An Eye for Murder (9 page)

“Everything’s political in Chicago.” Touché. I set the glass down.

“How about you at least meet her? She’s having a fundraiser this week; she’d like you to come as her guest. It’s a great opportunity. This candidate is going places.”

Susan had mentioned a fund-raiser for Marian Iverson. “I don’t know, Mr. Wolin—”

“She’ll be working the donors the first hour or so, but she should have time for you after eight.”

“Look, as I said, I’m flattered but—”

“I should also mention that we compensate our vendors very competitively. Up front too.”

I kept my mouth shut. mmm

I’d just E-mailed the script to Midwest Mutual when I heard the whine of a broken-down muffler. Seconds later a Dodge Ram pickup pulled into the driveway. The doorbell rang, and a tall man with black hair grizzled on the sides smiled through the screen.

It was my former landscaper, Fouad Waleed Al Hamra.

Fouad took care of our lawn when I was married. I remember how Barry would issue commands, and Fouad, who emigrated from Syria thirty years ago, replied respectfully, like a servant addressing the British potentate. It was only when Barry’s back was turned and I caught the sly, mocking look in Fouad’s eyes that I decided he was worth getting to know.

The first time we talked, I asked how he’d become a landscaper, growing up with nothing but desert around him. He replied that the Fertile Crescent runs through northeast Syria and contains some of the richest land in the world. His family had farmed it for generations.

“Of course.”

He pretended not to see my burning cheeks.

His family had sent him to public school in England, he continued, before a Western education turned into a liability in that part of the world. He dutifully moved back when told to, but he never fit in. He moved to the States just before the Six Day War.

Fouad’s a devout Muslim, and pro-Arab, but we get along.

I figure it’s because we’re all busy trying to snatch our piece of the American dream, and the quest for the good life tempers one’s ideals. Fouad had a good quest. In addition to his landscaping services, he owns a garden supply store.

“Fouad. What a surprise.” I opened the screen, hoping he wasn’t going to pressure me into hiring him back. I couldn’t afford him.

“Ellie. How are you? You have survived the winter?”

“I’m fine. And you?”

“Ahmed is finishing his first year at Duke, and Natalie starts Johns Hopkins next fall.”

He
was
trolling for new customers. “How’s Rachel?”

I smiled. “Twelve, going on twenty-two. Look, Fouad—”

“Ellie—”

We exchanged sheepish smiles. “You first.”

“Ellie, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but, since you—since I—” he fumbled.

“Since the divorce, you mean.”

“Yes. Since then, your lawn and your garden, well—they —”

“Look like nuclear winter?” I opened the screen door and stepped outside. “I know. But I don’t have much disposable income these days. And I’m not much of a gardener.”

He followed me out. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Fouad, I can’t—”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “I want to make you a proposition.” He smiled tentatively. “I hate to see all the work I’ve done over the years go to waste. What if I come by once in a while and help you out a little? At no charge. Maybe teach you a bit about gardening.”

I couldn’t believe this. Was he offering to work for free? “I won’t be here every week. And I can’t fix everything.

But little by little, maybe we can turn this place around. With your help, of course.”

“Fouad. What a generous offer.” I couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so, well, selfless. “Why? You have plenty to do without taking me on as a charity case.”

A shy look spread across his face. “I don’t…I…The Koran says that dead land is a sign for us. We must give it life and bring forth from it grains, so that many may eat of the fruit thereof. That is the way we give thanks to Him who created all that which the earth produces.”

I made lines on the grass with my shoe. Even after thirty years in the West, Fouad sounds like a person displaced, his temperament better suited to simpler times, when faith was woven into the fabric of life. I run from anything requiring a belief I can’t see, touch, or taste, but I try to be tolerant, in case there really is a God.

“Come,” Fouad said.

Together we inspected the grounds, like the master of the hounds before the hunt. “Grounds,” of course, is a euphemism; my lawn is about the size of two parking spaces. Fouad suggested I buy a weed-killing fertilizer right away. He would put it down. I should also invest in a box of Miracle Gro for the perennials.

“Perennials?”

