Unleavened Dead, page 20
That just left my hair. I took out a large brush and the hair dryer, and did exactly what my hairdresser did when he styled my hair into a smooth, frizz-free, swingy creation. So why when I did my hair did it look like I had used an egg beater on it? I gave up, smoothed some serum on my hair so the frizz was shiny, and looked for a pair of shoes that matched each other.
It was now ten-fifteen. I had just enough time to check the email before leaving. Of course, it was then that the computer decided to give me some kind of cryptic “cannot come out of hibernation” message. I turned off the power, waited ten seconds, and rebooted, which took another seven minutes. (I had checked my watch. I really should take Trudy’s advice and get a newer computer.) It was a good thing I had to wait, because I had forgotten to feed Cat, who was nipping my ankles instead of rubbing against them. Unless I wanted to have to change my pantyhose, I had to feed him.
The phone rang just as I just finished rinsing off the plastic spoon I had used to scoop out the disgusting smelling cat food I would probably be sharing with Cat in a few years if I didn’t do something about my retirement savings. I decided not to answer; if it were important, the caller would leave a message.
It was, and he did. It was my favorite local police lieutenant, Joe Merino. “Rabbi Cohen, what have you gotten yourself into this time? Vince Ferrillo is not one of the good guys. Cross him and you’re likely to have another car accident, and this time you won’t survive it.”
I was able to grab the phone before he disconnected. “Joe, it’s Aviva.” I figured his message showed enough concern for my welfare to switch to first names. “I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to leave to officiate at a wedding. What do you know about Ferrillo?”
“Just stay away from him, Aviva.”
“But he sought me out, in a public place. We met by accident when he overheard Trudy and me talking about Moorhouse’s death. Which Sherry had nothing to do with.”
“Nothing with Ferrillo happens by accident. He might be worried that your meddling in this investigation could put him in jeopardy.”
“Why?”
“Don’t be so naïve. He’s here in Walford hoping to distance himself from some nasty business in the Bronx. Let’s just say he’s under FBI surveillance and leave it at that.”
“If he’s under surveillance, I should be safe. Besides, he was very nice to me. Well, until I mentioned that he should tell the police about his cousin. He did look a bit scary then. But I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Then why were a couple of menacing looking characters parked where they could watch your house late last night? After I heard your message, I sent a patrol to check your street. They spotted the car, told the guys a neighbor had reported an unfamiliar vehicle parked near her house with two guys in it, and politely asked them to exit the car. They sped off. We found out why when we finally stopped them and searched the car. They had several unregistered guns and a brick of cocaine in the trunk.”
“How do you know they were watching me? There are some teens and young adults on the street who are probably involved in drugs.”
“Aviva, these guys are part of Ferrillo’s ‘staff.’ They weren’t there to provide some goodies for a teen rave. And when the squad car drove up, one of the officers thought he saw the guy in the passenger seat quickly lower a pair of binoculars. And, yes, they were found under the seat.”
“Maybe they were looking for owls.”
“You’d better take this seriously, Aviva. I’m telling you, these are not people you want to get involved with. Stay close to home the rest of the day.”
“Are you crazy? I’ve got to leave in half an hour to officiate at a wedding, and then I’ve got to … do other things.”
“Then stay in public. Don’t take back roads. And watch your rear view mirror.”
“Joe, you’re scaring me.”
“Good.”
Chapter Forty
Joe’s warnings really had me spooked. But it was hard to think why I would be in danger. Except for having told the police about Ferrillo’s motive for killing Moorhouse, that is. But I also suspected, um, no one else I could name. Not yet, anyway.
It was getting late, but my computer had finally booted up and I had just enough time to check it. I clicked onto my email account and found … nothing from Trudy. I grabbed a jacket and made my way into the garage while phoning Trudy: “Enuf sex already! Get up and answer my email!” To make sure Josh didn’t hear the voice message notification buzzer and decide to check the phone for his MomT, I used her office number. Trudy keeps the door locked when she’s not working in there. And sometimes when she is working in there.
