The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (22 page)

“She still won’t talk to you?” Mrs. Risk asked.

Pearl’s face drooped even more at the question. “Sure. Like, ‘do you want coffee?’ And ‘you can use my room if you want.’ Her room. She sure got used to saying that fast.” Pearl wrung her hands. “I didn’t mean that. What’s the matter with me?”

“You’re still upset, that’s natural,” I said.

“She hasn’t talked, really talked to me since he died. Well, that’s not quite true. It’s been since she agreed to marry him.” Pearl’s big features crumpled. She put her hands to her face.

“Why then?” asked Mrs. Risk.

“I don’t know,” came Pearl’s muffled voice. “I thought the engagement was okay with her. She knew she didn’t have to marry him if she didn’t want to. She had a home with me.”

“Pearl, did she stay with you at your house after the party?”

Pearl shook her head, then walked across to the bedside table and took a tissue from a box. She started wiping at her eyes. “No. I wanted her to. It was that necklace business. She stayed at Bart Peacock’s hotel, the Wyndham Bay Inn, instead. Until she moved in here three days ago.”

She turned to us and looked at us strangely. “She insisted that they keep their relationship strictly platonic until they married. She was probably worried what I’d think. But I didn’t care. I never could convince her that I didn’t care. If she wanted to sleep with Solly, that was her business. Women have needs, I know that only too well.” Her voice sounded bitter. “I slept with him myself a few times. Got me through some really nasty nights after Bernie passed on. I wouldn’t mind if you kept that to yourself, Rachel.”

I eyed Mrs. Risk, worrying. “No problem,” I said faintly. She’d been here, having torrid sex with Solly, just like we figured.

Mrs. Risk smiled wryly at me. “Something bothering you, dear?”

“Oh, surely you didn’t think I was some kind of sterile saint, did you, Rachel?” asked Pearl with a mischievous glint.

“What else did Bella inherit besides this house?” asked Mrs. Risk.

Pearl shrugged. “I asked her if she got the money, too, but she didn’t know. Will won’t be read until tomorrow. Mrs. Harmon told me about her pension, bless her heart. Said she’d stay through the week, then that’s it for her. She’s off to Florida. Too old to take care of this huge place, anyway. If Bella doesn’t get some kind of income to cover the upkeep, she’ll have to sell it. But that’ll get her a nice piece of investment money, and then she can move in with me. If—if she wants.” She cast an anxious glance at me.

“You don’t need to pretend in front of Rachel. I told her, dear. I hope you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Risk.

“That’s okay. It’s a relief not to have to pretend, actually.” She gave a short laugh. “I was about to say, she can move in with me if I still have a house when Thanksgiving’s over.”

I rushed to reassure her. “You’ll do well, Pearl. I know you will. You’re incredible, and two years off hasn’t changed that.”

“You never know, Rachel. It’s like a magic touch—do I still have it? Or did it die with Bernie? I might be moving in with
her.
Then again, maybe she won’t want me. I don’t know what she’s thinking these days.” She blinked furiously, then controlled herself.

She continued brightly, “If she sells the house, I’ll put her on to the same money funds or whatever they’re called, that Solly bought for himself, they did well for him.”

“Solly was good at investing?” I asked.

“Better than any broker. He used a discount broker because he called his own shots. He used to do it for me until I lost it all trying to expand my career. But I guess the lawyer’ll take care of those things for Bella. God, what am I babbling about.” She bent her head.

Presently she looked up. “The cops are coming.” She glanced at her wrist-watch. “In a few minutes. They want to talk to me again. And Bella, too.” Her eyes searched Mrs. Risk’s. “Has anything new been discovered?”

Mrs. Risk shook her head. “By them? I wouldn’t know.”

“Would you mind staying? Maybe with you here, they’ll tell me things about their investigation that they wouldn’t ordinarily—”

Mrs. Risk started edging backwards towards the door. “In a few minutes? Oh, dear, I really can’t stay. Come Rachel.” She gestured for me to follow her. “By the way, did you follow my suggestion and hire my friend Robert Blume?”

“Yes. I realized you were right. Bruce Altman really isn’t up to cases harder than accident injury suits and shoplifting.”

“Then I urge you to contact Bob now. An attorney should be with you whenever you talk to the police.”

“You think so? Mr. Blume said that if things get too heated up, he’ll call in a top criminal lawyer he knows from the city. We shouldn’t be needing anyone like that, though, should we?” Her fingers were twisting themselves about each other like a bundle of worms.

