Death Of A Dream Maker (6 page)

T.S. drove past the house, hoping to snag a parking
spot from an early-departing mourner. They could see the shadows of
guests moving behind the living room curtains. T.S. knew Auntie Lil
was aching to peek through them, but didn't want to push her luck.
They were conspicuous enough as it was.

“Just what are we attempting to find out?” T.S.
asked. “We can't keep circling the block all day.”

“I want to know which family members come to the home
and who stays away.”

“That's easy. They're all here. Gorging themselves on
free food and booze.”

“No.” Auntie Lil shook her head firmly. “Remember the
young man and young woman dressed in a much more restrained manner
than the others? Neither of them has arrived.”

T.S. turned the corner. Ahead, a neighbor's house was
clearly empty, the windows dark and drapes drawn. He backed into
the driveway so that he and Auntie Lil had an excellent view of the
Rosenbloom house.

They watched as late arrivals scurried inside. Auntie
Lil sighed and pulled out a white handkerchief from the cavernous
depths of her purse. She dabbed at her forehead and sighed again.
“I do believe today is the wettest day I have ever seen.”

Suddenly the moistness seemed to press in on T.S.
like a sponge. The car felt like a hothouse. Soon he felt a
terrible need to go to the bathroom. It reminded him of first grade
and the rigid boarding school that he'd attended. He'd been too
afraid to raise his hand and request permission from the scowling
Jesuit. He had suffered in silence instead.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he announced grimly.
“I warned you. All this rain...”

“Go in the bushes,” Auntie Lil suggested without a
glance. It was not an elegant solution, but she did not look in the
mood to discuss alternatives. T.S. checked out the roadway. The
flow of arrivals had stopped. There were no neighbors in sight. It
might be safe. But what if he were caught? Or cornered by a
snarling dog? He could be arrested for indecent exposure, his whole
life ruined... But if other men did it, so could he.

Though it was a blow to his fastidious standards,
T.S. hopped from the car and slipped into a neighboring yard, where
he was hidden by a thick bower of tree limbs. When he returned,
Auntie Lil was gone.

She had tricked him. Muttering an uncharacteristic
curse, T.S. crept into the Rosenbloom yard. Keeping close to the
edge of the thick holly hedge, he tiptoed under the living room
windows and slipped around to the side of the house farthest from
the street corner. A row of trees delineating the yard from the
neighbor's lot provided a thin hiding space. He spotted her damp
footprints in the grass and, feeling like a cross between Sherlock
Holmes and a Peeping Tom, discovered her crouched behind a
particularly thick clump of holly bushes. She was peering into a
first-floor window and had chosen her position well. By leaning
forward, she could peek around the corner and through a wall of
French doors that enclosed a large rear porch. Guests moved about
the porch, chatting and holding drinks.

“This was not part of the deal,” T.S. hissed softly.
The sharp edges of the holly leaves scraped at his face and one
branch insinuated itself under his jacket, tickling him just above
the waistband of his undershorts. When he tried to scratch it, he
bumped another wet limb and was showered with accumulated rain.
Auntie Lil, of course, remained perfectly dry and not the least bit
bothered by their junglelike surroundings.

She waved for him to be quiet. Despite these demands
for discretion, her own whisper had the force of a jet taking off.
“Look at that! They call this sitting shiva? They're a disgrace to
the proud traditions of their people.” She motioned for T.S. to
take a look. He cautiously raised his head a few inches until his
eyes were just above the level of the windowsill. Through the thin
gauze curtains, he saw the widow—cleaned up and encased in what
looked like a black cocktail dress. She was sitting on a plain
wooden crate, leaning back on one elegant arm. A new veil swept
back over her miraculously restored hair and there was not a trace
of mud in sight. She was laughing prettily at a male guest while
she sipped from a martini held in her free hand. A butler hovered
nearby with a silver tray, waiting for the refill request.

“She thinks sitting on a crate excuses her from
flirting at her own husband's funeral?” Auntie Lil was so agitated
that she pushed T.S. out of the way and stole another look inside.
“I can't believe this. Take a look at the hallway.”

They peeked together at a short passageway leading
off the living room toward the back porch. Someone had tacked a
piece of plain cloth over the floor-length mirror in accordance
with Jewish tradition. But a cluster of ladies had pulled up one
corner of the cloth and were busy inspecting their lipstick and
adjusting their sodden hairdos.