I hadn’t even finished backing out into the street when my phone dinged to let me know I had a message. Sometimes, I lose the cell phone connection when I’m in the garage, and in-coming calls go directly to voice mail. It was Trudy, calling back. “What’s the matter, Aunty Mame? Jealous? Don’t worry, I’ll do it. But I don’t know why you want me to check out someone named Fisher. Another of your hunches, Miss Marple?”
Hey, Trudy’s a techie. She’s allowed to switch her literary allusions. I was impressed she even knew them.
It was then I noticed I had another missed call, one from last night. It was from my mother. “I really hope you’re out having a good time. It has to be better than the time I just had with your sister. Why does she insist on treating me like a doddering old lady? Okay, so my eyesight’s going, and I’m using a walker more, but my mind is as sharp as ever. Forget the doddering old lady – she’s treating me like an infant! I swear, the hospital must have given me the wrong baby. There’s no way a sour puss like her could have come out of my body. So, I know you’re busy, but do call when you can. I need to hear from one relative who’s sane. Love ya.”
Love you, too, Mom, I smiled to myself. I would have to find time to get up to Boston soon and see her.
I made it to the hotel in plenty of time. The usual pre-wedding chaos was prevailing – an usher’s boutonnière was missing its stem; the clasp on the groom’s mother’s necklace broke; the flower girl refused to wear anything on her feet except her light-up Barbie sneakers; the bride’s uncle, who was to escort her in place of her father, who had moved to the Bahamas with his secretary and wasn’t invited to the wedding, was stuck behind an accident on the New Jersey Turnpike. As I said, the usual.
Even though the couple was in their forties and it was a second marriage for each, they were going all out for the wedding. The bride, Amanda Caplan, had explained that her first wedding was at her parents’ house, as they did not approve of her fiancé. It turns out their instincts were correct, as her now ex-husband was serving twenty-to-life for masterminding a drug distribution ring in Walford High School and environs. It was his fifth arrest on the same charge, although the first two reports were sealed as he had been a juvenile at the time. Amanda had divorced him after his first arrest as an adult, and had the foresight to have him sign a get before his incarceration.
The groom, Michael Pinsky, had gotten married while still in college, and his parents had not approved of his choice or timing either. But his girlfriend was pregnant, so they reluctantly attended a small wedding in her parents’ house, with a judge officiating, as the bride was not Jewish. Their suspicions about their daughter-in-law did not abate when she had a sudden miscarriage only a few days after the wedding. The marriage lasted just a few months longer. They got an annulment.
The couple decided that this was their last – and, actually, first – chance to have the wedding of their (her) dreams. They had the financial resources do what they wanted, and their parents were so happy that they infused large amounts of cash into the enterprise, too. Designer gowns for the entire bridal party, paid for by the couple; out-of-season flowers; the ballroom at a prestigious hotel for the reception; a customized hand-painted ketubah; a lavishly catered kosher dinner; a two-week cruise through the Mediterranean for their honeymoon. And a wedding planner to coordinate it all. Not my taste (except the kosher food), but beautiful.
The wedding planner took care of all the problems: she found a way to secure the boutonnière, fixed the necklace with some dental floss, convinced the flower girl the Mary Janes were much cooler than the Barbies, gave the uncle alternate directions. The photographer was cued, and the couple and their witnesses gathered around the table to sign the customized ketubah, which would be framed and displayed in the couples’ home, plus the commercial one and the civil license, both of which would be placed in a safe deposit box with their wills and insurance policies.
“Now, you know, Michael,” I said sternly to the groom, “once you sign this document, you’re married. No backing out. The rest of the day is just formalities, but the ketubah is the real thing. It’s a legal document.”
He grinned, grabbed the pen, and, channeling Thomas Jefferson, signed boldly in the spot I indicated.
