Fertile Ground (21 page)

By now the food was warmed, and her kitchen smelled like her mother’s. She shut off the oven, unscrewed the refrigerator bulb in preparation for the Sabbath, then walked over to the dinette table. Like most of the girls with whom she’d grown up, she’d never lit her own Sabbath candles while living with her parents. Tonight would be a first in many ways.

Feeling a flutter of quiet excitement, she struck a match and lit one candle, then the other, watching the flames leap to life. Maybe it was her imagination, but the lighting in the room seemed more mellow now, the room itself more still. She encircled the flames three times with her hands before she covered her eyes and recited the simple Hebrew prayer she knew by heart and had watched her mother mouth on so many Friday nights. Her mother silently recited additional prayers each Friday night-“May it be God’s will…” Her father blessed her each week upon his return from synagogue. It was after ten thirty in New York, and her parents were no doubt sound asleep. She wished suddenly that she’d taken them up on their offer and flown home.

Without the radio or television to keep her company, the apartment was eerily silent, and she was unaccustomed to being alone with her thoughts. Last week—it seemed like an eternity ago—she’d worried about how Matthew would react when she told him she was thinking about taking some outreach classes. Now, though she’d promised herself she wouldn’t think about him, she couldn’t help wondering where he was, what he was thinking.

Anger bubbled within her again. She didn’t like the feeling—she wanted to experience the uninterrupted tranquility of the Sabbath. From the pine bookcase in the living room, she took the prayer book she’d bought a few weeks ago at a Jewish bookstore on Pico, then sat on the

sofa. She leaned over to switch on the ecru stone-based lamp on the table, but pulled back her hand just in time. She couldn’t do it, not on the Sabbath. She couldn’t turn on the radio or the television, couldn’t answer the phone, couldn’t cook, couldn’t tear, couldn’t do any of the hundred little things she’d been doing on Friday evenings and Saturdays for over ten years.

Technically, of course, she could do whatever she wanted. She hadn’t officially accepted Judaism—that was what she’d told herself eleven years ago. I’m not even Jewish. But she’d always considered herself Jewish, always identified herself to others as Jewish, and tonight she’d taken the first step in making a commitment to herself, and to God. For weeks she’d been filled with qualms, with apprehensions; suddenly everything seemed right. (Don’t think, just do it.) Six months ago she’d viewed all the “don’ts” as unnecessary restrictions. Now she welcomed them as reminders that this day was separate from the rest of the week. Special, holy.

Everything was familiar, everything was new.

In the dining nook she recited the prayers—partly in Hebrew, partly in English—and when she sang L’choh Dodi, “Come, My Beloved,” and bowed during the final refrain to welcome the Sabbath bride, she felt the Sabbath enter her home.

She didn’t have a silver wine cup, so she poured a semidry pink wine into a crystal goblet and recited the kiddush aloud, using her father’s melody, which she could hear in her memory. She poured water from a glass over her hands—the right hand first, then the left, then the right and left again—and said the blessing. With her hands dried, she recited the blessing over the two small braided challahs she’d wrapped in tin foil and warmed in the oven. Her mother usually baked her own challahs. As a child Lisa had loved standing next to her on a step stool at the flour-covered kitchen counter, kneading her own small mound of dough, punching it down, braiding it with chubby, clumsy fingers. Her mother’s long, slender fingers had seemed to fly over the dough, weaving the thick strands with impossible grace and speed.

She wondered whether Sam was with friends tonight or whether, like her, he was eating alone, making his own kiddush, blessing his own challahs; whether he was eating store-bought food or food he’d prepared himself. She pictured him in the kitchen she’d never seen, his hands in mitts, an apron tied around his waist. The image made her smile.

She was eating a chicken wing when the phone rang. She rose from the table and reached for the kitchen wall receiver, then quickly drew back her hand. If it was the clinic calling about an emergency, she’d answer; and if necessary, she’d drive to the clinic to attend to a patient. That was the Halacha, the law.

She went into the bedroom and sat on the bed, waiting for the fourth ring, then for the click and whir that indicated her outgoing message was being played and rewound. Another click, and she heard Barone’s voice. She clutched the edge of the bed.