“Disgusting,” T.S. was quick to agree, although he
was referring to their hairstyles and not their failure to uphold
the true spirit of Judaism.

“I agree,” a harsh voice answered inches behind
T.S.'s ear. “They are all absolutely disgusting.”

T.S. and Auntie Lil jumped. They turned to find the
hooded eye of Max's older sister fixed coldly upon them.

“I know you,” she said to Auntie Lil. “So don't
pretend you don't know me.”

“Of course I know you. How are you, Rebecca?” Auntie
Lil held out a white-gloved hand. The old woman did not take it.
Auntie Lil let it drop, then very casually flicked several damp
vines from her shoulders. It was probably not a coincidence that
they landed on Rebecca's black-booted feet.

“I'm terribly sorry about your brother,” Auntie Lil
said. Whether she liked Rebecca or not, Auntie Lil knew her
manners.

“Of course you're sorry. Never stopped loving him, I
suppose.”

“No, I never did.”

“None of them ever did,” Rebecca answered nastily.
“He always left them before they stopped loving him.”

“Actually, I left him.” Auntie Lil's gaze was steady
and cool. “What he chose to do with the rest of his life was his
business, not mine.”

Rebecca's good eye narrowed; the hooded eye jumped.
Her mouth curled in what may have been an attempt at a smile as she
said, “I want to talk to you. I saw you peeking in the window. You
Hubberts have got the biggest heads in town. I presume you have a
car, so we can talk in private?” She was ancient and skinny, but
she had the no-nonsense rapid-fire delivery of an auctioneer.

“Follow me,” Auntie Lil said. She used her umbrella
to hack through the bushes and vines as if she were on an
anthropological expedition. T.S. and Rebecca obediently
followed.

They made a furtive parade back to the car. As much
as T.S. and Auntie Lil wished to avoid being spotted, Rebecca
Rosenbloom seemed to want it more. She clung close to the hedge and
pulled her shawl closely around her face. She slipped into the
backseat silently and sank down against the upholstery, where she
would be hidden by the fogged car windows.

“Some people are saying Max was involved with the
Mob. Or that someone in the family killed him,” she announced. “The
papers all say it. News stations, too. Even the neighbors.
Pah!”

Surely she had not spit on the floor of his car? T.S.
fervently hoped not.

“Of course they are,” Auntie Lil replied in a
superior tone of voice. “Ninety percent of all mur—”

“I'm not interested in your damn statistics,
Lillian.” The old woman turned to T.S. “She was always so annoying.
Spouting facts and figures. The two of them together. Ach! There
was no disagreeing with those two. No such thing as a peaceful
family dinner. Could we talk about something simple like weather?
Oh no, it was always exploitation of the worker and world peace and
other nonsense.”

“We were right.” Auntie Lil sat stiffly.

“Please continue,” T.S. said as soothingly as
possible, given the circumstances. He last thing he wanted was to
get caught in the middle of a geriatric cat fight. “You wanted to
talk to us?”

“Yes. I want you to find out who the murderer is. I
don't trust the police. I'll give you plenty of money to do it. But
if it was someone in the family, I want to know first.” She glared
at no one in particular. It seemed to be her favorite
expression.

“Why do you think I can or would do it?” Auntie Lil
asked primly.

“Why? Because you are the nosiest Parker I ever knew.
I watched you sniffing around at the funeral even before you found
Davy's body. Besides, I read about those other two incidents…” Her
voice trailed off as she realized that she was inadvertently
complimenting Auntie Lil. Her wrinkled face furrowed in
frustration. How could she get Auntie Lil to help out without
having to be nice to her?

She decided to be blunt. “Listen, Lillian,” she
growled. “I'm not in the mood for your crap. You're the most
stubborn person I ever met in my life. Most of the time that's
infuriating. Sometimes maybe it's good. You loved Max and I know
you'd want to find out the truth. Well, I loved him, too. He was my
brother. He was a good man. I want to know who did it, and I know
you can find out. This family, they don't trust the police. I've
already heard more lies in the past two days than in my eighty
years all wrapped together. You do it. Here. I'll give you these.
They will help.” She held out a large brass ring from which dozens
of keys dangled. “Go on, take them. Keys to their houses. I've
given you copies for everybody. Except mine, of course. I did not
kill my brother or my nephew. I've written down all of their
addresses, too.” She pulled a piece of paper from a side pocket and
waved it about like a flag.

