more than I have in the bank. Or much more. I don’t like the idea of an age-segregated neighborhood, but I dislike the steps in my townhouse more. Maybe it would be worth looking into.
Looking at Phil, I suddenly recalled he had been a physical education teacher and coach at Walford High School until his retirement only five or six years ago. And sports need cheerleading squads. And most cheerleaders are girls. And most are thin, so they might be prone to having eating disorders. And Dr. Moorhouse treated – and if rumors were to be believed, mistreated – Walford High students with eating disorders. Okay, maybe I was stretching the point, but I made a mental note to ask Phil if he remembered anything about the Moorhouse incident all those years ago. Even more importantly, if he remembered any of the names of the accusers.
After services, Phil was enjoying filling up his plate with the goodies that Janet would never let him have when she was around. When I first met Phil, he was still working at the high school and was in great physical condition. “It’s important,” he once told me, “for the coach to be a good role model. Why should the student athletes take advice from someone who doesn’t care about his own body?” After retirement, though, he indulged in all the pizza and high caloric soft drinks and pastries he had denied himself during his teaching career. “I’ve got forty years of junk food to catch up on,” was his excuse.
Janet tried to curb his appetite but it was difficult for her to act the role of the noble and self-righteous health nut when she used to smoke like the proverbial chimney. A chronic cough, osteoporosis (some kids called her “Hunchie” behind her bowed back), and a husky voice didn’t stop her. Nor did the fact that a pall of smoke hung around her, perfuming her clothes, hair, car, and house. It took a lung scan last year that showed stage one lung cancer to finally stop her. She got through the chemo and radiation, and was in remission, when she had a mild heart attack, the reason she was now drinking skimmed milk in her coffee. While recovering, she told me that the very thought of a cigarette made her feel physically ill. She didn’t catch the irony that because of the cigarettes, she was physically ill. Unfortunately, she regained her craving after she finished recuperating. Although she claimed she had quit, a telltale whiff of tobacco sometimes accompanied her.
But without Janet to monitor him, Phil decided to indulge himself. He knew there was probably a salad awaiting him at home for lunch. Since I was planning on pigging out on a lunch consisting of a tuna hoagie and potato chips, followed by movie popcorn for dinner, I was in no position to say anything. So I joined him, but I put a few grapes onto my plate of brownies and miniature cream puffs. Everyone knows that fruit negates calories. But just to be safe, I also added a glass of Diet Coke.
“Phil, could I pick your brain for a minute? In exchange, I’ll tell Janet you had only fruit during the Kiddush.”
“Rabbi, for shame. Lying? Okay, it’s saving a life – she would kill me if she saw what I’m eating. Let’s sit down over there and I’ll help you if I can. And you didn’t even have to blackmail me. I always enjoy talking with you.”
Did I mention that Phil is a gentleman? And a flirt?
“Does the name John Quincy Moorhouse mean anything to you?”
Phil took a big bite of a brownie while thinking. “Wasn’t he the guy who was run over at Triple-U the other night?”
Damn. I had hoped he would jump up and say something like, “That bastard. Everyone knows what he did to those girls, but we couldn’t prove it.”
“Yes, he was. But I’m thinking about further back, like twenty-five years ago, at Walford High.”
Phil shook his head slowly, then he sat straight up and his eyes widened. He looked like a caricature of someone who had just had a brain storm. He just needed lightning bolts to complete the image. “Moorhouse! Yeah, I remember now. Wasn’t he involved in some kind of scandal back then? It’s coming back to me now – something about having sex with patients – but I have to think about it some more. It happened well before you were in the community, though. How would you have heard about it?”