He bent his head, as if he was going to say something but thought better of it. Then he patiently explained the difference between perennials and annuals. He pointed out daylilies, dianthus, and hydrangeas, all of which grew, or soon would, in varying states of profusion, and promised to bring some annuals next month. I agreed to everything. Maybe greenis envy is contagious.

Springtime always brings out the crazies. The local news that night featured Jeremiah Gibbs, leader of the Church of the Covenant, who was pledging his support for a neo-Nazi march through Skokie. The church, in reality a thinly veiled white separatist organization, counted as one of its members Dan Thornton, the brother of Rachel’s classmate, who shot his way through Rogers Park. Gibbs, a slippery character who operated on a razor-thin edge of legality, was said to use a state-of-the-art web site for recruiting.

When it started years ago, many people, both Jews and Gentiles, were enraged by the thought of Nazis marching through a community with a large proportion of Holocaust survivors. Though there were vitriolic counter demonstrations, small bands of fierce-looking thugs with swastika armbands and flags
did
goose-step through the streets with only a few incidents, mostly of the rock-throwing variety. Of course, that might have been due to the thick phalanx of police officers lining the route. Since then, they’ve marched every year, but, like a deformity you learn to live with, no one, Holocaust survivors included, seems to pay much attention.

The story cut to file footage of Gibbs at the time of the Rogers Park shootings. He was a handsome man, with slickedback blond hair, a sparse mustache, and cold blue eyes, and he wore a good-looking suit befitting a banker or lawyer, which I gather he was, though he’d never been admitted to the bar.

“I feel bad that an illegal activity occurred,” he was saying in a soundbite, “but our charter mandates that we not feel compassion for the other races.” A spit of fury kicked through me. What right did he have to look so telegenic? To speak in crisp ten-second sound bites?

The bathroom door opened, and Rachel came out wrapped in a towel. Wisps of steam rose from her skin, and damp curls framed her face like a halo. “Mom?”

“Yes, honey?” I snapped off the TV. “When can I shave my legs?”

“Shave your legs?”

“I’m the only girl in the whole class who doesn’t. Everybody thinks I’m a dork.”

“Does Katie?”

“Well, no, but her mom—”

“Does Callie?”

“No, but—”

“What about Sarah?”

“Mom. Everybody’s doing it. I don’t want to be the last one.”

“Tell you what.”

“What?” She raised an eager face.

“I guarantee you’ll shave before your wedding.” She groaned and stomped off.

Chapter Thirteen

The forsythia in front of Mrs. Fleishman’s house was flowering, and purple blossoms clustered on Mrs. Altshuler’s rhododendron. It’s remarkable what a few warm days can do. I climbed the steps and rang the bell.

As Shirley opened the door, recognition lit her face. “How are you, dear?” She was wearing the same housedress and sweater as the day Ruth died. “I thought about calling you the other day. It was a lovely funeral. Her nephew made all the arrangements. Simple. But dignified.”

“I hope it gave you some peace,” I said. “As much as anything could.”

“Did Bruno ever show up?”

She shook her head, her eyes clouding. “I’ve been keeping an eye out. But it’s been over a week.” She opened the door wide. “Please come in.”

I caught a glimpse of lace doilies, a dark sofa, a gloomy room. I stayed on the porch. “This is going to sound trivial, given everything that’s happened,” I began. “But I think I lost an earring when I helped Ruth with Mr. Sinclair’s cartons.” I fingered my ear. “I wouldn’t bother you, but they were a gift from my daughter.”

Her hand rose to her chest. “Oh dear.”

I cleared my throat. “I was just wondering…Do you by any chance have a key to Ruth’s house?”

She nodded.

“Could I…I mean, do you think I might be able to take a look for it inside?”

“Of course.” She patted my arm. “Let me get the key.” I started back down the steps. “Should we call Ruth’s nephew and tell him? I’d hate for him to think I was trespassing.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Shirley said. “He said to use my judgment. He hasn’t even been here himself.”

“So, he hasn’t gone through her things?”

“No. In fact, no one’s been here since…since…” She pressed her lips together. “I’ll just get the key.”

I felt like a heel.

Lowered shades blocked most of the light inside, and a musty smell wafted over us. I pretended to look for my earring. “It might have come off when I brought the cartons downstairs.” I dropped to my hands and knees, inspecting the floor near the steps. “Do you see anything?”

