Dear Sister Dead, page 8
“Oh?” I edged forward. “What makes you think that?”
“It was Miss Vera. She was selling her clothes, pawning her jewelry, anything and everything she didn’t think the reverend would notice. And she told me she was going to cut down on my days, said she would help me find work somewhere else.”
I now remembered Vera having asked me if I needed help. The question had seemed to come out of the blue.
“When did she first say this?”
“About a week ago.” She kneaded her handkerchief. “I’m pretty sure she’d already pawned some of her jewelry.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Good Lord! I almost forgot.” She went into her bag and pulled out a slip of paper. She handed it to me and I turned it over.
“B. Berkowitz. Cooper Square Loan Office,” it said, and it had an address on it, 15 Cooper Square. Downtown. Not in Harlem. Nowhere near it. Far away from any place where someone was likely to recognize her.
A pawn ticket.
With a date on it. The day before she died.
CHAPTER 11
She left soon after that. Minutes later, Sam arrived. I hadn’t expected him to stop by that evening, but I was glad he did. As usual, he came bearing groceries, and after giving me a quick but loving kiss, took over what was fast becoming his sovereign domain in my house: the kitchen.
Our relationship had settled into something of a routine. I was far more at ease with it than before. I can’t cook a lick, so Sam often put me to work on some minor tasks. But that evening, I settled myself at the kitchen table with a second cup of tea and the notes Beulah had brought.
“What are those?” He paused while seasoning the ground beef for the meatballs to his spaghetti. A simple dish, but Sam did something wonderful with the seasoning that elevated the dish above the ordinary and everyday.
“Letters,” I said. “Between Vera ... and the man who may have killed her.”
My words had their desired effect.
He froze, one hand paused in sprinkling the oregano. “And you’re telling me now?”
“I would’ve said something sooner, but you didn’t give me a chance. You said you were hungry and wanted to get down to cooking.”
“Well, I’m listening now. Talk to me.”
“Vera’s housekeeper just brought them..”
He went back to seasoning. “Read them out loud.”
I removed the sheets from their envelopes. The missives were written in a rough penmanship. They weren’t even dated. But I thought I could ascertain the order in which they’d been sent by their content.
“’I will tell,’” I said, reading from the first. “’I will tell them all what we did together, what you let me do to you.’”
“Hmph,” Sam grunted. “He wasn’t playing around.”
“No, I’m afraid not.” I drew my fingertips down the page. “He names a price. Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“He mention a meeting place?”
I shook my head.
“And that’s the first one?” Sam said.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it is. Because of what the next one says.” I took it up. “You should’ve been there. Now the price is five hundred.’”
“So, she stood him up,” Sam said.
“Sounds like it.” I took out the third and final one. “I’m assuming they were also communicating by phone. I mean, none of these notes mentions a time or place for a meeting.”
He nodded, “Read on,” his strong hands forming the ground beef into round balls that he would soon place in a frying pan.
“It contains another threat: ‘Don’t be short again. Bring it in full, or else I will tell,” I read. “And he underscored the word ‘will.’ ‘I will tell,’ and ‘then everyone will know what you truly are.’”
Sam sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lanie. I know you believed in her but—”
“I know it sounds unreasonable but somehow I still do.”
“It’s pretty clear from the letters—”
“I know. I know—“
“She had an affair and tried to break it off. So, he got angry and started blackmailing her. It also helps explain the cash. If he didn't embezzle it from the church, then he probably got it from her.”
I nodded grimly and told him what Beulah had said about Vera selling her clothes and jewelry.
“Well, then.” He applied oil to the frying pan, slid in the meatballs, and covered them with a lid. “But you know,” he said, “they don’t actually prove that this guy, this fired accountant, killed her. If anything, they might point to the opposite.”
“How?”
“The fact is, either one of them—the husband or the lover—could’ve done it. The husband in jealousy. The lover in resentment and anger.”
I stayed silent.
“Furthermore,” Sam went on. “It wouldn’t make sense for the thief to kill the goose that was laying the golden egg. I’m not saying it couldn’t happen, but it’s far more likely that the husband would lose his temper over it, and—“
“You’re assuming that Levy knew about the notes.” I told him what Beulah had said, about Vera always being careful to intercept the missives at the door.
“That doesn’t mean Levy didn’t know about them. He may have found them without Vera knowing about it.”
“True.” I rubbed my forehead. “It’s just that ... the thought of Levy ... I can’t imagine him hurting a fly. He’s a stuffed shirt, for sure, but underneath all that, he’s one of the gentlest people I know. And they were happy together.”
“You thought they were.”
I let out a deep sigh. “Yes, I guess ... maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see.”
“More likely, what they wanted you to see. A fine, upstanding couple like that. They hide their dirty laundry. You know that. They keep their ship trimmed neat and tight.”
I didn’t answer him. The likelihood was that he was right, but it was so hard to believe. “Vera was ... Well, she wasn’t just one of the kindest, most generous people I know. She was also one of the most decent and honest. I just can’t see her taking part in the hypocrisy, the mendacity, of an affair.”
