Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death (7 page)

Mrs. K took a sip of her tea and looked into the cup for a moment, where perhaps she saw the answer in the tea leaves. Then she picked up her pencil and said, “Are there any other of the residents whom we should put on the list?”

“Well,” I replied, “no one I can think of who has a better opportunity than anyone else. We cannot put them all on the list.”

“No. It would be different if someone had been sitting at Bertha's table with her. They would have had a much better opportunity to put something in her soup. But she was sitting alone, was she not?”

I was about to agree, but then I said, “Wait a minute. What about that priest or whatever he was who sat down by her briefly?”

“I did not see a priest at the
seder,
and I certainly did not see one sitting next to Bertha Finkelstein,” Mrs. K replied.

“He sat down next to her for only a minute or two and then he left, I assume to talk with other residents.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. He was not one of the
goyim
I am used to seeing at the Home.”

“Well,” Mrs. K said, “that is strange, since we are usually told ahead of time when Gentiles are to visit our
seder,
so we know to welcome them, and I do not recall this being mentioned. But since we do not know who he was, and he was apparently sitting there for only a minute, and a priest would be unlikely to steal a pair of earrings, we will have to leave him off the list for now. I will try to remember to ask about him at the Home.”

On this we agreed. She now consulted her list again and said, “So we are down to suspect number three, all of the help.”

“What do you mean, ‘all of the help'?”

“I mean everyone who helped to serve dinner could have stolen the earrings and then accidentally dropped one into the soup. Maybe out of a pocket of an apron where they were hidden.”

“That is possible, but it too seems to me unlikely,” I told Mrs. K.

“Maybe I agree with you it is unlikely,” she responded. “But we are making a list of who
could
have dropped the earring, and at this point, because we have no likely suspects, it must include even the unlikely. Besides, if Daisy did leave her door open, as we both know she has done many times, almost anyone in the building could have taken those earrings, including most of those who later were serving. So let us think about who was serving.”

I did think, but I was not noticing such things at the time. Why should I? I did not know that I had reason to be noticing them until now.

Nevertheless, I took a stab at it. “Well, we know of course that up front was Mary, who caused all the commotion. I am sure that if she had tried to drop anything in the soup, it would have fallen on the floor instead.”

Mrs. K laughed. “Yes, she is perhaps least likely. Now, who was serving us?”

“I think we were served by either Jerry Anderson, the night watchman's boy—he was filling in because of the extra guests—or by Frank—I always forget his last name—you know, one of the regular waiters. I am pretty certain it was not a woman.”

“Yes, I agree, and now that you mention him, I think it was Frank,” Mrs. K said. “I believe his last name is Neilson or Nelson or something like that. No, it is Nelson, I'm sure.” She made an entry in her notebook.

Just then I remembered something: “Wasn't it Frank whose wife was so sick last year that he had to miss work to take care of her? It must have cost him a lot of lost wages, not to mention her being out of work as well.”

“I think you are right, Ida.” Another scribble in her notebook.

“I also remember,” she said, “hearing that Adele, who usually serves at dinner, has been ill, so she was not there for the
seder
. I distinctly recall that Betsy, the plump woman with the unruly hair she always has to keep pinned down under her cap, was serving at the table across from us. I remember thinking that a woman of that size should not be bending over quite so far; it is not a pretty sight. That leaves one more server, whoever replaced Adele.”

We both were silent for a few minutes while we tried to think of the fifth server.

“I have it,” Mrs. K said finally. “I remember now that there was a middle-aged man, whom I did not recognize, serving at breakfast, and I am almost certain he was there again for the
seder
. I don't know his name, but he had a dark complexion and wore a somewhat shabby blue suit. Did you notice him too?”

I did not notice, but then Mrs. K always notices a lot more things than I do. I sometimes think she and I are living in two different but parallel worlds, hers being filled with many more interesting details than mine.

“Is not the one who was serving Bertha Finkelstein, and so might have dropped the earring into her soup, the only one who counts?” I asked.

“Well, that would be the most likely,” she replied, “but not the only possibility. The servers moved around quite a bit—they did not all stay in the place where they were serving. And now that I think of it, when I finished making the soup, Mrs. Catelli, the cook, who had been supervising the preparation of the rest of the dinner, came and got the soup and personally ladled it out into bowls that were already on trays for the servers to take out to the dining room. So she also has to be on the list.” More writing in the notebook.

“Wait!” I said. “Something just occurred to me. It is true you were the only one in the kitchen while you were making the soup. But of course Mrs. Catelli and her helpers were there later, making the rest of the dinner. Where was your soup while they were cooking dinner?”

“That is a good question, but I am not sure it will help us. Remember that most of the dinner was made earlier and just heated up before the meal, and I was not allowed to use the kitchen until Mrs. Catelli was finished. So there was not much time at all between when I was finished with the soup and when it was served, and I was there in the kitchen with it until they shooed me out to go sit down so I could be served with everyone else. That's when I came to sit with you, Ida. Remember how I got there just before they served?”

