Now You See Me... (17 page)

Justin looked at his mother.

“Tell Molly,” she said. “She’ll understand.”

But he drummed his fingers on the table and waited until Cheryl had brought the mugs to the table and was sitting again.

“Justin,” she said.

He sighed. “Prosser found out that Greg had a thing with a senior at the high school where he taught before he came to Torat Tzion.” He was looking at me, daring me to say something.

All I could come up with was, “Oh.”

“He made a mistake,” Justin said, his tone just short of belligerent. “People make mistakes. That didn’t mean Amy was telling the truth about the harassment.”

I wondered how certain Justin would be of Shankman’s innocence if he knew about Hadassah. “How did Prosser know this?”

“He found a letter from the student in Greg’s briefcase. She said their affair was partly her fault, but mostly it was Greg’s. He took advantage of her. She was his student. She was too young to know what she was doing. Now she had to deal with the repercussions. Her therapist said she had to work though her anger so she could make decisions about her life. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to consider what was best.”

“She was going to go to the authorities?” I took a tentative sip of the coffee.

Justin shook his head. “She was planning to make their breakup permanent and was thinking of moving to Seattle.”

For a moment I didn’t put it together. “Melissa Frank,” I said. And the repercussion was their daughter?

“Greg showed me the letter when he got it,” Cheryl said. “He and Melissa had been having problems, and he’d moved out. He looked like the world was coming to an end. It wasn’t just losing Melissa. It was losing Kaitlin, their daughter. Recently, though, he was hopeful. He said he and Melissa were talking about getting back together. I thought maybe he was in denial, but the news said something about reconciliation, too.”

“What about the letter?” I asked.

“Prosser made a photocopy,” Justin said. “He got hold of a list of Melissa’s classmates. He located a dozen or so and found one who was willing to talk.”

“And he showed the letter to the principal?”

“His father did. He’s on the board of the school. And the kid told Greg if he showed his proof to the principal, Amy would phone Melissa and tell her what Greg had done to her, and to the Weinberg girl. Greg couldn’t take that chance. He was hoping he and Melissa could work things out. But if Amy talked to her . . . So he never showed anyone the proof, and the school fired him.”

The cheese Danish that had looked so tempting minutes earlier held no interest for me. “Justin, I’m going to ask you something that will upset you, but please understand that I’m just trying to get a clear picture. Okay?”

He stiffened.

“How do you know Amy isn’t telling the truth?”

“Because I know Greg.” He clenched his jaw. “He would never do something like that. And I talked to Amy’s best friend. She told me Amy is crazy about Prosser and would do anything for him.”

“How did you meet the friend?”

“I found out where the Torat Tzion kids hang out. I hooked up with this girl and got her to confide in me.” A sly smile flashed across Justin’s face. “They ruined Greg’s life. I wanted to do something, to help.” There was no smile now, only anger.

“And this girl told you Amy lied about Greg?”

“Not in so many words,” he admitted. “I think she got scared.”

“Do a lot of the kids know about all this?”

“As far as I know, just Prosser and Amy. And maybe Amy’s best friend. They had to be careful. If word got out, it would all backfire, and they’d be in serious trouble.”

It was too much to absorb. I had spent several days and countless hours worrying about Hadassah and trying to find her. In the process, I’d felt increasing outrage toward the man who had taken advantage of her. Nothing that I had heard now diffused that outrage, but my feelings had become complicated.

“Justin, your mother told me you didn’t know if you should go to the police. What does all of this have to do with Greg’s death?”

“At first Greg was planning to go to the local Jewish newspaper with the story, and maybe the Jewish bureau of education. He even talked about going to the
Times.
He was so angry and depressed. He felt so helpless.”

“Wasn’t there anyone he could talk to? Someone who would help?”

“He tried talking to Rabbi Bailor. He told the rabbi Amy was lying to protect Prosser. He didn’t tell him about his girlfriend and daughter. He didn’t know how the rabbi would take that. But Rabbi Bailor told Greg he didn’t have a say about hiring or firing outside of Judaic studies. Plus he and the other principal were butting heads. Greg told the rabbi he understood, but he felt let down. Rabbi Bailor talks the talk, but he sure doesn’t walk the walk.” The young man’s lips curled in derision.

Cheryl squeezed her son’s hand. “There probably wasn’t anything he
could
do, Justin. He did write Greg a letter of recommendation.”