Sam looked at me and just shook his head. “Come on, baby. Why don’t you take responsibility for turning the meatballs—“
“For doing what?”
“Turning the meatballs. You don’t think they gonna turn themselves, now do you?’
When I didn’t move, he gestured with his spatula. “Come on.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You wanna eat? You gotta work for it.”
“Hmph.”
I finished my tea, set the cup down, and sashayed over to his side. He comforted me with a hug and a kiss on the forehead.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Later, that night, curled up next to him in bed, he kissed my shoulder and whispered, “What’re you thinking about?”
“Secrets,” I said. “The many secrets that can plague a marriage and how dangerous they can be.”
I wondered if he was thinking, wondering whether there had been secrets between me and my husband, Hamp.
“Yes,” I said, answering what I assumed to be his unspoken question. “Hamp and I, we had our secrets, too.” I paused, then said, “Well, at least, he did.”
Sam brushed his thumb across my cheek. It came away damp and I realized that a tear had slipped from my eye.
“Shhh,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“But I want to.”
I drew a deep breath. “You know how he died, right? Fell down dead on a street corner, surrounded by strangers. Probably gone before he hit the ground.”
I closed my eyes, but the moment I did, memories of that day, never far away, came flooding back. I opened my eyes and sought to fix my gaze elsewhere. It came to rest on a small statuette on the fireplace mantle. Not a good choice. The statuette was of a unicorn, made of black glass, fine and delicate. The sight of it brought back that day when Hamp and I had visited the island of Murano. We were on our honeymoon in Venice.
Our honeymoon, when we were so in love. I thought we had years, decades, before us.
I turned and pushed myself up, into a sitting position, and drew up my knees. “He knew,” I said. “He knew, had known for a long time, that he had a heart condition, one that could kill him. He knew our time together could be cut short at any moment. Yet, he’d never told me.”
“Lanie ...”
“Instead, he let me dream. He bought me this townhouse, talked about how we would fill it with children. All the time knowing, yet saying nothing.”
Sam sighed. “Honey, I’m not going to say you’re wrong for feeling the way you do, but ...”
“But what?”
“But maybe you could think about it from his point of view.”
“I have.
“And?”
“It just makes me angrier.”
“He probably didn’t want you worrying about him, 'cause you know you would’ve. You’re one of the most worrying women I know.”
He smiled and gently brushed his fingertips under my lips. He was trying to make me smile. I refused to.
“I know he thought he could take care of it himself,” I said. “I know all that. But I still think it was wrong.”
“If it had been the other way around, what would you have done?”
Tears clouded my vision. I stopped seeing that horse, stopped seeing anything but the wall of pain.
“I would’ve told him. I wouldn’t have wanted to. But I would’ve thought he had a right to know.”
Sam was silent for a long time. Then he reached up, put his arms around me, drew me down, and hugged me. “Forgive him. Forgive yourself.”
“Myself? For what?”
“For not doing all the things you think should’ve done, would’ve done, if you’d known.”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Sam had put his finger on it.
“If I’d known ...” I began, my voice suddenly hoarse.
“If you’d known, then what? What would you have done differently?”
I didn’t need to think about that one. “I would’ve told him I loved him. Every damn day.”
“I think he knew that, Lanie. I surely do.”
I twisted around and gazed at him. “How can you do that, Sam?”
“Do what?” He caressed my hair.
“Lay here and listen to me talk about him.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
I searched for the right words for what I wanted to say. “Some men would be jealous.”
Sam let out a chuckle. “Well, I’m not ‘some men.’”
“No, you most certainly are not.”
“Furthermore, why in the world would I be jealous?” His voice became serious. “He’s gone, Lanie, and it’s me who’s here, lying here next to you. I know you loved him, but ... Well, crazy as it sounds, it’s the fact that you could love so deep that makes me love you more.”
“And you’re not worried about me loving you?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
“No.” I shook my head and snuggled down next to him. “No, you needn’t worry about that at all.”
He lifted my chin and gave me a soft loving kiss. “I’m here with you, and I’m not going nowhere, not until—or unless—you tell me to go. Understand?”
I searched his eyes. He meant it.
But Hamp, he’d meant it, too, when he talked about a long life together. He’d meant it, too.
Sam reached over my head and turned off the bedside lamp. The room fell into darkness, lit only by the rays of moonlight streaming through our bedroom window.
“Promise me one thing, Sam.”
“Hmm?” He rubbed his cheek against mine and kissed my earlobe.
“Promise you won’t keep any secrets from me,” I said. “Will you promise me that? If you have a problem or get into trouble, you’ll talk to me about it?”
He paused and for an eternal moment, there was stillness. Then I heard him, felt his strong hands caress my breasts, felt him grow hard against my hip, as he led me into the dance.
It was only later, as he lay sleeping beside me, that I realized he’d never answered my last question.