Auntie Lil and T.S. looked at each other. “How did
you get keys to everyone’s homes?” T.S. asked.

“Max was smart enough not to buy all those family
deadbeats expensive houses and then let them mortgage them away,”
she said. “He transferred ownership to me so I'd have a nest egg. I
own the houses and I have a right to these keys.”

“What do you expect me to do with them?” Auntie Lil
eyed the key ring as she greedily calculated the contents. It was
gratifying to watch Rebecca Rosenbloom beg for her help. She had
waited a long time for this.

“Go in and look around. I want to know what you find.
There are so many bad apples in this family, I don't know who to
accuse first. They're rotten. All of them. Right to the core.”

She tossed the keys over the front seat and they
landed between Auntie Lil and T.S. with a jangle. The piece of
paper with the family addresses fluttered down on top. Both T.S.
and Auntie Lil reached for the objects at the same time, then drew
away lest they be spotted in an unseemly tug-of-war.

“I need some information before I agree,” Auntie Lil
said. “Who were all those people sitting in the family circle? I
recognized very few of them.”

“Not even the fat old broad in the sequined dress?”
Rebecca asked with scorn. “That's Abby, Abe's wife. Don't you
remember her? Abe used to drool all over her, call her his wild
Irish rose. Hah! That's fitting. She's cheap wine, all right. Don't
you remember that time she dumped a martini on your red silk dress?
On purpose, I expect.”

“I thought that was Abby at the funeral,” Auntie Lil
explained. “But I wasn’t sure. She looks different.”

“That's because only the foundation is her,” Rebecca
said. “The top is all plastic surgery.”

“Where was Abe? One would think he'd attend his own
brother's funeral.”

“One would, but he's home in bed with a tube up his
nose. Been bedridden for almost a year. Had a stroke. Serves him
right. Ate crap and drank like a fish his whole life. Max used to
warn him to slow down, but you know the jealousy between those two.
They were brothers, all right. Fought their whole lives.” The old
lady shook her head in disgust. A thin strand of gray escaped from
her severe bun, which she tucked back in place with vicious
efficiency.

“What about the younger ones?” Auntie Lil asked.
“What can you tell me about them?”

“They all belong to Abe and Abby. They had more kids
than the Kennedys. She used to drop 'em every year, regular as
kittens. Thought I'd never have to quit congratulating her. For
what? Being too stupid to keep 'em from coming? Used to want me to
baby-sit when I was young. Hah! Can you imagine?” She sat back with
a cackle.

No, T.S. could not imagine Rebecca Rosenbloom in the
same room with small children. At least, not without thinking of
the Brothers Grimm.

“The dead one is Abe's, too,” the old woman added as
an afterthought. “Davy. He was the wildest one of the lot. Drank.
Ran around with women. Gambled. Pissed away every dime he had and
Max was always willing to give him more.” She shook her head. “He
was Max's weak spot. He was a rotten one, though. Not surprised at
all to see him turn up dead. Though I admit where he turned up dead
gave me a start.”

“I think one nephew and one niece are missing from
the mourning,” Auntie Lil said. “Why? Max was their uncle. Davy was
their brother. I saw them at the funeral. You'd think they'd want
to be around family at a time like this.”

“You're talking about the good-looking ones,” Rebecca
said flatly. “They hate the family. Don't ask me why. Me, I've got
good reasons to hate everyone. But all those two ever got from the
family was being spoiled. That makes them ingrates, both of them.
Girl's named Karen, got some fancy-pants job somewhere. Boy's named
Seth. Good-looking, but queer as a three-dollar bill. You ought to
remind Abby of it someday. Gets her goat every time.” She hee-heed
mirthlessly.

T.S. longed to throw a pail of water on Rebecca
Rosenbloom and see if she melted. “What about the middle-aged bald
guy with the cold?” he asked instead.

“That's Jacob, Abe and Abby's oldest. Davy's older
brother. Dumber than a dead dog. Bungled more business deals than
Donald Trump. Max hated him. Who wouldn't?”