“Whatever. The thing is, Greg decided he couldn’t talk to anyone. Because if he did, the whole thing would come out about Melissa. He couldn’t do that to her, or his daughter. The last time I talked to him he sounded terrible, like he had nothing to live for. And then today my mom and I heard he was killed in a car accident. And the first thing I thought was, that wasn’t an accident. He killed himself. But they made him do it. And they should pay, shouldn’t they? Somebody should.”

Justin wrapped his hands around his mug. “But if I tell the police, everybody will know Greg killed himself. Melissa, too. They’ll have to tell her. And what if Kaitlin finds out? People talk. You know how that is. What kind of legacy is that to leave your daughter? What I’m asking is, do you think I should tell the police or leave it alone? It’s not like telling them is going to make a difference, is it? Nothing I say or do will bring him back.”

Chapter 31

Bubbie G’s hands were floury when she opened the door. “Such a surprise.” She wiped her hands on her red-checkered apron and stood on tiptoe to kiss me.

“I was in the neighborhood and decided to stop by, Bubbie. Something smells good.”

“Mandelbrot.” The Jewish equivalent of almond-flavored biscotti. “Bella came a few minutes ago. I’m popular today.” She winked.

Bella Grubner was sitting on Bubbie’s olive green velvet couch. She’s one of Bubbie’s many friends, most of who are Polish-born Holocaust survivors, many of them widows. Bella is big-hearted, but when it comes to gossip, she could teach Liz Smith a few moves. Hence Bubbie’s wink.

Bella has a big frame, too. The hug she gave me was practically a Heimlich maneuver.

“You look beautiful, Molly,” she said. “If I didn’t know you were wearing a
sheitel,
I would think this is your own hair. Custom, yes? How much did you pay?”

“It was a gift,” Bubbie said. “From her parents.”

“How’s your husband, Molly? Such a good-looking man.”

“He’s great, thanks.”

“You’re married eight months already, no?” She eyed my stomach. “I see you put on a little weight. Good news?” She smiled.

“Chocolate,” I said.

Bella looked confused, then smiled. “It’ll happen, Molly.” She patted my arm. “With some people it takes longer. My niece was married three years, and now she has twins.
Kenehoreh,”
she added quickly, to ward off the evil eye.

“Molly has to talk to me about something,” Bubbie said. “Private.”

“Oh?”

“Police business,” I said, assuming a solemn expression. “I need Bubbie’s advice.”

“Oh.” Bella looked at Bubbie with envy.

According to my mom, Bubbie G
qvells
in telling her friends that her granddaughter is chummy with LAPD detectives and is in the know about crime around the city. My former seventy-eight-year-old thrice-widowed landlord, Isaac, took similar pleasure in bragging to his poker buddies about his “well-connected” tenant. Now that reading even large-print material has become frustrating for Bubbie (she found the magnifying machine my parents rented from an eye institute too cumbersome), she has my mother read my column to her every Tuesday and phones to tell me her favorite entries. She’s an ardent fan of true crime books and crime fiction—she passed on that love to me—and she rushes to the library to get the latest audio books on tape.

After Bella left, I followed Bubbie into the kitchen, where eight two-inch-high loaves were cooling on racks on the white-tiled counter.

She placed one of the loaves onto a cutting board. “Don’t let Bella upset you, Molly. She means well.”

“I know. But it
has
been eight months, and I didn’t get pregnant with Ron, either.”

“Bella can say foolish things, but she’s right.” Bubbie picked up a knife. “It’s in
Hashem
’s hands. And eight months isn’t so long,
sheyfeleh.
Sara, Rivka, Rachel—they all waited longer.”

I watched, nervous, as she sliced each loaf on the diagonal into one-inch slices, but though Bubbie has only limited peripheral vision, her fingers were sure.

When the slices were in the oven, lying on their sides on a greased cookie sheet, Bubbie brought tea and sugar cookies to the breakfast room table.

“Something is bothering you, Molly,” she said. A statement, not a question. “You have a heavy heart. Friday night, too. It’s about having a baby, or something else?”

I’m always amazed by how much my sightless grandmother can see. “A man was killed,” I said. “Not a nice man, but still.”

She nodded. “And?”

“I’m afraid the killer may be someone I know, somebody in the community. And I’m having mixed feelings about the man who was killed.”

I told her everything, beginning with Reuben Jastrow’s appearance in the lobby of my San Diego hotel. She listened without interrupting, nodding once in a while as she sipped her raspberry tea.