I stood there helplessly, prevented from responding with a wholehearted YES, because of Mrs. Risk’s determined faith in her friend’s innocence.

Mrs. Risk stopped in mid-room and said briskly, “You can trust Bob. He’s the best.”

Pearl went on. “Poor Bruce. After years of chasing ambulances, a chance finally arrives to defend a big name, get a bit of glory, and I heartlessly turn him down. At least, that’s the way he took it.”

“Well, I suggest you let him practice on somebody else first. Bob’s the man for you. Call him immediately to help you with the police. We’d better go. Just dropped by to say hello,” said Mrs. Risk.

Oh, really? I thought we were here to ‘sit’ with her, but I followed obediently.

“By the way,” added Mrs. Risk. She stopped at the door. “The police will probably ask if you’re missing any of your prescription for digoxin.”

“Missing?” Pearl echoed the word faintly. She frowned. “I keep so many bottles stashed everywhere.” She waved a hand in the air. “I’m always afraid to be caught unexpectedly without it. Solly had a habit of keeping track of things for me, said I was scatterbrained.” Suddenly her eyes glistened a little too brightly.

“I see. Well, call your housekeeper and have her collect what she can find. And then get a count of filled prescriptions from your pharmacy. Together we might figure out if you’re missing any.” She paused, closing her eyes in frustration, “And then again, maybe we won’t. See you later, dear.” Mrs. Risk sighed as she left the room. As she marched down the hall towards the staircase I heard her mutter in disgust, “… perfectly available to anybody.”

I descended the stairs after her.

Mrs. Harmon materialized and handed our wraps to us.

“Are you leaving to avoid Detective Hahn?” I demanded as soon as Mrs. Harmon vanished again.

“Avoid Michael?” She seemed deep in thought. “No. I just want to avoid any further gossip that we’re police spies. Zoë’s here, she’ll undoubtedly put the wrong interpretation on anything we do.”

She didn’t speak again until we were in my car and I was pulling out of the driveway. As I put the engine into a higher gear, she said, like a battle order, “To the cemetery, Rachel. God helps those who have friends who do every blessed thing for them, lucky souls.”

At the cemetery, the resident we sought was a live one, so I drove until I found the only building with windows. No space had been allotted for parking, so I left my car in the middle of the narrow, path-like road.

Mr. Pollak, the grounds attendant, turned out to be a cheerful man edging comfortably toward retirement. He was eating a sandwich, a brown paper bag spread protectively over the papers littering his desk. Mrs. Risk waited impatiently until the poor man could swallow his corned beef. I examined maps pinned to the walls. This place was far larger than I’d supposed.

He confirmed Solly’s grave had been the one disturbed. He was willing to let us see the mess, as he called it, but told us he’d already taken care of the worst of it. No real damage, just broken up sod and some displacement of dirt—well, mud, in this weather.

So we trooped outside, and he directed us how to reach Solly’s final resting place in this wilderness of stone.

It took ten minutes to navigate the tortuously winding roads to reach the grave site. Again I was forced to park in mid-path, blocking the way, but figured in traffic this sparse, my car would cause no problem. Mrs. Risk walked slowly towards the grave, scanning the surroundings as she went.

Solly’s grave was still unmarked. A stone wouldn’t be placed for another year, Mrs. Risk told me, at which time there’d be an ‘unveiling’ ceremony. The ground had to have time to settle.

After some minutes, I became bored and gazed around to see if I could mark the place in case we had to find it again without Mr. Pollak’s guidance. That’s when I saw that his office lay just to the west of us—about a short city block away as the crow flies. The elaborate directions had been needed because we were driving and the roads wound like a nest of snakes. That meant if he had been working late last night, he might have seen the vandals.

I pointed this out to Mrs. Risk, who nodded. “Oh, yes. You must not have been listening when he told me he goes home around 4:30 in the winter. He stays only as long as the light is good.”

“Nice hours,” I commented.

“He works in a graveyard, Rachel. You can’t expect overtime pay unless there’s a plague or something,” she replied testily.

“Okay,” I said. “So what do you think?”

