Murder At The Mikvah (10 page)

“I want to be an artist,” Jay told John and Patty the night he showed up on their doorstep in the pouring rain without a jacket. His father had called him a
homo
and thrown him out of the house before dinner. Jay had just enough money for train fare to Arden Station.

“I'm not gay, Uncle John, I just like art.”

Of course they took him in. And gladly paid for art school too.

Tony was the only one of John's brothers—the only member of John's entire
family
—who still spoke to him after he married Patty, and now he was furious. How dare they interfere in his kid's life! Just because John married into money didn’t make him a God damn king!

Tony made it clear the only way he would take his kid back was if he gave up his art and enrolled in the police academy. But it didn’t take a genius to see that Jay had talent, and it wasn't firing a gun. Just two years after graduation, Jay was commissioned by the city to sculpt a piece for the grand hallway of the Academy of Music, an unheard of opportunity for someone so young.

John ran his hand along the bite on his arm. Life threw us plenty of curveballs, but sometimes they felt like pianos being hurled from tenth story windows.

When the call came in, John’s initial reaction was disbelief. Sure, Jay lived in New York City, but he didn’t work anywhere near downtown Manhattan, so it had to be a mistake! Besides, Collins was a common last name. Patty would just keep calling his apartment, his cell phone. Things were chaotic in the city; it was just a matter of time before Jay would call.

Father McCormick called just days after remains of the twenty-three year old’s body were identified among the wreckage at ground zero; but it would be weeks before John agreed to speak to him. In the very beginning, while his emotions were so raw, the last thing John wanted was to hear from the priest that Jay was in a better place or part of a larger plan. Dying on 9/11 had secured Jay a permanent place in the history books, but for those left to mourn his passing, dying publicly in this way—as one of thousands—had somehow diluted the loss, shortchanging them of their right to grieve selfishly.

It would be another two months before the mystery would be solved by the wife of a Tower One executive. Jay was there that morning to see her husband, Lilly Waxman told John when they met for coffee at a small Princeton diner. She had seen one of Jay’s pieces—an abstract wind sculpture—at an exhibit in the village. She fell in love with it instantly and talked her husband into buying it for their house in the Hamptons. Jay, it seemed, did not want to inconvenience him, and offered to meet her husband at his office. “If only they had met at Jay's studio,” she said, remorse in her voice. “My husband, and your son would be…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t finish her sentence and John didn't correct her.

On the drive home it occurred to him: he was carrying on as though he had lost a son. But Jay
wasn't
his son; he was Tony's! Maybe Tony was right. John shouldn’t have interfered in the boy's life. What if instead of taking Jay in the night he showed up on their doorstep, he had sent him home? If Jay had been a cop in Philly, chances were good he'd be alive today.

Because of me, Jay's dead
.

John fingered a rook from the chessboard. But it
wasn’t
his fault Tony never made amends with Jay before he died—something Tony evidently regretted based on the surge in his binge drinking. Last John heard, Tony was in rehab again… Yep, life was like a giant chess game. We all believed we were in control of our lives; we liked to think we had the last say. But there were more powerful forces out there. Something else controlling our moves, a queen to our lowly pawn.

 Thirteen

Estelle Ginsberg was buried on Wednesday morning. The Litman Funeral Home was filled to capacity, each seat occupied by someone who had known Estelle, or had been affected by her tireless community work. Estelle’s brother Morton, a frail man in his early eighties slowly ascended the steps to the podium. With a trembling hand, he pulled a thin pair of reading glasses and a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He smoothed the paper out on the shtender, and addressed the sea of mourners in front of him. Speaking in what sounded like an Eastern European accent, he began.

“My sister, Estelle was a wonderful woman. She was a wife and mother. She was my sister, but she was also a mother to me. Many of you know about my sister and me that we survived the holocaust. Our parents, our two brothers… they were not so lucky.”

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.

