Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death (14 page)

There was a long pause, while we all tried to make sense of what Florence had said.

It was Mrs. K who spoke up first. “I beg your pardon, but at my age my hearing is not as good as it used to be. I thought you said we should burgle the second room ourselves. Ida and me.”

“Yes, that's what I said.”

“And what kind of a
meshuggeneh
idea is that? Two old ladies should be climbing over fences and crawling through windows and…and—” I thought Mrs. K was going to
plotz
for sure. Even Sara seemed shocked at the thought, shocked or amused, because she covered her mouth with her hand and stared at Florence.

Florence did not seem upset by this reaction. In fact, she must have expected it, because she smiled and gestured for everyone to calm down and let her explain.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she said, “and no one is going to force anyone to do it, of course, but let me tell you what I mean.”

After a minute we all settled back in our seats to hear what possibly this lady burglar could have in mind.

“Here's my thought. As I understand it, the second room is presently unoccupied, is that right?”

Mrs. K nodded. “Yes, it was Bertha's room.”

“Good. That takes away one of the trickiest aspects of breaking in. And since you're already living in the Home, no one will have to climb over any fences.”

Well, this at least was a relief. A small one.

“Now, opening these old-style awning windows isn't really that difficult. I could teach you to do it in less than a half hour.”

“But it took you that long to open the one last night,” Mrs. K pointed out.

“Yes, but that was only because my special tool broke. It's one I fashioned myself and had used often, and it just wore out, I guess. I can easily make another one. It's highly unlikely a second one would break, especially when it's new.”

Mrs. K nodded, but said nothing, so Florence continued. “As I mentioned, if you stay close to the building, the floodlights don't go on. So you won't have to worry about being seen. And I can give you flashlights to find your way.”

“But that only gets us to the window,” Mrs. K said, “and maybe if you are correct it is easy to open the window. What then?”

Florence stopped smiling, because clearly this was the more difficult question to answer. Her brow was furrowed; you know, like she was picturing this in her head. I know I was, and it did not look at all pretty.

“Yes,” Florence said, “that's where it does get tricky. If you think you or Ida could climb into a window—and out again, of course—then you should consider giving it a try. I'll be honest—when I realized I wouldn't be able to finish this job for you, I was really disappointed. I felt that I was letting you down. Then it occurred to me that maybe, if I gave you some pointers and whatever tools you needed, just maybe you could do it yourself. But when, in my mind, I came to this part of the process, getting in and out of the window, well, I just wasn't sure. It depends on how, uh, how…”

“How bendy we are?” put in Mrs. K. “How heavy? How wide? We are not spring chickens, you know. But then we are not
alter kockers
either. How far did you say these windows would open?”

I almost
plotzed
myself when I heard this. I had assumed Mrs. K was just letting Florence explain her
fershlugginer
idea out of courtesy. I could not believe she was actually considering it seriously. I knew she was anxious to prove her innocence, but I also remembered how she resisted even the idea of hiring a burglar.

Now to consider
being
one herself—and
me also
—
oy vey iz mir!

“Rose, are you completely
meshugge
?” I said. “We should become burglars? And at our age?” I am afraid I did not sound very calm. Sometimes Mrs. K can be so exasperating.

Mrs. K took my hand and said, “Now, now, Ida. I did not say anything of the kind. I am just letting Florence here explain her idea. We should always be willing to listen.”

“Listen, schmissen—you have never been willing to consider even the slightest indiscretion, much less one that could land you—and me—in jail.” I hoped she would come to her senses before we both ended up
ahf tsuris
—in big trouble!

Mrs. K smiled and said, “First of all, I should remind you that it was you, not me, who first suggested we hire this nice lady to get our information by breaking into several rooms.”

I had to admit this was true. We would not be sitting here discussing learning to be
ganovim
were it not for me. Me and my bright ideas!

“But, Rose,” I protested, becoming maybe a bit frustrated, “I did not mean that I wanted us to do such a thing ourselves. It was Sara who had a best friend who was a burglar, not me!” Until now, at least.

Mrs. K continued, “Further, although it is no doubt against some law to enter someone else's room without being invited…”

“And through the back window,” I added.

“Yes, and through the back window, I doubt it is technically burglary that we would be doing, since we would not be taking anything. Or breaking anything, I hope.” This she said smiling at Florence, who smiled back—a bit ruefully, perhaps. “We would just be looking.”