“Gotcha now,” Amanda winked. “I knew from the moment we met that you were doomed.” She signed. The witnesses signed. I signed. Everyone pretended to sign again as the photographer snapped away. Michael’s parents admired the signatures. Amanda’s mother and uncle pointed to the illuminated ketubah. Everyone applauded.
I gathered the printed ketubah, which I would read during the ceremony, and the civil license, and put them in my folder with my notes and my Rabbi’s Manual and made a quick potty stop. One of the bride’s attendants – they all decided “maids” was a bit silly at their age and various marital statuses – was fiddling with her hair. She didn’t have all that much to fiddle with; it was thin and straight, but she had teased it up into spikes and kept the spikes in place with hairspray. It wasn’t working; bare patches of scalp still showed through the sparse hair. Her glasses, the kind of nerd ones with thick black frames that look coolly retro on twenty-somethings and dweeby on anyone else, were getting speckled with hair spray. She was wearing the same elegant gown as the other attendants, but on her it looked like an overly long house dress. She was tall enough to carry off the dress, but box-shaped, not willowy. The edge of the cap sleeve was cutting into the flab on her upper arm.
The woman was intent on the mirror and didn’t notice me until I emerged from the stall and went to the sink to wash my hands. Her eyes met mine in the mirror, and she did a double-take. “Rabbi Cohen?”
I put on my polite “I-know-I-know-you-but-can’t-think-of-your-name” smile and nodded.
“I guess you don’t remember me. We only met a couple of times. Audrey Fisher. Well, Fisher-Rivers now.”
I wondered how Janet Brauner was going to react when she realized Audrey was in the wedding party. “Of course. Audrey. I was thinking about the wedding and not paying attention. How are you? I’m so sorry about your parents.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.” She looked at me belligerently, as though daring me to contradict her.
“I know nothing about your relationship with your parents, but you need to allow yourself to grieve. They died suddenly and left you an orphan. You must be feeling something.” I was channeling my inner-therapist.
“Yeah, relief. I was an orphan a long time ago. They weren’t my parents.”
I figured she was speaking metaphorically, but had no chance to ask her what she meant or to think about it. The wedding planner opened the bathroom door a crack and gleefully trilled, “All out! We’re lining up! It’s show time!”
As I joined the cantor – Ron Finegold’s presence was mandatory, if the couple wanted any singing – at the head of the processional, I had my first good look at the assembled bridal party. I had heard about brides who deliberately chose tacky outfits for their attendants so no one would outshine them, but I had never heard of one who had deliberately chosen attendents who were uniformly unattractive. The gowns were too expensive to be tacky, but the body types and faces didn’t go with the designer couture. Audrey Fisher-Rivers fit right in with the others.
Come to think of it, so did Amanda. The bride made the best of her looks, but the highlights couldn’t disguise the essentially non-descript mousiness of her hair color, and nothing short of cosmetic surgery would have been able to disguise her lack of chin and her close-set eyes. But the look in her eyes as she glanced at her groom dispelled any homeliness. She was as radiant as any bride I’ve ever seen, and Michael returned her look with a rapturous one of his own.
Not that Michael was any prize either – the cummerbund on his tux emphasized instead of hid his pot belly, and he had an unfortunate comb-over and a more unfortunate “soul patch” that might have looked okay on a man two decades younger, but looked like a smudge of dirt on him. As the saying goes, love is blind. And it must have been in their case.
Oh, well. Who was I to judge? After all, I’m the one who had spent Saturday night at the movies with a girlfriend, and then gone home alone to feed my cat.
Ron and I took our places under the chuppah, an elaborately beflowered bower made of the same material as the bride’s gown, and turned to face the assembled guests. As the rest of the wedding party made its way up the aisle, Ron commented sotto voce, “A bit of a rogue’s gallery.” I suppressed a guffaw and smiled, I hoped, beatifically.