CHAPTER 12
The next morning I went to the pawnshop. No. 15 Cooper Square turned out to be a three-story brick building near the intersection of the Bowery, Third and Fourth Avenues, and Astor Place. The front windows were full of items that people had parted with, lots of musical instruments (banjos, guitars, saxophones, and trumpets) on the left; jewelry on the right. I paused outside the window on the right. After a few minutes of searching, I saw an earring and necklace set I recognized.
The dealer was a frail, bent little white man with a big mustache and monocle. I didn’t expect him to be all that cooperative, but he was sympathetic and helpful when I explained the situation.
“I remember her,” he said. “Nice lady. I’m sorry to hear what happened to her. It’s always terrible when bad things happen to good people.” He raised a finger. “Hold on a minute.”
He shuffled off to a back room, flipping back a curtain. I could hear him rummaging around, muttering to himself. Several minutes later, he emerged from the back, like a wizened dwarf emerging from a cave, carrying an open book.
“Here,” he said, “I found it.” He laid the open ledger on the countertop. “This was the day, right?”
I twisted my neck a bit to get a closer look and he obligingly turned the book in my direction. “Yes, that was it.”
“She brought in several pieces.”
“Could I see them, please?”
“I’m sorry, but they’re gone. All except a necklace and earring set.”
“The one in the window?”
He nodded and told me what he’d paid her for it. I’d say it was less than half of what Levy had spent on it. The dealer asked me if I’d like to reclaim it. I actually hadn’t thought about it beforehand, but at the question, I found myself saying, “Yes, I will.”
Back at my desk, I put in a call to Levy at his church office.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Lanie! How are you?”
It was only fair to him to get his comment before I wrote the story about Vera’s murder—and the possibility, the suspicion, that she had been having an affair.
I was still unsure about what to do with the letters and whether to mention them. Sam and I had argued over the matter.
I’m not going to write about those letters, Sam. I’d be betraying a trust. It would be like stabbing Vera in the back. It would damage her reputation and wound those who loved her. It wouldn’t be fair, Sam, with her not here to defend herself.
“Do you honestly think that by keeping it a secret, you’d be doing her a favor? You wouldn’t be protecting her. But I’ll tell you who you could be protecting—her killer. Do you want to do that, Lanie? Do you even want to take a chance on doing that?”
“Lanie?”
It was Levy. For a moment there, I’d drifted away, remembering the exchange with Sam, what was said—and what was not.
Secrets.
“So, do you have news for me?” Levy asked.
“News? Yes. I’ve been going over my notes, and I ... well, I thought you should know that I’ve uncovered some information, some indications that possibly could be construed to imply ...”
“Yes?”
I took a deep breath, then plowed ahead. “That could be taken to mean that Vera was having an affair.”
There was an unholy silence. I heard Levy gasp, then nothing. He was holding his breath, as I was holding mine.
“Y-you must be m-mistaken,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
More silence, then: “You’re sure? Absolutely sure? You have proof that my wife, my Vera, was cheating on me?”
I dodged the question of proof and asked, “Did you know?”
“Of course not,” he said gruffly. “But look here, do you have proof? I mean, what’s the basis for—?”
“Correspondence.”
Another shocked silence. So, he didn’t know, I thought. But then, deep down, a voice answered: Yes, he was caught unawares. But is it the shock of a man who learns he’s been deceived or of one who learns that others have found out?
“From her to him?” he asked finally.
“From him to her.”
I could sense him thinking.
“How did you come about these ... letters?”
“Is this why you fired him?”
“Fired him? Fired who?” His voice conveyed genuine puzzlement. Then came another gasp as he understood, put two and two together. “Oh, my—NO!” The words exploded out of him. “Do you mean to say you think that—?” He sputtered. “When you say fired, do you mean—you don’t mean, you can't mean—that Godforsaken accountant?!”
“Slocum,” I said. “Nate Slocum.”
His voice was hard with rage. “You think Vera, my lovely dignified Vera, would debase herself with that swine, would get down in the dirt with that piece of shit?”
He went on like that for a while, a good long while. I didn’t argue; I didn’t say a word. I was tempted to hold the receiver away from my ear. But I forced myself to listen. He had every right to be angry. Every right to be hurt. I had been the messenger of some very bad news. And with my questions, I had not only slid in the knife but twisted it. As I sat listening to him, I knew that I was listening to the cries of a man in pain, a man who’d loved her as much as I thought she’d loved him.
“Slocum,” I repeated when Levy had finally calmed down. “You did fire him, yes?”
He paused. The trust was gone. He wasn’t going to answer my questions as readily as he one might’ve.
“Yes, I did,” he said in a voice still tight w?ith anger.
“May I ask why?”
Another long silence. “Is this why you came here, looking for me? To accuse me, snoop on me?”
“I was there to find the truth, just as I’m trying to do now. So, please tell me. Why did you fire him?“
“It wasn’t because he was having an affair with my wife, if that’s what you want to know.”