“We were in Auschwitz, Estelle and I. She kept me alive. I was older, but I was weak. She was the strong one. She was healthy….” Morton paused to wipe his tears and collect himself. “My sister… she subjected herself to humiliation… demeaning, unspeakable acts, so that I would live. So that I was given extra rations or clean socks, or an extra blanket. She did these things because she knew I would not survive if she did not. My sister was a wife and a mother. Because of what she suffered at the hand of the Nazis, she could not have her own children, so she took in a child that needed a home. Avi had what they call Down syndrome. His mother and father had six children already to feed. They could not take care of one more, especially one like Avi. My sister cared for him and loved him like he was her own. Estelle loved all children no matter what problems they had. Avi's heart also was not right. He had two surgeries, but still his heart could not be fixed. Avi died when he was ten years old. My sister was heartbroken, but always she made the choice in life never to despair. She gave all her time to others—children and adults. She helped many. She was trusted. My sister understood the dangers of
loshon hora
, improper speech. Never would she speak badly of another. Everyone loved my sister. How could they not? Always there was a smile on her face; always she spoke a kind word. She loved every minute of her life. I will shock you when I say that I believe she also loved her time in Auschwitz. I say this because she had
purpose
. Always did she find meaning in her life, as a prisoner in Poland during the war and also here, in our great country, living in freedom. My sister, she lost so much. Her wonderful husband passed away six years ago. During his illness, Estelle took care of him, never once did she complain. Never was she bitter. I know my sister. She would not want us to be angry or sad. She would tell us
God is good. God makes no mistakes. Everything he does, serves a higher purpose.
She would say we are created in his image. Everything we do must be also for a greater purpose. My sister would want us to remember the way of her life, not the way of her death.”

 Fourteen

Elise didn’t bother checking the caller ID before she picked up the phone. She had been expecting this call, polishing off her second glass of wine to calm her nerves.

“What's going on, doll?” her father asked in his usual enthusiastic tone.

Elise inhaled deeply to steady her voice. If she were to respond honestly to his question, the words out of her mouth would be an incoherent jumble, something like, “it was horrible… the mikvah… a woman is dead.” Eventually she would calm down and attempt to convey the enormity of an entire community attending the funeral of a holocaust survivor. Naturally, he would want details about the crime and she would tell that there weren't many yet. But, she would say in her most assuring voice, there was no reason for concern; they already had him. The man who killed Estelle was in police custody.

As if that would satisfy him
.

Elise knew better. One
iota
of news of a murder in Arden Station and her father would be on the next plane to the states. A knight in shining armor coming to rescue her, no matter that she had a husband named Evan to protect her. Maybe it was because she kept her maiden name—Danzig—that her father still felt so responsible for her. Elise had planned to become a Henner, really she had, but at the last minute, on the day of her wedding, during the signing of the ketuba, she just couldn’t do it. Somehow, it felt too much like she was abandoning him.

In truth, her father had always been overly protective. Elise understood it to some degree now that she was a parent herself. She worried all the time about her own three kids—about their health, safety, happiness. At least she had Evan to co-parent with, to lean on for support. Her father, to the contrary, had been utterly alone.

“Elise?”

“Oh… fine, Dad; everything’s fine… ”

She was thankful the conversation was taking place over the phone. Had she been face to face with him, he would for sure know she was lying; he was
that
adept at reading her. But what else could she expect? After all, Lewis Danzig had been a clinical psychiatrist for over forty years. It was his job to read people! During the course of his long career, Lewis had also held posts at Boston Memorial and Harvard Medical School, but he was best known for his work in the area of posttraumatic stress. His research had been published in
The American Journal of Psychiatry
,
The
International Journal of Mental Health
, and
The Journal of Child & Family Studies,
as well as countless other publications. His most acclaimed studies involved the use of cognitive reconditioning protocols in PTSD and three months earlier, he had been tapped by the U.S. military to work with army M.D.'s. It was all top secret; he couldn’t talk much about it, could only tell Elise he was presently on an army base in Germany.

“And how’s the peanut gallery doing?” Lewis asked, as usual, redirecting the conversation away from himself. “Everyone doing well in school? Elise?… Elise are you there?”

“What?… Sorry Dad… Becca! Stop pulling on my sleeve! I’ll put you on in a minute…”

Lewis chuckled. “Elise, put Becca on. I want to talk to my granddaughter.”

“…Becca, here… talk to Pop-Pop.”

Elise went to check the oven. It was burger and fries night; the meal was easy to prepare, and was a virtual guarantee she wouldn’t hear any whining from the kids. Her father had cooked plenty of meals like this for her when she was growing up. Some of Elise's fondest memories were of sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework while her father wrapped hot dogs in slices of fatty bacon and American cheese—
Texas Tommy's
he called them—and deep fried thick slices of Vidalia onions in peanut oil—his own homemade predecessor of the Houlihan’s onion loaf. On snow days—and there were plenty of them in Boston—he made French onion soup with gooey provolone cheese and slabs of thick bread to keep her warm. Sometimes Elise was saddened by the fact that her children would never experience the pleasure of eating the very same comfort foods—the foods she equated with security and love. Now that they kept kosher, Texas Tommy’s were off the menu, as were lazy trips to Burger King or a quick ride downtown for an authentic Philly cheese steak.