It wasn’t surprising that I recognized most of the bridal party and many of the guests from Mishkan Or. Amanda’s parents were long-time members, and Amanda had grown up in Walford. The ones I didn’t recognize were probably Michael’s relatives – he was from Long Island, New York – and friends of theirs from out of the area. I caught Janet Brauner’s eye and gave her a nod and smile. She nodded back, and Phil, sitting to her right, gave me a thumbs up. To Janet’s left were her sister and brother-in-law, Charlotte and Marty Silver. I spotted Len Krassner and his wife. I guess she had forgiven him for having abandoned her after services Friday night, when he joined me in my chat with the police, as they were holding hands and she had her head on his shoulder. Sweet. Brenda Fishman, Ron’s wife, was there, too. I was hoping I was seated at a table with them rather than with the great aunt they had to invite, her unmarred nebbish son, and the parents’ business associates they couldn’t place elsewhere.
Audrey was the first of the attendants to arrive and I nodded to her as she took her place to my right, with the others falling into line in a diagonal behind her and going down the steps that led to the chuppah. One of the bright lights set up by the videographer was shining on her, bringing acne scars into bas relief and making her face look even more like a moon map. I couldn’t be sure, but four of those scars – one just under the middle of her lower lip, one each on the top and bottom of her left eyebrow, and one on her right nostril – looked suspiciously as though they could be healed over piercing holes.
I thought of Liz’s description of the young woman crying in the library stacks a quarter century ago: “She looked like one of those Goths or punks or whatever, with lots of piercings in her ears and her nose and her eyebrow and her lip.”
Chapter Forty-One
The ceremony went well. No rings were dropped, no wine spilled, no glass splinters escaped from the linen napkin when the groom broke the glass, no attendants were conspicuously drunk, no babies cried, no one fainted, Ron was in-tune, and I didn’t lose my place.
I skipped the reception line, made my way through the crowd of well-wishers, smiling and nodding even to strangers, and went back to my car to drop off the paper work and get my pocketbook and an embroidered shawl to dress up my nondescript dress. On the way back into the reception area, I stopped again in the rest room. I was still in the stall, and therefore even more invisible than a middle-aged woman usually is, when I heard the outer door open, followed by a gaggle of giggles.
“Can you believe those attendants?” The voice seemed to belong to a very intolerant teen, the kind who cannot imagine ever being older than twenty-two. “I mean, those dresses! They’d have looked better in brown sacks!”
“I know,” said a second. “And why did she ask them to be her bridesmaids? They were so unattractive. And old.”
“My mom said they were all Amanda’s high school friends and their husbands,” a third voice piped up. “They were all in some group together, something like ‘The Pink Panthers.’ I’ve no idea what it means. More like ‘The Losers!’”
“I think it was the Pink Ladies. Our high school put on the play Grease. A bunch of parents picketed outside, said the story was immoral. Anyway, I don’t know why Amanda didn’t ask us, we’re cousins. But I guess if she’d asked us, we might have made her look bad. Not that she looked so good. But for her she looked okay.”
“I bet the music is old fogies’ sixties stuff.”
“Worse. It’ll be disco. At least the food should be okay.”
They finally exited, leaving a fog of cheap perfume behind. I coughed my way out of there, and thought about what they had said. So The Pink Ladies weren’t just a creation of Vince’s imagination. Or of his cousin’s. I would have to find some way to introduce the subject – casually, of course – and see if I could get any information about Moorhouse – discreetly, of course.
By the time I had picked up my place card, and checked with Ron that we were indeed at the same table, although undoubtedly too close to the band’s speakers, the reception line was done and the hors d'oeuvres were being served. I placed myself close to the kitchen doors so I could snag the baby lamb chops before they disappeared, grabbed some sushi, and found a small round table with an empty chair. Fortunately for my sleuthing purposes, the other occupants were members of the wedding party.
“Mind if I sit here?” I smiled sweetly. How could they refuse me, without insulting the rabbi? They couldn’t. They could have said they were saving the seat for someone else, but their mothers wouldn’t have approved. And I knew all their mothers.