“If I had never gone to Detective Connors,” I said when I had finished, “he would never have found out about Hadassah Bailor. He wouldn’t have known that the Bailors had a motive.”

“The rabbi and his brother-in-law asked you to help, Molly, to use your police connections. This is why they came to you. And the rabbi knew you were going to show the detective the note.” Bubbie leaned across the table and took my hand in both of hers. “You went with good intentions. How could you know this would happen? And if,
chas
v’shalom,
the rabbi or his family is involved, the truth will come out, Molly, with or without you. This is what was meant to be.”

“And what do I tell Justin, Bubbie? Should I encourage him to go to the police?” I had told Cheryl and her son that I needed to think before I advised him what to do.

Bubbie sipped her tea. “This Justin thinks Shankman killed himself, yes? He says Shankman decided not to tell his story to the newspaper. But you’re thinking, maybe Shankman changed his mind, yes? And if he did, and this boy who cheated found out, or his father did . . .”

I nodded. “And the boy or his father, or both, went to Shankman’s apartment to persuade him not to go public, and they ended up fighting. But where was Dassie when this happened?”

The oven timer pinged. I beat Bubbie to the counter, slipped the mitts on my hands, and moved the cookie sheet to the cooling rack. The mandelbrot were golden brown, flecked with green and red from the chopped pistachios and cranberries Bubbie had added to the dough.

When they were cool enough to touch, Bubbie put a handful in a brown paper bag. Then she handed me a small plastic bag inside of which were a sugar cube and a clove of garlic.

“Put this in your
chulent,”
she said, referring to a traditional meat, beans, and potato stew cooked all night in a Crock-Pot and served for
Shabbat
lunch. “I got it yesterday morning at Gusta’s grandson’s bris. It’s a
segulah
for having children.”

I had heard about the tradition. “You really think it works, Bubbie?”

“It can’t hurt. And you’ll have a delicious
chulent.”
She smiled.

At the door she kissed me again.

“Should I suggest that to Connors, Bubbie? That this boy who cheated, or his father, might have been worried that Shankman was going to talk to the
Times
and other papers?”

She shook her head.
“Besser gornisht tsu machen aider tsu machen gornisht.
Better to do nothing than to make something into nothing. I know you’re worried about the Bailors, Molly, and maybe you want the police to look elsewhere. First find out if there’s something.”

I probably should have waited a day or so before visiting Melissa Frank, but Justin’s story was in my head. And maybe there
was
“something.” So instead of going to West L.A., I drove to Mar Vista and parked in front of Melissa’s house.

The neighbor I had met Saturday night answered the door. I tried to remember her name. Diane.

“You were here the other night,” she said. “Greg’s cousin. This must be a terrible time for you.”

My lie had come back to bite me. I nodded, feeling lower than dirt, and asked if I could speak to Melissa.

“I’ll check. She’s trying to get some rest, poor thing. The next few days will be crazy. She’s been on the phone since she got back last night from Seattle. She had to tell Greg’s parents, and she’s been talking to police, and to reporters. I don’t know how they found out, but they did.” Diane scowled. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet, though. And Melissa hasn’t figured out a way to tell Kaitlin. But I know she’ll want to see you.”

“I’m not Greg’s cousin,” I said.

She stared at me. Her face turned red.

Mine was hot with shame. “I needed to find Greg. I said that to find out where he lived. I’m sorry.”

“I think you should leave.” Diane started to shut the door.

“Melissa may want to talk to me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Please tell her this is regarding one of Greg’s students at Torat Tzion. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll understand.”

“Wait here.”

Diane looked at me as though I were a snake about to slither through the opening of the door. A minute or so passed before she reappeared.

“Melissa wants to know your name and your connection to Greg.”

“My name is Molly Blume. I—”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“That
is
my name. I never met Greg, but someone asked me to talk to him about a delicate matter. That’s what I was trying to do Saturday night.”

“Greg was dead Saturday night. The police said his car went over the road Friday night.”

“I didn’t know that when I came here.”

“I’ll tell Melissa.”

I waited again. The afternoon sun was bright, but the day was chilly. I hugged my arms.

Diane returned. “Melissa doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Will you give her my card? In case she changes her mind.” I hurried to get a card from my wallet before she shut the door. “Please tell her she can phone me night or day.”

Diane glanced at the card and grunted. “You’re a reporter. I should have known.”

“If you could just give Melissa the card,” I said.

“I don’t think so.” She slammed the door.

I dropped the card in the mailbox and left.