The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (28 page)

Pearl peered at Mrs. Risk. “Is this some of your very best advice?” She grinned crookedly like a wicked little boy.

“Only the best for you, Pearl. Now, scoot.”

Simon tried to take Pearl’s arm, but Pearl jerked it away. “You heard her. I’m not old yet. Help me across the street when I’m eighty, but not before, got it?”

Simon’s black eyebrows tilted up in the middle like an anxious basset hound. “Sure, doll. Sure.”

“Oh, Pearl,” said Mrs. Risk suddenly.

Pearl stopped. “What?”

“Are you familiar with this?” And with a flick of fingers, the box she’d stolen from Solly’s desk appeared on Mrs. Risk’s extended palm. She held it close to Pearl’s tired eyes.

Pearl frowned down at it. “One of Solly’s little boxes?” She shrugged and turned away. “Looks like one of Solly’s, but as for recognizing it personally …”

Mrs. Risk smiled. “No matter.” She whisked it away as suddenly as it had appeared. “I believe I’ll accompany you to Krasner’s, if that’s all right with you, dear.” The way she said it wasn’t exactly a question.

Pearl looked over her shoulder, but only muttered vaguely, “If that’s what you want.” Mrs. Risk’s presence at Krasner’s clearly wasn’t something she strongly desired.

After they left, Mrs. Risk sat and tapped at her chin with a forefinger. Finally she said, “Ilene.” And with a graceful swoop she was on her feet and back in the other room before I could ask what about Ilene.

In seconds, Ilene arrived, trailing Mrs. Risk’s imperial self. They settled on the sofa, Ilene unwittingly taking Pearl’s place. Ilene leaned forward, intent on Mrs. Risk, her face twisted with worry.

While I stared, unable to figure out how Mrs. Risk had disarmed such open dislike, Mrs. Risk stated, “Pearl wanted you to know that Dr. Savoia ordered her to take the nap. She didn’t want to break up the rehearsal, but had no choice. Ilene, you must figure a way to structure her rehearsals into short bursts of time, with breaks for rest. Dr. Savoia’s concerned that if she doesn’t take better care of herself, she won’t be able to fulfill her commitment at Krasner’s.”

“Won’t be able—” The concept of Pearl canceling the performance must’ve been, from her expression, the worst event Ilene could imagine. “But she … she has to.”

Mrs. Risk leaned towards Ilene and held out a placating hand. Ilene jerked out of reach as if unwilling to let Mrs. Risk touch her. “Dear, if you and Zoë and everyone else just make sure that she rests properly, she’ll do very well indeed. She’s overtired. And terribly desperate to perform brilliantly, which is causing her even more stress.”

“Oh, I understand,” said Ilene in her husky voice. “I just hope you understand how serious a setback it would be for Pearl to cancel this particular show.”

“I don’t see why you all don’t just cancel anyway,” I said. “Isn’t it better not to put this on Pearl right now? Why can’t she just get another booking when this is all over?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ilene acidly. “Solly signed a contract to televise the show live, we’re committed to fill air time on the biggest weekend of the year in front of Pearl’s home audience. She’s been gone for two whole years. Two years is a lifetime in our business. Opportunities this golden are not easy to create. This isn’t like a bookkeeping job, where if you’re sick, you call in and come the next day. Publicity’s been generated, excitement’s been carefully built up over time. Everybody knows how Pearl collapsed when Bernie died. Krasner’s and the network people are taking a huge gamble that she recovered. The momentum is here, and she must grab it. Comedy’s not just an art, it’s a cut-throat business. Canceling now could be professional suicide. This has become a media event.”

“A media event that can do a lot for your career, too, right?” I asked.

Ilene gave a stiff-necked jerk of her head that I took for assent. “But it’s Pearl who’s important.”

Right.

“A media event not unaided by Solly’s own death,” said Mrs. Risk mildly.

“What do you mean?” Ilene demanded.

“I mean that the publicity has quadrupled because of the speculations surrounding Solly’s murder. Coverage has been mixed in tone, much of it unkind, but it’s coverage. If Pearl was appearing in Yankee Stadium next week she could sell every seat. Americans devour scandal.”

“Scandal? There’s no scandal,” said Ilene.

Mrs. Risk looked baffled. “Haven’t you been reading the papers? Or watching television? What’s been implied in the gossip columns alone skirts the edge of actionable.”

“Performers are always written about that way.”