True, looking is not taking, although I was not so sure the police would see it that way.

“But even if it is a burglary, I was also remembering that on more than one occasion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself, who as you know I hold in very high esteem, found it necessary to break into places to which he was not invited. Always in a good cause, of course, and not to steal anything. And…” (here she looked directly at me) “if I remember correctly, at least once or twice Dr. Watson accompanied him.”

“No doubt under protest,” I responded.

As I have said, Mrs. K is a big admirer of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, having read all of the books about him, many more than once, and she has a wonderful memory. So if she says Mr. Holmes was sometimes a burglar, I have to believe it. And to tell the truth, while I do not say that Mrs. K is as brilliant a detective as Mr. Holmes, I have seen how her mind works in the same way, and it would be a close thing between them. As for me, I am content to be Mrs. K's helper and to be telling you this story.

Mrs. K now turned back to Florence and Sara and said, “So, Florence, you should please explain better what you have in mind. I'm sure you are now aware of our…our limitations.”

Florence laughed. “Yes, certainly. To tell the truth, I hadn't completely thought it through; generally, I thought I could give you a short lesson in how to open one of those windows, assuming it was locked. I noticed many were open last night, and if so everything becomes much easier. Then you and Ida might take a short stroll on the back lawn tomorrow, just to look at the layout and decide whether it seemed doable. If you felt comfortable about it, then as soon as there was a time when most of the residents would be out of their rooms—maybe another recital or something—you could…could do the thing.” I guess she was reluctant to say “could commit the crime.” But we knew what she meant.

Mrs. K shook her head. “No, there is no recital that I know of, and we cannot wait for one. It will have to be done very soon if at all, because the policemen are supposed to come back…it is by Friday, I think. But I believe there is a movie being shown in the lounge tomorrow evening, is there not, Ida?”

I nodded my head. “Thursday is usually movie night at the Home,” I explained to Florence and Sara, “and most of the residents attend. There is a big screen they set up and it is a lot like going to the theater. There is even popcorn.” I realized I was adding much more detail than was necessary. It was from being nervous, I think.

“So,” Mrs. K continued, “it is tomorrow night or not at all.” Then turning to me, she said, “What do you say, Ida? Shall we become burglars for a day?”

How could I refuse?

We all moved to a table in Sara's kitchen, and Sara brought out a pad of yellow paper for Mrs. K and one for Florence and two pencils. She also refilled our teacups.

“Okay, here's what the window looks like,” Florence said, drawing a picture on her pad. And she proceeded to explain about the lock and the gadget that keeps the window from opening too far. Mrs. K and I watched and listened and asked a few questions until we both thought we understood.

Florence then gave us some ideas about what we should be carrying with us and what we should wear.

“I'll prepare one of these dandy little tools that'll help you open the window,” she said, “and Sara will drop it off in the morning. As for clothing, you'll recall what I said I was wearing…”

“If you are suggesting we should put on one of those black jumping suits or whatever it is called and paint our faces black, like I see in the movies, it is not going to happen,” Mrs. K told Florence.

Florence laughed at this and said, “No, I'm only suggesting you wear something dark, and pants would be much better than a dress or skirt.”

Mrs. K shook her head. “I do not think either Ida or I own a pair of pants. It is not what would be considered dignified at our age, and especially with our…our dimensions. And there will not be time to buy any. So we will have to do our best with wearing something dark.”

“Okay, but no flowers or polka dots,” Florence said kindly, and Mrs. K agreed.

“You can also borrow a lightweight stepstool I sometimes use. One of you can carry it, to make it easier for the other to get in the window. Sara can bring that over too.”

We nodded.

“Once you're inside and have seen what you came to see, just climb back out and close the window. Don't worry about locking it again, which you probably couldn't do anyway, even with my special tool. No one will notice, and if they do, since nothing will be missing, they'll just think they left it unlocked. And that's all there is to it.”

All there is to it? Maybe it is no big deal for her, but it sounded like a pretty big deal to me. I looked over at Mrs. K, but she was looking closely at Florence's drawing and did not seem to be disturbed by what we were planning. In fact, she seemed quite invigorated, as if this was going to be some kind of game that she is looking forward to playing.

If it was going to be a game, I thought, I hoped it was more like matzoh balls than like bridge: I hoped this time she was definitely playing to win!