“Dr. Brockman, I assume you’re phoning about Paula Rhodes. We’re doing everything we can to find out who impersonated me.”

She’d figured out that the impostor had learned Barone’s name by calling the station and asking who was in charge of Chelsea’s murder investigation. She was eager to talk to Barone, but this wasn’t an emergency.

“The other reason I’m calling. Dr. Brockman, is that there’s been a major development. The two boys haven’t changed their story, but in checking the car for evidence, the lab technicians found what could be human blood in the trunk.”

She felt as though the breath had been sucked out of her lungs. Her ribs were pressing against her chest wall, and she could feel the beating of her heart. Her hand hovered over the phone on her nightstand, shaking.

“If you know Dr. Gordon’s blood type, please call me.”

She didn’t know whether this qualified as an emergency—if Matthew was dead, telling Barone his blood type wouldn’t bring him back to life—but she picked up the phone.

“His blood type is 0 positive. I’m sorry, but unless you have something else urgent to tell or ask me, I can’t talk now. It’s my Sabbath.” It was her Sabbath, she decided.

“The lab is running tests on the substance we found. I’ll phone you with the results as soon as I get them. Good night.”

If God was testing her, she’d failed, she thought as she returned the receiver to its cradle.

She lay down on her bed and told herself she’d had every reason to believe that Matthew had fled, but she was overwhelmed with guilt for having doubted him, for having lost faith.

The wind whistled through a sliver of space between the stationary door and the slider, rattling the glass. She closed her eyes and tried to decide which was worse-Matthew sitting on a beach somewhere, sipping a margarita, or Matthew lying dead somewhere, the blood in the trunk of his car a silent testimony to his innocence.

The muted sounds of a raspy male voice reading the week’s Torah portion greeted Lisa as she entered the synagogue’s air-conditioned foyer. The frigid air was a wonderful relief. She’d walked two miles this morning in humid, eighty-five-degree weather to come here. She was wearing low-heeled navy shoes, but her toes and the soles of her feet burned, and her navy silk suit clung to her back, and her heartbeat was accelerated because of the brisk pace she’d maintained and the apprehension, only partly diminished by occasional reassuring glances around her, that someone might be following her.

She opened the door and peeked into the sanctuary, which was almost filled. The women’s seats, occupying the left half of the high-ceilinged, rectangular room, were separated from the men’s section by a four-foot wall of wood panels topped with a two-foot lattice border. Taking a prayer book and a Bible from a bookcase in the foyer, she entered the sanctuary and chose a seat near the front, hoping to catch sight of Sam.

She exchanged “Good Shabbos” greetings with her neighbors, who returned their attention to the open Bibles in front of them. Lisa had missed the morning service. She recited the major prayers, surprised at how easily her

tongue fanned words she hadn’t used for years. When she was done, she glanced at the neighbor to her right to see what chapter and verse they were up to in the Torah reading.

The portion was Kedoshim—“You shall be holy.” She was listening to the reader, following the Hebrew words from right to left on the page, glancing every few seconds at the English translation on the adjoining left page. She read about the importance of giving gifts to the poor, of being honest in dealing with others, of judging righteously, and she was startled when she came to the sentence “You shall not stand aside while your fellow’s blood is shed.”

She told herself this was just coincidence, but she’d been consumed with guilt and despair ever since Barone called. She’d fallen asleep trying to resign herself to Matthew’s death; it was her first thought upon waking. The Biblical injunction seemed directed at her, and though she knew that no one was looking at her, she was powerless to stop the flush that was tinting her face and neck.

She bent her head, forcing herself to concentrate on the text and explication, but she was thinking about Matthew, and she didn’t look up until more than ten minutes later, when the raspy-voiced young man had finished reading the last section.

When she did lift her head, she looked through the lattice and saw Sam. He towered over the panels, but he wasn’t looking in her direction. With his arms spread wide apart, he lifted the tall, heavy Torah scroll and held it high above his head, turning to each section of the room so that everyone could see it.