“Yes, I remember. Which makes Mrs. Catelli an even better suspect. There definitely was an opportunity there if someone was looking for one. So what does your notebook now say?”

“Well, it now lists the staff—though not all by name, unfortunat
ely—that were serving, plus Mrs. Catelli the cook. And of course Mr. Pupik was there, but we will assume he did not steal Daisy's earrings and leave him off the list.”

“Too bad. I would like for him to be the thief. But I guess you're right.”

Just then Mrs. K's eyes widened and she looked over my shoulder, like she was seeing something very interesting behind me. I turned around, but I did not see anything unusual; just the front of the café and the street outside. “What are you looking at?” I asked.

“Guess who I just saw coming out of the shop across the street?”

“How should I know? Give me at least a hint.”

“Here is a big hint,” she said. “It is Frank, who is on our list of people who might have dropped the earring.”

“So what is unusual about that? Should he not be downtown like we are?”

“All that is unusual is the shop he was in,” Mrs. K said.

I looked again and I saw only three shops across the street: the ABC Bookstore, Farraday's Ladies' Intimate Wear, and the Coin Exchange. “It would only be worth mentioning if he was coming out of Farraday's Ladies' Intimate Wear,” I said, “but if that is what he likes to do in his spare time, it is not our business. I have a cousin who used to like to put on ladies' shoes—”

“No, no, no,” Mrs. K interrupted. “He was not coming out of the Ladies' Wear shop. He was coming out of the Coin Exchange. Now do you see?”

But now I still did not see, and I said as much to Mrs. K. So she explained: “Don't you remember that the Coin Exchange is Isaac Rosenkrantz's fancy-schmancy pawnshop? The only coins he exchanges are the few cents on the dollar he gives to people selling their trinkets to raise cash.”

“Yes, I recall that. But why should Frank not be dealing with Rosenkrantz? He is a perfectly respectable businessman, even if he is only a pawnbroker.”

“The question,” replied Mrs. K, “is not
whether
Frank should be dealing with Rosenkrantz, but
why
he should be dealing with Rosenkrantz. What is it he has to sell?”

I had no answer for that. Suddenly Mrs. K got a look on her face like she had just had an idea, and she said excitedly to me, “We have finished our tea and we have still an hour before Andy picks us up. Let's go across the street and visit Rosenkrantz's shop.”

I was not sure I liked this idea. What were we to do in Rosenkrantz's shop? I asked Mrs. K this, and she just shrugged her shoulders. “All I know is that we will learn nothing more by sitting here.” She started to get up, leaving money on the table for the check and tip. “Are you coming with me?”

Of course I was coming. I should miss the excitement?

It was the first time I was in a pawnshop, or whatever fancy name it is called by Mr. Rosenkrantz, and I was both interested and nervous. Mrs. K opened the door, which had a little bell that tinkled when it moved, so we were not able to enter without being noticed. There were two or three other people in the shop, and all turned around and looked as we walked through the door. I imagine they were wondering what two old ladies are doing in such a place, and I would not blame them. All around me, I was seeing things like guns, knives, musical instrument
s—what would Mrs. K or I be wanting with a shotgun, a hunting knife, or a trombone? Mrs. K, however, looked like she knew just what she was doing—like she was maybe thinking of buying a tuba and joining a band. But she passed by the musical instruments and made her way over to a cabinet that contained rings and other jewelry, as if she knew exactly where it was located and was interested in purchasing something from it. I was now wondering myself if Mrs. K had been here before.

Rosenkrantz's shop is quite remarkable. It is as old-fashioned as the Emporium, with fancy trim around the walls and ceiling and fine wood cabinets of polished mahogany. I saw now that in addition to the guns and instruments, there were items of all kinds stacked on the counters, hanging from the walls, even from the ceiling! All this time I was looking around to see if Frank, the server we were discussing, was one of the people in the shop. I did not see him, and I joined Mrs. K at the jewelry cabinet. I did see Mr. Rosenkrantz, whom I knew to look at but have seldom said “boo” to. He was helping another customer and was not yet looking our way.

I assumed that Mrs. K, who knew Rosenkrantz better than I did—there are very few
yiddisher
shopkeepers she does not know—was waiting to have a word with him, maybe to ask him whether Frank sold him a diamond earring. So we were bending over the cabinet and pretending to be interested in the many wedding rings in it. I was sad to see so many examples of people who once had dreams of a wonderful marriage and now had only a bad memory and a few dollars for which they sold their ring.

As I was daydreaming about this, and also looking to see whether there might be a single diamond earring displayed somewhere nearby, a sharp voice behind us said, “Ladies! What are you doing here?” I was so startled my heart jumped, and I can tell that Mrs. K was also surprised. We both turned around to see that standing behind us was Frank. He must have returned to the shop while we were not noticing. He is a tall young man, and he was smiling, but I was not sure whether it was in a friendly way or not.