“Give the phone to your brother,” Elise instructed Becca.

Becca reluctantly handed Ben the phone.

“Done!” the three-year-old announced, losing interest after less than a minute.

“I'm back Dad.”

“Is there something on your mind, Elise?” Lewis asked, his tone serious.

Elise took a deep breath. Damn! Was he picking up something in her voice? No, she couldn’t do it. She could
not
tell him about Estelle's death or Hannah's hospitalization just yet. It was too soon; she was still trying to wrap her head around the facts herself. From what little she knew, the attack had been completely random. The man they held in custody was a complete stranger to the two women. But that was no surprise; what were the chances that women like Estelle Ginsberg and Hannah Orenstein had
enemies
? Estelle was a helpless old woman, a holocaust survivor; Hannah was the mother of five, the wife of a rabbi. But what troubled Elise more than anything was that she too had been at the mikvah that night.
It could have been me.
Just a few hours difference and it would have been.
She shivered at this next thought:
was the killer there the whole time, hiding? Watching her? Waiting to strike?

How could she possibly tell any of this to her father? That he had come close to burying his only child? Well, fortunately she had some time. He wasn’t due back in the states for another week.

“No, there's nothing on my mind, Dad,” she said, clearing her throat and trying to keep her voice steady. “Well, Sam's getting his braces on in a few days.” She pulled the bottle of chardonnay out of the fridge, “but other than that, there's really nothing exciting to report.”

 Fifteen

“Hello?”

Lauren had been in a deep sleep when the phone rang. She rolled over and squinted at the clock on her nightstand.
9:47AM
.

“Lauren?”

The voice on the phone was faint, shaky. Lauren threw her blankets off and sat at the edge of her bed. “Rachel? Is that you? What’s the matter? Is everything okay?”

There was sniffling, followed by a loud “No!”

Lauren willed herself to wake up. What day was it anyway?
Thursday.

“Rachel…Why aren’t you in school?”

Rachel's breathing was unsteady. “Lauren, how come… How come you didn’t come yesterday or the day before?”

Lauren walked to the window and pulled up the blinds, blinking as the morning light flooded the room. “I’m sorry Rachel, but I won’t be…”

“Why aren’t you here
now
!” Rachel demanded.

Lauren sighed. She understood how confused Rachel must be with her suddenly not showing up. After all, she had been at the Orenstein's home practically every day for the past four months.

“Rachel honey, I know this is hard for you, but everything will be okay.”

Rachel began sobbing. There was a thud as the phone dropped followed by a shuffling of shoes on the wood floor.

A male's voice came on. “Hello? Hello, who is this?”

“Yehuda?”

“Oh… Lauren! I didn’t realize it was you.” He sounded relieved.

“Rachel called me. I uh… I’m sure this must be difficult for her.”

“It is.”

Lauren gulped. This was not easy, even over the phone. “For whatever it's worth, I’m sorry about everything, and I feel terrible for the children, especially Rachel. She sounds pretty upset.”

“She is… We all are. How… how did you find out?”

“What?”

“How did you find out about Hannah?”

Lauren didn’t answer.

“You just said you knew.”

“I…”

“Lauren?”

“Yes… I’m here.”

“Lauren, Hannah's been admitted to Senecca Hospital.”

“Hannah’s in the hospital?” Lauren's hand flew over her mouth and the words came out muffled.

“Yes…there was an incident… Monday night…”

Monday night
. Lauren swallowed. “An
incident
?”

Yehuda lowered his voice. “The boys are here so I can't talk freely…”

“Oh.”

“…But I’m glad Rachel called you.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I need you.”

Lauren felt a lump of emotion form in her throat. “You… You
do
?”

“Could you come and stay with us for a few days? The kids really need family right now.”

But I'm not family

Lauren bit her lip. “I don’t think it's a good idea for me to be in your home right now.”
Or ever.

“What? Why not?” Yehuda asked.

“Uh, it’s just… Maybe you should speak to Hannah first.”

“Lauren,” Yehuda began slowly, “why would I need to speak to Hannah? You’ve been with us for over six months. You're part of our family.”

Lauren couldn’t believe it. Did he just say what she thought he said? After the episode with Hannah Monday night, Lauren did not expect to see or hear from Yehuda again, and now, here he was, not only speaking to her, but also asking for her help, inviting her back into his home. Talking to her as though nothing had changed.

“I just think you should speak to Hannah,” Lauren said again.

“That's not possible,” Yehuda said, his voice cracking, “because Hannah's
unconscious
.”