Now he was sitting down, holding the Torah steady as another man rewound the parchment onto the two spindles, turning them inward, toward each other. The man bound the spindles together and slipped an embroidered navy velvet sleeve over the scroll. Twenty minutes later, after a reading from Prophets and the beginning of the additional Mussaf service, the Torah scroll was returned to the velvet-draped ark against the wall.

Sam had put on a white-and-black-striped fringed tall it

to conduct this honorary ritual. He looked so fine. Lisa thought, and felt a flutter of something she couldn’t define. She watched as he removed the prayer shawl and returned it to its owner, and it was at this moment that he turned and their eyes met. She saw surprise in the slight widening of his eyes, then pleasure. He was smiling broadly, and she realized with a pang that he thought she’d come here to signal a’change in their relationship. And, of course, there’s me. She realized, too, that if Bar one hadn’t phoned, that might have been true.

It wasn’t loneliness—she’d always been attracted to him, and the other night something had definitely passed between them. As a betrayed fiancee, she’d owed no allegiance to Matthew. Now she feared he was dead, and everything was different, skewed. The fact that she was grieving for a man she wasn’t sure she would have married only compounded her guilt and confusion.

The rabbi gave a short sermon, touching on some of the topics in the weekly portion. Lisa couldn’t see him behind the partition, but he had a pleasant, dynamic voice. After he spoke, the service continued. She stood and said her prayers silently and, along with the congregation, sang the final hymns led by two young boys. But she was anxious to speak to Sam, to clarify why she was here before they were both embarrassed. When the service was over, she followed the women and children into the long, narrow social hall adjacent to the sanctuary, where refreshments were being served. She was surrounded by women, all of whom were friendly and welcoming and asked her whether she was new in L.A. She’d just turned down a second lunch invitation when Sam came over. She was used to seeing him in his clinic gray and thought how handsome he looked in his single-breasted, dark-olive green suit.

“Good Shabbos. This is a nice surprise. You look terrific,” he added.

“Good Shabbos. And thank you.” He was smiling with a boyish shyness that tugged at her, and she hated to ruin his buoyant mood. “I need to speak to you, Sam.” She spoke in a whisper, though there was no need. The

room was filled with the noise of multiple conversations and children squealing.

His smile disappeared, and he nodded. “Let’s go outside.”

She followed him out of the building to the sidewalk. He leaned against a lamppost, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. The sun was hot and bright, glistening on the silica in the concrete, and she squinted when she looked up at him.

“Barone phoned last night. They found blood in the trunk of Matthew’s car, and he needed to know Matthew’s blood type. He said he’d call me as soon as he gets the lab results.” Would that be sometime today? Was there a message on her machine even now?

Sam looked stricken. His face was pale, his gray eyes dark and brooding again. He was silent for a moment, then said softly, “And here I was, getting used to being angry as hell at him.”

She nodded.

“That’s why you came here, to tell me?”

She heard disappointment in his voice. “I thought you’d want to know. And I had to talk to someone about it. I feel so…” She left the sentence unfinished. “There’s something else.” She told him about Paula’s phone call, saw him scowl.

“So you weren’t imagining that a car was following you from Matthew’s condo. Did you tell Barone?”

“No. I promise I’ll tell him when I talk to him again. But why would someone follow me to Paula’s? Why would he pump her to find out what we talked about?”

Sam thought for a moment. “Matt’s disappearance must be connected with Chelsea’s murder, not just with the forgery. Whoever followed you is afraid you’ll figure out the connection.”

“But I don’t know anything!”

“He doesn’t know that. You’re Matthew’s fiancee.”

She jumped as a nearby car came to a shrieking stop, its horn honking angrily. Sam’s hand steadied her. The driver leaned out his window and yelled obscenities at the two elderly pedestrians crossing on a red light.

“Did you figure out what’s in that “Notes’ file?” Sam asked.

“I found the password yesterday. It was so obvious-Louise Brown.” She smiled briefly, then gave him a summary of what she’d read. “So we still don’t know who admitted Chelsea.”

“Even if we did, I can’t see someone killing Matthew to keep that information secret, can you?”

Lisa shook her head. “That’s why I have to find out why Chelsea was killed. She’s the key.”