When we returned to the Home, Sara dropping us off with her big blue car, and after Mrs. K and I had had a cup of tea, we went out to the back lawn and strolled up and down, trying to look casual and looking at the windows, how many of them were open, whether they were our size.

“Ida,” Mrs. K said as we re-entered the building, “I think we can do this. Are you willing to give it a try?”

I was not going to leave her to do it by herself, was I? I just hoped we could get kosher food in jail.

Thursday morning. We had to wait until after dinner, when the movie would be shown, to make our break-in, meaning we had a whole day ahead to be nervous. So it was just as well that we found something to completely take our minds off of burglary.

In all the excitement over Bertha's earring, I had completely forgotten to ask Mrs. K whether Benjamin found out anything interesting about the
nogoodnik
Eddie Christensen. So I asked her as we were sitting in the lounge waiting for lunch to be served.

“I know you said you are not supposed to reveal what Taubman told you…”

“I'm sorry, Ida,” she said, “I meant to tell you. I spoke with Taubman and explained that it was very important, for Doreen's benefit, that I be able to talk about Eddie's…si
tuation. He said he understood and that I should just use my discretion.”

“
Nu,
so please use it and tell me already.”

“It is interesting, and also disturbing. First, it appears this Eddie Christensen is indeed the son of our Molly, the former cleaner at the Home. And I feel sorry for Molly if that is so.”

“From what we have seen of him, I would certainly agree.”

“But there is more than what we have ourselves seen. To begin with, Eddie has been arrested many times by the police. He has a long record.”

I was not totally surprised, but I was still shocked to learn that Rachel's Doreen was living with such a
farshtinkiner,
and planning to marry him yet!

“What kind of things has he been arrested for?” I asked. “Like robbing banks and murder?” I perhaps watch too much television, as this was the first thing I could think of.

“Nothing like that,
danken Got
. Mostly it is for having drugs, or for petty theft, nothing of great consequence. But he also is suspected of having some connection to much worse people, the ones who commit the more serious crimes.”

“You mean like that big Italian family, what is their name?”

“You are thinking maybe of the Mafia.”

“That is them.” Again too much television, I suppose.

“No, I don't think so,” Mrs. K said, “at least that is not the impression I got. They probably are just plain American criminals, a local gang, which is just as bad. But whoever they are, the police are watching Eddie to see what he and the others are up to. When they get enough evidence, the police will arrest them.”

“This sounds bad for Doreen,” I said.

“It gets worse, I'm afraid. A few years ago, when he was about to be put on trial for stealing from someone, the important witness was to be a young woman with whom Eddie had been living. Apparently she saw the stolen items when he brought them home. Well, it turns out they had just recently gotten married, and so the woman could not be forced to testify against Eddie, and the prosecution was dropped. Mr. Taubman said it is some kind of privilege not to testify against your husband.”

I was getting confused now. “But Eddie is not married—Rachel has told us he is in fact going to marry Doreen…”

“That is what I said to Taubman. He said Benjamin did not mention, and in fact may not know, what has become of Eddie's wife—that information perhaps is not in his file.”

I let this sink in for a minute, and briefly I had a chill down my spine. Mrs. K was correct—it was all very disturbing. And at least one thing was clear:

“Rose, we must try to protect Doreen. Perhaps if we tell her what we have found out…”

Mrs. K shook her head. “No, I'm afraid she would just consider us two meddling
yentas.
She is no doubt flattered by Eddie's attentions, and she is not likely to believe anything bad about him that we tell her.”

“So what do we do? Surely we must do something.”

“I intend to do something,” Mrs. K said. “I intend to go and see the only person who will be able to deal properly with Mr. Eddie Christensen.”

“Who is that?”

“His mother, of course.”

When Mrs. K decides to do something, it usually gets done very soon. Of course, at our age, if we do not act on our decisions while they are fresh in our minds, we are likely to forget to act on them at all.

So right after lunch, Mrs. K got Molly Christensen's address and telephone number from the telephone directory. She telephoned Molly and asked if it was okay that we come over to speak with her that afternoon. Molly remembered Mrs. K and said she would be glad to see her. She would be home and we should feel free to drop in.

Mrs. K then asked me if I would like to accompany her to see Molly. I was not otherwise occupied on this Thursday afternoon, and of course I was curious as to what Mrs. K intended to say to Molly, so I readily agreed.