Shirley bent over and squinted. “What did it look like?”

I pointed to my ear where I’d clipped a small blue and white Wedgwood style earring. Its mate lay on the front seat of the Volvo. But they
had
been a gift from Rachel. Really.

“I’m sorry, dear. I don’t see a thing.” She straightened up. I sighed. “Me neither. I’ll just take a quick look upstairs, if that’s okay.”

“Go ahead. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Skull’s room was as I remembered it. Bed, dresser, desk, closet. The floor was bare. There was no carton, no metal box. I opened the desk drawers. Empty. I checked the closet. Nothing. I lay on my stomach and peered under the bed frame. Dust balls but nothing else. I wiped myself off. “I can’t find it,” I called down to Shirley.

“What a pity,” she called back.

“Would it be okay if I peeked in her bedroom? Maybe—”

“By all means.”

I crossed the hall to Ruth’s bedroom and opened the door.

Drapes blocked the light, a damask spread covered the bed, and a silk upholstered chaise occupied one corner. Norma Desmond’s boudoir. I hunted through her closet, her drawers, even checked under her bed. I found old issues of
JUF News
, a spool of white thread, and a bottle of red nail polish, but no carton. And no metal box.

There was one other room upstairs, not much bigger than a closet. It held an ironing board, two empty laundry baskets, and a vintage black Singer sewing machine with the wheel on the side. The carton wasn’t there, but a spider was lazily making its way across the floor. I went back downstairs.

“Any luck?” Shirley opened the blinds in the kitchen. A bright sun flooded through the slats. Her pinched face made me realize how hard this was for her.

I shook my head, feeling even guiltier.

“That’s a shame. But, you know, I bet if you tell your daughter the truth, she’ll understand.”

She reached underneath the sink and pulled out a sponge and can of cleanser. Sprinkling cleanser into the sink, she turned on the water and started scrubbing the bowl.

“You’re probably right.” I hesitated. “Unless…”

“Unless what, dear?” She wiped down the sides of the sink, then splashed them with water.

“Unless someone came in after I left and found it.”

“You mean the day Ruth died?” I nodded. She stopped wiping and wrinkled her brow. “I was here myself.”

I leaned against the table. “That’s right. I forgot. You came over for coffee.”

She turned around to face me. “Yes, but I didn’t see your earring. Of course, I wasn’t looking for it.”

“Was anyone else here?”

“Not that I recall.” She held the sponge carefully; even so, a few drops of water dribbled onto the floor. “No. I do remember. Nobody was here. Nobody at all.” She turned back to her task.

“So, if I left with the cartons around three, you got here just after that and stayed—what—till about four?”

“That’s right.” She dried her hands on a dish towel, folded it, and put it away in the cabinet.

“Then I came back and found Ruth about four-thirty,” I went on. “Which means unless someone came in during that half hour—”

“That earring must be very important to you.” Her face softened.

I blinked. I couldn’t take it anymore. “You know something? It’s just an earring. Let’s get out of here.”

She smiled and looked around Ruth’s kitchen as if this was the last time she’d see it. That’s when I got it. The cleaning, the picking up: it was her final tribute to her friend.

Back in my car, I twirled a lock of hair. From the time I left until the time I got back and found her dead, no one except Shirley had entered Ruth Fleishman’s house, with the possible exception of a half-hour window between four and four-thirty. No one had been in the house since. But two men had been lurking outside Ruth’s house when I left. And Ben Skulnick’s carton had disappeared. And Ruth Fleishman was dead.

I’ve read that Carl Jung says there is no such thing as coincidence. That the more unusual the coincidence, the more probable it is that something other than chance is responsible. I can’t speak for Jung, but it seemed to me that the break-in at my house was looking less random. And the half-hour window when Mrs. Fleishman was alone more significant. Someone wanted Ben Skulnick’s things badly enough to break into houses to get them. Ruth Fleishman had been inside when they did; an hour later she was dead.

I tried to remember the car that the men outside Ruth’s were sitting in. A light color, I thought. Older. Maybe a Cutlass. I dug out my cell phone and started to punch in O’Malley’s number. Then I disconnected. He’d want evidence, which I didn’t have. I couldn’t even provide a solid description of the car.