Lauren heard the sound of a baby’s wail in the background. Unconscious? Hannah was
unconscious
? Oh God, that explained everything.
He didn’t know.

“Hold on Lauren, I'll be right back.”

Correction,
Lauren reminded herself
.
He didn’t know
yet.
It was only a matter of time before Hannah woke up and told him everything. Lauren's heart pounded at the thought. Maybe she should confess to him now, over the phone, it was better than doing it face to face. There was no way she'd be able to look him in the eye when he found out that she wasn’t the person he thought she was. That he had been duped. That they had all been. Lauren's head spun. She couldn’t think straight. What should she do? Just blurt it out to Yehuda right now?
Coffee
. She needed coffee to think.

“I’m back,” Yehuda said seconds later.

“Uh, is Nehama okay?” Lauren walked to the kitchen and scooped a tablespoon of Folgers into her mug, then filled it with instant hot water.

“Honestly, no. We had to put her on formula…”

It dawned on Lauren that Hannah had been exclusively nursing Nehama. Supermom Hannah had nursed all
five
of her children.

“Wow. I’m sorry. That must be so hard,” Lauren said, stirring her coffee. She struggled to sound empathetic, even as her mind raced ahead of his words to figure out what to do.

“It’s been hard on all of us,” Yehuda said solemnly.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” Lauren paused to take a gulp of her drink. This was her chance. If she was going to do it, she had to do it
now
. “Yehuda, there’s something I need to tell you…”

She cleared her throat, preparing to blurt out the words, but he cut her off. “Lauren, I’m sorry, Yitzi needs me. I have to hang up. Can you come? It would be such a relief to have you here.”

Lauren swallowed. “But I… uh… okay, sure. Whatever I can do… but you understand I have to bring Rosie with me.”

“That’s fine. Yitzi will be thrilled,” Yehuda said.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure!”

He sounded frustrated. But of course he would sound that way. He had more pressing matters than her indecisiveness to deal with right now. Now that she thought about it, maybe it was better that she
didn’t
burden him with details of the other night. It would just be one more thing for him to think about. Besides, right now he needed her help.

“Give me an hour or two,” Lauren said. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

No sooner had Lauren set the phone down that her own trembling hands sent it flying off the counter. It crashed to the floor, somehow managing to land as a single intact unit. She bent down to retrieve it, and felt a chill rush through her body. What she wouldn’t give to be able to crawl back into bed and hide under her blankets! Lauren covered her eyes and groaned out loud. Ugh! Why had she said
yes
to Yehuda, when the right thing to do—the ethical thing to do—would have been to say
no
! She wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with if she hadn’t answered the damn phone! What was the point of having caller ID if you didn’t use it? She went back to her bedroom and quickly changed into a pair of jeans and the heaviest sweater she had, a white cable-knit her
ex
didn’t seem to miss. Still cold, she wrapped a throw blanket around her shoulders and began surveying her apartment. She had no classes today or tomorrow, but the errands she planned on doing, the vacuuming, the piles of laundry would all have to wait. The Orenstein kids needed her.
Yehuda
needed her! She was doing this for them. What happened between her and Hannah was not important right now.

She pulled a duffle bag out of her closet and tossed it on the bed. Rosie sat upright on the bed like a bowling pin and watched intently as Lauren moved back and forth between the closet and her dresser, making her selections: underwear, pajamas, jeans, T-shirts, a couple of sweaters and a suit for Shabbat. She went to the bathroom and grabbed her makeup bag and a handful of toiletries. Rosie jumped down and followed Lauren out of the room, eyeing her suspiciously as she emptied the litter box, removed the liner, and slipped it into large clean trash bag. It was when Lauren retrieved the cat's travel cage from a tall shelf in the hall closet that Rosie gave a little chirp and high tailed it under the bed.

“Relax, Rosie! We’re not going to the vet!”

Lauren dropped to the floor. Splayed out on her stomach, she strained to see the cat. Wide-eyed with a fresh coat of dust, the orange tabby was cowering in the farthest, darkest corner of the bed. There was no way Lauren could reach her like this. She pulled herself up, zippered her duffle bag and carried it to the front door. She slipped into her coat and grabbed her keys from the hook. Minutes later she had loaded her car and returned to the apartment. To her chagrin, Rosie was still hiding. Lauren went into the kitchen and loudly poured some cat food into a plastic container. Sure enough, Rosie came bounding into the room, nose held high, sniffing the air. Lauren scooped her up before she could take off again, and dropped her into the travel cage.