Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death (8 page)

“So now we have this long list of people,” I said to Mrs. K the next day, “but what do we do with it? Where do we go from here?”

We were seated in the garden of the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors, where we had taken our tea on this warm and sunny afternoon. Mrs. K had her notebook on her lap and had been going over her entries, adding a note here and erasing one there. It was so pleasant out there, with the blue sky and little snow white clouds framing the climbing roses and bougainvillea, that I was not in the mood to think about thieves and death; but I knew that to Mrs. K it was extremely important that she be absolved from any part in either the theft of Daisy's earrings or Bertha Finkelstein's choking, and as soon as possible. I also knew that she did not trust the police to be in any hurry to absolve her—just the opposite, in fact—so she would have to do it herself, with my help of course. And about that I think she was right.

Mrs. K looked down at her notebook and then up at me. “As a way to narrow down our suspects, I would certainly like to know whether any of the persons on our list has a criminal background,” she said, “such that they would be more likely to have taken those earrings.”

“Once a thief, always a thief?” I replied.

“Something like that. Only I mean it also in a larger sense: If in the past one person has demonstrated a fine character and proper conduct his whole life, and another has shown himself to be mean, dishonest, or unreliable, which would you first suspect of a particularly bad act later in his life? The
mensch
or the
ganif
?”

This, of course, was easy to answer, so I did not bother.

“I wonder if Isaac Taubman's son Benjamin, the policeman, would be able to help us find out,” I suggested.

“As it turns out,” Mrs. K said, “it is too bad he could not have stayed longer at the
seder.
People act differently when a policeman is around, especially if they have it in mind to commit a crime. But yes, that seems like a good idea. Of course, he might be willing but not able, if he does not have access to these criminal records.”

“He should have. I remember when my nephew wanted to rent an apartment across town last year, he had to pay for some company to—what do they call it—‘screen' him to make sure he had not moved out without paying his rent at his last place, or caused a lot of damage. And he told me they also checked that he didn't have a criminal record. I remember being surprised they would go so far just to rent you an apartment. But if some nosy landlord can find out if someone has a criminal record, surely a policeman will have no trouble. And if he cannot, maybe we can just call the same company my nephew's landlord called and tell them these people want to rent an apartment by us. Then we can find out anything we want to know about them.”

Mrs. K laughed at this. “I think your nephew had to give his permission for the company to do this screening of him. I do not think any of the persons on our list will give us their permission. In fact, I am pretty sure it would also be against the police rules for Benjamin to do this for us; but it is too important not to at least ask him.”

That evening after supper, Mrs. K and I made our way to the lounge, where she hoped to have a chance to speak with Mr. Taubman privately. The lounge at the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors is divided into two large areas by a set of tall bookcases, maybe six feet high. One side is the more noisy part, with a large television and tables to play bridge and other games. On the other side are sofas and comfortable chairs with magazine racks, where residents can talk quietly or read without having to listen to Oprah or an argument over how the cards were dealt.

On this evening, as we passed through the more noisy part, several of the residents were watching what looked like that nice Jewish boy Seinfeld—it seems like he is on television several times a day at least. Over in the corner, that
alter kocker
Abe Wasserman was having himself a manicure from the lady named Tiffany who comes to the Home to do our hair or nails so we do not have to go to her shop, which for some residents is difficult. Abe will tell you he is very particular about his grooming, which is why he is so frequently getting his nails manicured from Tiffany. Anyone else will tell you that it is because of Tiffany, a nice young lady of maybe twenty-five, with long blond hair. She also is quite
zaftig
in the
bristen—
she has big breasts—of which she conceals very little.
Oy,
she could hide her handbag in her cleavage and no one would notice. And of course she leans forward and jiggles when she is polishing her client's nails. So Abe, he sits and enjoys the view at the same time he makes himself “well groomed.”
Nu,
it is an innocent enough pastime.

In the more quiet side of the lounge we saw that Mr. Taubman was sitting alone and reading. Mrs. K went over and sat next to him, and I took a seat a short distance away so she could speak with him in private. Taubman, as I was saying earlier, is a dignified and handsome gentleman of about seventy-five, with wavy silver-gray hair and a warm smile. He always sits or stands straight like a soldier—add some boots and maybe a baton and he would look like MacArthur. Of course, Taubman should look like a soldier, because he was one. He was high up in the military police at one time, and he would have become a policeman afterward had he not been injured and so not qualified. Instead he went back to school and became a successful businessman. “At least I made a lot more money in one year than I would have in ten as a policeman,” he once told me, “but it wasn't half as exciting.” He is very proud of his son Benjamin, and now through him Taubman has become a policeman at last—like they say, vicariously.

I could not hear the conversation, but according to Mrs. K, they made chit-chat for a few minutes, and then she asked him if she could have Benjamin's telephone number. Taubman smiled kindly and said to her, “I am glad to give you his telephone number, but I'm curious as to why you would want it.”