Molly lived across town, and we decided to take a taxi to get there. I should point out that although both Mrs. K and I drove cars when we were younger, neither of us feels comfortable doing it now. Our reactions are a little slower and our eyesight is not so good. So like most of the residents at the Home, we do not own a car and must take a bus or taxi when we go out, at least if Andy's shuttle is not available. Some residents, like Mr. Taubman, do own cars and keep them in the garage under the Home. If we really need to go somewhere by car, sometimes we can ask of them a favor to drive us. But on this errand to Eddie's mother, Mrs. K and I had to go alone.

I excused myself to freshen up before we left, and a few minutes later I met Mrs. K in the reception area of the Home. I saw that she had also returned to her room and was now wearing one of her pretty hats, the blue one with the white ribbon. It is a shame ladies do not wear them much these days, but everything is so “casual” now, even in the evening.

We were about to ask the receptionist to call a taxi for us when Mrs. K stopped short. She turned to me and said, “No, Ida, we cannot leave just yet. I just remembered something important I planned to do first.”

She then turned in the direction of the lounge and walked toward the back corner, where Mrs. Bissela was sitting in her usual spot—it is where she can see everything that is going on in the rest of the lounge—kni
tting what looked like a child's sweater. It was white and light blue and very soft looking. This also somewhat describes Mrs. Bissela: She has light skin and blue eyes that seem to sparkle, rosy cheeks, and being more or less on the rounded side is soft-looking as well.

She looked up as we approached, and smiled. She is always glad to have someone to talk to, and she always has something—or more likely someone—to talk about. As it turned out, that is exactly why Mrs. K was coming over to see her.

“Rose, come and sit down,” Mrs. Bissela said, patting the cushion next to her. “And you too, Ida. We have not talked in quite a while.”

“Thank you, Hannah,” Mrs. K said, and we both sat. I was glad to get off my feet for a few minutes, but I was sure we were not there just to rest. Mrs. K had a purpose, and I would soon find out what it was.

We began to
shmooze
about the Home—this resident who is getting a little
shikker,
drunk, from too much
schnapps
after dinner, that resident who has found a new girlfriend twenty years younger than he, the latest gossip about Mr. Pupik—and soon I could see that Mrs. K had managed to turn the conversation toward Bertha Finkelstein.

“So, Hannah,” she said, “what do you think happened to Bertha? A heart attack, no?”

I now saw where Mrs. K was going. If anyone had heard about what caused Bertha's death, it would be Mrs. Bissela. And if anyone had heard what anyone else is saying about her death, it would be the same person. Our Mrs. Bissela is like that Wiki-tiki thing I keep reading about. You know, it is like the encyclopedia but on the computer, where anyone can write things even if they are not true. There is much Mrs. Bissela can tell you about what goes on at the Home, but it is only as reliable as the person from whom she has heard it.

“
Oy,
a
gevaldikeh zach,
a terrible thing,” says Mrs. Bissela. “Yes, a heart attack it must have been. And that it should happen right there at the
seder
…”

I am glad that the way Bertha died and the suspicion on Mrs. K by the police had apparently not been heard even by Mrs. Bissela. Pupik may be a
momzer,
but apparently he is a
momzer
who can keep shut his
pisk.

“It was indeed terrible,” agreed Mrs. K. “Did you know Bertha well?”

“Not very well, no,” Mrs. Bissela said.

“I was just wondering about her family. You know, did she have close relatives living nearby. I mean, if there is a large estate to divide up…”

“Oh, there is no large estate,” Mrs. Bissela said, interrupting. “And there is hardly any family.” Here she became more confidential-like and leaned closer to Mrs. K. “The day after Bertha dies, I hear Pupik telling Joy Laetner, the morning receptionist, that they have traced her closest relatives to somewhere in England, and that she should send them a message that he hands her.”

“So no nearby relatives?”

“No. And as for there being a large estate, I was told by Mrs. Switzer's daughter Sonia, who works for Goldman the lawyer—you know, he looks after the financial affairs of the less well-to-do of our residents—she told me in confidence that Bertha's is only a small estate. Of course, she did not reveal any details…”

“Of course not,” Mrs. K said.

So Amy Bergman's story about the evil relatives and the big estate turned out to be just more of that poor woman's
mishegoss,
as we thought was most likely at the time. Nevertheless, it didn't hurt to check the facts with a higher authority.