Unfortunately, I did not have an answer ready for his question, and my mind raced with possible excuses for being there. Of course, I have no more use for a wedding ring than for a trombone, maybe less. But Mrs. K thinks faster than do I, because she said very coolly, “Hello, Frank. I have an old pin that I no longer have a use for, and I was curious what Mr. Rosenkrantz might give me for it. And are you likewise selling something to Mr. Rosenkrantz?”

Frank did not answer immediately, but the smile left his face. He said to Mrs. K, “I really think that's my business.” Then he seemed to realize he was being rude and said, forcing a smile, “Actually, if you must know, I'm looking for a good used trumpet, and I saw one in the window that I wanted to check out.”

“Oh, do you play the trumpet?” Mrs. K asked.

“A little. I'm thinking of taking lessons.”

He looked uncomfortable, like his trumpet playing was a subject he did not wish to discuss with us, and he quickly added, “Well, I guess I'll see you later at the Home. I hope you get a good price for your pin.” He nodded to both of us and turned to leave. Mrs. K said “Thank you” to his back. I think she was about to say something else, but instead she just watched as he headed for the door, pausing to take from the counter his hat, which is probably what he had returned for. Without looking back, he left the shop, the bell tinkling after him.

Just then Rosenkrantz saw us and came over. He is a tall, wiry gentleman of maybe seventy with thinning hair that is blond—no doubt only as long as he remembers to color it—and combed to the side. He has bright blue eyes and he had a big smile on his face, the look of a man who enjoys life and likes to
kibitz
with the ladies, which I have heard he does frequently. He was wearing a dark blue suit that could've used a bit of a pressing, but that was hardly noticeable next to his bright pink shirt and purple tie. I assumed he must not be married, as no wife with any
saichel
—common sense—would let her husband leave the house dressed like from a Polish wedding.

Rosenkrantz nodded politely to me and said to Mrs. K, “Rose, how nice to see you. To what do I owe?”

“It's a long time, Isaac. How are you?”

“I can't complain, thanks. Are you here to sell or to buy? Or just to say hello?” Rosenkrantz had a definite twinkle in his eye.

“Well, to be honest, I was just wondering if you could tell me, did Frank Nelson, who just went out the door, did he sell you something?”

Rosenkrantz looked a bit sideways at Mrs. K, and in a conspiratorial tone of voice he asked her, “Is there a reason you want to know this?”

“Let us just say Ida and I are curious about this.”

“Ah, curiosity. It is a tricky thing. I'm afraid I cannot tell you anything in detail. I suppose I can say that…that he and I did not end up doing any business. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

“I suppose it will have to do,” said Mrs. K. It was apparent she was disappointed about not finding out what it was that Frank and Rosenkrantz did not do business over, but it was also apparent that she would not be learning any further details from Mr. Rosenkrantz.

“So may I show you one of these beautiful rings? Even if you buy them only for the diamonds, they are a
metsieh—
a real bargain.” When he said this, it occurred to me that someone buying a single earring like Daisy's could only be doing it “for the diamonds,” so it was unlikely we would see it on display, at least in one piece.

“Thank you, no,” said Mrs. K. “But if I should ever decide to get married again, I will surely keep you in mind.”

“Well, Rose,” he laughed, “I'm flattered, but I'm already married.” So much for my theory—maybe it is his wife who has the bad taste.

Mrs. K laughed also, and, with a last look around this remarkable shop, we left through the tinkling door. We had spent so much time in Rosenkrantz's shop, not time we had originally planned to spend, that we were in danger of being late. We hurried as fast as two less-than-athletic ladies could, which is not very fast.

Fortunately, we were just in time to catch our shuttle van, which was stopped across the street. We waved to Andy that we were coming, and we hurried to cross as soon as the light turned green. We did not want to be taking a taxi home, like Mrs. Bloom.

Andy greeted us with his usual cheerfulness and asked, “So, ladies, did you do a little damage in the stores?”

Mrs. K smiled back at him as he helped her into the van. “Maybe not in the stores,” she replied, “but we made some progress fixing the damage at the Home.” And when she was seated and I next to her, she took out her notebook and made one more entry before putting it away and settling back for the ride home.

This time we were seated facing forward, which we much preferred. It is easier that way to keep our balance when the bus jerks and bumps, which of course it frequently does. I noticed that Rachel was not on the shuttle bus this time. I mentioned it to Andy and asked him to wait a few minutes.

“That won't be necessary, Mrs. Berkowitz,” he said. “Mrs. Silverman told me when she was getting off the bus earlier that she has a lot of shopping to do and she'll be taking a taxi back.”

When I remarked on this to Mrs. K, she nodded but became thoughtful. After a minute, she turned and said to me, “Ida, we must try to do something to save poor Doreen from that terrible man. He is clearly taking advantage of her, and she does not have the nerve—or maybe it is the self-esteem—to stand up to him.”

I could only agree, of course, but I didn't see what it was that we could do about it. If her own mother was unable to get her to see what a mistake she was making, I didn't think we, who were almost complete strangers to her, would have more success. Nevertheless, I was confident that when Mrs. K said we must do something, something indeed would be done.