Now Mrs. K almost always tells the truth, except when it is extremely inconvenient; but she was uncertain whether she could tell Taubman the real reason she wanted his son's telephone number. On the other hand, what else could she say was the reason? That she wanted to invite him to
Shabbos
dinner next Friday? That she wanted tickets to the Policeman's Ball? So she took a chance and told him what we had been thinking—a
lthough without the details—asking him not to tell anyone else.

After a minute thinking about this, Taubman wrinkled his brow and asked, “Don't you think the police are capable of investigating this fairly? Do you have some reason not to trust them?”

I suppose we should have anticipated that he would see things from the side of the authorities, and take some offense at the suggestion that the police department, of which his son was a member, could not or would not do their job properly. Anyway, Mrs. K was about to answer “no” to the first question and “yes” to the second, neither of which was sounding too good to her, when Taubman's expression changed to what Mrs. K described as a kind of conspiratorial smile, and he leaned over and said to her in a low voice, “To tell the truth, Rose, while of course I would always trust my Benjamin, and I think Corcoran is okay, from some of the stories Benjamin has told me about the department, they could use a little help from you. And that Jenkins especially is not the brightest candle in the menorah.”

Mrs. K was much relieved by this intimation from Mr. Taubman, and she was especially pleased when he agreed to ask his son for the information on her behalf. She was not looking forward to asking the favor directly of Benjamin, whom she did not know well. So she and Taubman went over her notes and list of suspects. And Taubman appeared to be having a good time taking part in this investigation. Like I said, he wanted to be a policeman, and here was a chance to play at it for a while.

They discussed the persons on the list and the chances that they were the guilty party. Although I still could not hear what they were saying, I could see it was quite a lively discussion. More than once Taubman's eyebrows, which are quite bushy, went up as if he was surprised at something Mrs. K was saying. When they were finished discussing, Taubman took down the names that they agreed were worth asking his son to check. According to Mrs. K, it was the same list she and I drew up, except she had crossed off two names and added one more. It was, after all, just a series of guesses on our part.

As Taubman got up and turned to leave, Mrs. K put her hand on his arm to stop him. “While you are at it,” she said, “there is one other name I should like to add to that list.”

“Oh?” said Taubman, smiling good-humoredly. “Another ‘suspect'?”

“Actually, no. It seems Rachel Silverman's daughter, Doreen, has taken up with a man who Rachel believes is a bad person. Ida and I have reason to agree, as we have met him. Could you perhaps also have Benjamin check on him?”

Mr. Taubman was now not looking so good-humored, and Mrs. K was thinking it might be because we had now asked one too many favors. But she soon found out that this was not the reason.

“I don't know whether you are aware, Rose,” Taubman said, “that a while back Rachel Silverman and I saw quite a bit of each other. Socially, if you know what I mean. We still go to an occasional play or movie together, although not as often. So I also know Doreen quite well. She is a sweet girl, but very innocent; if someone is taking advantage of her, I hope you can do something to help. I shall certainly try to get you the information you need.”

“That is nice of you, Isaac,” said Mrs. K with a smile. “His name is Eddie Christensen. He may be the son of Molly Christensen, who used to be a cleaner here; if so I would like to know this also. Her name was spelled with two ‘e's—I think they were Danish or Norwegian people—but if it is not her son, I do not know the spelling.”

Mr. Taubman made a further note and put his list and pen away.

Mrs. K thanked him warmly, he gave her hand a squeeze, and with a little bow in the European style he walked off in the direction of his room. That Taubman can be quite charming.

I should mention also that what Mr. Taubman related about himself and Rachel Silverman is not at all unusual. Just because we live in a “retirement community” and are “assisted with living,” we are not just a bunch of
alter kockers,
pardon my French, sitting and watching television with our mouths hanging open. (Well, some of us are, but that cannot be helped.) There is quite a bit of social interaction among the residents of the Home. Sometimes the interaction, it goes beyond merely “social”; but unlike young people these days, we do not talk about that sort of thing in polite conversation.

Come to think of it, I should not have been surprised that Mr. Taubman was so willing to help, not only because of his past relationship to Rachel and because he has the instinct of a policeman, but, more important, because he has always shown quite a, shall we say, “social” interest in Mrs. K.

It never hurts.

The next day, Thursday, Mr. Pupik told Mrs. K that the detectives would not be back until at least another week, as they had some business out of town. This gave us several more days to snoop on our own, before we found out if the police were still putting Mrs. K at the top of their list of suspects.

In the afternoon, we were taking our tea in the lounge (it wasn't very nice weather outside, too hot to sit in comfort). I was reminded of the nice tea selections we had at the Garden Gate Café and was thinking I should have bought some of those at the grocery while we were downtown. I decided to do that on our next shopping trip, but in the meantime it was back to Mr. Lipton. More important than the tea maybe was the chance for us to talk about something other than Mrs. K's troubles, or anyone else's. Or so we thought.