“I think it’s peculiar how the sod looks hacked and scraped in a broad path from the road to the grave, culminating in the only deep digging, which is at the graveside. The other holes are fairly shallow and seem randomly placed—although maybe the placement has some significance for the vandal.” She shrugged and shook her head. She began circling the grave, studying it. I couldn’t see much to study. The torn away sod bits had been stamped back into place, like divots on a golf course fairway, and the dirt had left—well—dirty marks on the grass. Big deal.

After a few more minutes, Mrs. Risk said, “Come on. Nothing more to keep us here. Let’s tend to our own lunch.”

We drove away.

After lunch she reminded me that I’d promised to have dinner with Charlie that night, which I ignored, leaving her wondering—I hoped—whether I intended to honor her promise or not. I dropped her off at her house and then hustled back to my neglected business.

Daniel seemed as relieved to see me as I was to return to the sane, orderly world of real work and his cheerful, uncomplicated companionship. Neither of us needed reminding that Thanksgiving loomed. And Hanukkah and Christmas things would be needed before the turkey cooled.

I clued him in about Bart Peacock’s order for the Inn, which brought on a few minutes of palm slapping, stamping, and howling. Then, resuming as much business-like dignity as I could, I phoned Bart to confirm the order. He upped it from six to ten, promised to send over a second deposit, and reminded me to call his partner, Black Dan Harrington, about doing something for the restaurant. As if I needed reminding. After I quit hyperventilating, I called Black Dan and worked out a deal to decorate the restaurant for the holidays, including table centerpieces to be supplied weekly until the new year. Then we’d talk about a contract. After I hung up, Daniel and I stared at each other, numb with awe.

“We’re gonna make money. Big money,” said Daniel, clearing his throat. Working hard to sound casual.

I whispered, “Big. And money. In the same sentence.” I stared around at the shop. The crude shelves Daniel and I had spent sleepless nights building last February. The stock I’d gradually educated myself to buy wisely, keeping track of what people ask for but never buy, and what nobody buys ever. Learning which supplier tries to slip in infested or diseased stock among the healthy. Striving for constant originality. Juggling slow-time losses. Restoring plants trampled by oblivious shoppers. On and on.

“Sometimes I wondered if I could make it work,” I said, then I looked at him. He reddened. I laughed and made a grab for his head, which I calculated just right so he could successfully duck. Had to safeguard that male pride. “You know what I’m going to say, don’t you!”

“I couldn’t have done it without you!” we screamed in unison and fell all over ourselves, hysterical at our own cleverness. Finally we wheezed to a halt.

“Hmmph. Sure you could. You can do anything.” He snagged his cap off a hook behind the counter and sauntered out the door, very ‘home-boy’ except for the uncool grin that kept sneaking onto his face. “You could’ve said something more original,” he added with disdain.

I locked the door behind us. Without consultation, we headed for the salsa bar across the street and ordered lavishly. After burritos, refried beans, and tacos nestled warmly in our bellies (the jalapeños disarmed with thick milkshakes), we shoved the debris aside and huddled over paper napkins. Together we began penciling out designs for Bart Peacock’s Thanksgiving pieces.

“The Inn’s business could elevate my tax bracket all by itself,” I muttered.

“If that happens, I get a raise,” said Daniel firmly.

I sat back and smiled dreamily. “If you get a raise, I get—”

“A dress?” he filled in.

“Dress?” I scoffed. “A treasury bill!” And we bent back to our work.

When Charlie called later to confirm our date, mellowed by the afternoon’s events, I said ‘Sure, why not.’ Hunger was beginning to set in and I was in no mood to buy my own dinner—both good romantic reasons to go out on a date, wouldn’t you agree?

Charlie was due at seven. At six I pushed Daniel out the door and dashed upstairs for a thirty minute soak—one of my vices is my bath tub. It’s deep and long, hogs most of the floor space in my dinky bathroom and my extra large hot water heater produces steaming water. I lit candles, inserted a tape of ocean sounds into my boombox—can’t afford cd’s—and blissfully soaked.

Afterwards, I put on my black velvet jeans, my softest leather boots, and a silk shirt—nothing to do with Charlie. Just wanting to look my best to carry out my mood of celebration.

Charlie knocked on the door.

W
E WENT TO HARRINGTON’S,
of course. Black Dan seated us by the windows because he knows I love to look out over the water, which tonight lay like dappled lead within the circles of the pier floodlights. One lone gull huddled on a piling, his feathers ruffled by the wind. His eyes were squeezed shut as if desperately searching for that elusive memory of summer. I shivered in sympathy.