As Mrs. K and I were sipping and discussing some local politics—one of the residents is a former mayor, another was on the City Council, and we get lots of “inside” information—we saw little Amy Bergman coming toward us, sort of furtive looking as if she was afraid she was being followed. I say “little” because Amy is like a
faigeleh,
a little bird: delicate, less than five feet tall and a bit stooped over, so she barely comes up even to my shoulder. Amy is also a
bissel meshugge—
a smidgen crazy, if you know what I mean. A nice lady, but one matzoh short of a full box.

Nevertheless, Amy is a good-hearted soul, and everyone does their best to tolerate her
mishegoss.
So when she approached us, we moved over and made a place for her to sit down. This she did, sitting next to Mrs. K (who was now in the middle), and immediately she put her hand on Mrs. K's, looked around to be sure that no one was listening (I guess she did not count me, as I was definitely listening but she did not seem to notice), and she said in a low voice, “Rose, dear, isn't it terrible about poor Bertha? And at the
seder
yet!”

“It is more than terrible,” answered Mrs. K. I was thinking that of course Amy could not understand just how terrible it was, as only I and Mrs. K among the residents knew that Bertha's death was not of natural causes. I was startled therefore when I heard Amy say, “And they will probably get away with it.”

I am sure that Mrs. K was equally surprised, but she did not show it. She just said with an even voice, “I'm sorry, Amy. Who is ‘they,' and with what will they be getting away?”

“Why, with doing in poor Bertha, of course.”

“And what makes you think anyone ‘did her in'?” Mrs. K asked.

“Oh, I heard them talking,” Amy said. Again she looked around; again she looked through me as if I was not there.

“Heard who talking?” I could tell that Mrs. K was becoming somewhat exasperated with Amy.

“It was for her money, you know,” Amy said.

At this point I was losing patience and I blurted out, much louder than I intended, “Do you mean that someone wanted to kill Bertha Finkelstein for her money?”

Both Amy and Mrs. K looked over at me as if I were a naughty child who had spoken out of turn. And indeed others in the lounge turned to see what the loud talking was about.

“Please, Ida,” said Mrs. K, “we do not want to broadcast this to the entire Home.”

I apologized and went back to just listening. But I was anxious to hear the answer to my question, even if I had asked it a bit too loudly.

“Yes, Amy,” said Mrs. K in a low voice, “is that what you are saying? That someone wanted to kill Bertha to get her money?” She said this not like someone who believed it, but like she was simply seeking information.

Amy nodded her head.

After waiting for a further reply and getting none, Mrs. K tried again: “And who is this who is wanting to kill Bertha?”

Amy looked around again, seemed satisfied the coast was clear, and said softly, “Her relatives, of course. It is they who will inherit the money. A lot of money.”

Mrs. K looked over at me and rolled her eyes. But to Amy she just said, “Which of her relatives? And how do you know this?”

Amy seemed about to answer, when Mr. Jacob Wasserman wandered over to the table near where we were sitting. (This is not the Mr. Abe Wasserman who, as I mentioned, was having himself a manicure and a good look at Tiffany's
bristen
. We have at the Home two Wassermans: Abe, who is short and round, and Jacob, who is both heavy-set and quite tall. To avoid confusion we often refer to “Big Wasserman” and “Little Wasserman.”) It was Big Wasserman who was approaching. He picked up a magazine—I think it was the one from the AARP, to which everyone in the Home must belong—and, giving us ladies a polite nod of hello, sat down on the sofa across from us.

As soon as Wasserman was sitting down, Amy Bergman was standing up. Before Mrs. K or I could stop her, she was skittering through the lounge and out into the lobby, like a tiny bird flying to freedom after being released from a cage.

So much for finding out what relatives want to kill Bertha Finkelstein.

After a while Big Wasserman finished reading his magazine and, with another polite nod to us, he rose and left the lounge. It was getting close to dinnertime and he probably wanted to return to his apartment and get ready. We had to be doing the same soon, but first we had to discuss what we had heard from Amy Bergman.

“So what do you think, Rose?” I asked. “Is this just more of Amy's
mishegoss
?”

“Most likely. But we cannot afford to ignore it completely. What if she did overhear something important? What if someone did plan to kill poor Bertha?”

“But you know how Amy is. Remember last year, when she was insisting that the bus driver was watching her? And then the gardener too? It is what they call paranoia, is it not?”

“Yes, you are right, Ida,” Mrs. K said. “But even if there is only a small chance that there is some truth in what Amy says…”

“So how do we find out whether it is truth or
mishegoss
?”

Mrs. K thought this over for a minute before answering, “I think I know how we can do that without too much snooping. At least by us.”

And that is how we left it. It was time for dinner.