“To some extent. But the implication now is that she’s in imminent danger of arrest,” Mrs. Risk said. “For murder, Ilene. Her sister’s past behavior has been flaunted in every rag in the nation, and some of the tabloid television shows have even been hinting at lurid ménage a trois sexual motives.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I can show you. Ilene, Pearl was engaged to Solly. He jilted her for her sister, echoing identical events thirty years ago. And the man from thirty years ago died suddenly and suspiciously, too. Haven’t you read or heard anything? The police are actively investigating both Pearl and Bella. Arrest for one of them appears a real possibility.”

“Arrest? But it’s all just hot air. The police don’t arrest people on the basis of … of … gossip. They need evidence. And what evidence could they have?” Color drained from Ilene’s face.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Risk gravely. “I can find out if you like. Would you want me to do that for you?”

“Would you? I—I … Surely there’s nothing to worry about, but …”

“I’m telling you, there’s much to worry about. Look. I’ll be happy to call someone I know in the homicide department, but you must do something for me—for Pearl—in return.”

“What?”

“Tell me why you’re so devoted to Pearl—you, who’s spent a lifetime avoiding attachments to anyone else.”

Ilene’s face was now the color of one of the sheets of typing paper that littered Pearl’s floor in the other room. I sat forward, worried she’d need someone to catch her if she fainted.

“How could you know so much?” she whispered.

“I know,” said Mrs. Risk, her voice inexorable, like advancing doom. “I’ve spent my life studying human nature.”

“I can’t see how my telling you about myself could help,” she said, but her voice was so strained, her breath so fluttery that I could hardly distinguish her words.

“You owe her something. Something very serious. You got in trouble when you were younger, impressionable? Something. You fell in love?”

“No. Yes. No.” She held her breath, then shook her head impatiently, letting out a small gasp. “It’s stupid.”

“It must have been very painful.”

To judge by Ilene’s face, it was cataclysmic.

“Believe me, it’s very important that we know,” added Mrs. Risk.

“I was raped. I don’t see how this will help.” Her lips moved almost imperceptibly, forming the words.

Mrs. Risk leaned forward and this time Ilene allowed her to touch her lightly on the back of a clenched fist, although she shuddered at the contact. “Ilene, dear, it’s become plain to me that someone, possibly the killer, but just as possibly not, has more in mind than just Solly’s death, although that’s bad enough. Someone wants Pearl harmed.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I possess knowledge I’m unwilling to reveal to you now, for one thing. And the information in the papers—a lot of it is, indeed, hot air, but built very carefully upon a solid base of facts. Who leaked this information to the papers? And why have I gotten such little cooperation from those who claim to be Pearl’s friends?”

“Because we all know that you’re working for the police, helping them find evidence to convict Pearl,” Ilene confessed helplessly.

Mrs. Risk reared back as if slapped. “To convict!” She lifted herself to her feet so swiftly it was as if she had levitated. She strode in an angry path, whipping her skirts between long legs, arms tight to her sides, head forward like the prow of a ship. She flipped herself around at the far side of the room and stopped.

“Tell me what happened to you!”

Ilene stared at her. “In 1966,” she said. “I was sixteen. I had … run away to be in show business, like ignorant kids do. My family was Roman Catholic. Conservative. They wouldn’t allow me to pursue a career as a singer. I wanted to be a ‘star’.” Her expression was agonized in its attempt at self-mockery. Her voice sounded rusty as if she hadn’t used it properly for a long time.

“Pearl took me in off the street. I was starving, literally. Invented a job for me as her ‘assistant’, an assistant she didn’t need, although her career was just then beginning to move, so maybe—” She put a hand to her throat as if she was choking on her own words and turned her head away from us.

“Who raped you?”

Silence.

“Was it one of the men in Pearl’s group of friends?”

A nuclear bomb could not have wreaked more devastation on that austerely elegant face, but she didn’t answer.

Mrs. Risk studied Ilene for some moments. Then she said gently, “You became pregnant?”

Ilene still said nothing.

“1966,” Mrs. Risk said. “You don’t have a child now. Did you put it up tor adoption?” Something, a flickering emotion on Ilene’s face caught Mrs. Risk’s eye. “An abortion. Abortions weren’t legal then. Pearl acquired an abortion for you and took care of you through it all.”

Ilene struggled to her feet and left the room, her footsteps staggering. Mrs. Risk made no attempt to follow.

After a few moments, Mrs. Risk turned pain-filled eyes to me. “Pearl probably blamed herself, can’t you imagine? Her vulnerable pretty little protégé had been raped while in her care. No doubt Pearl did everything she could to mother the poor child, to take the place of her Catholic family who wouldn’t have allowed the abortion. Who might have disowned her, or excommunicated her from her Church.” Mrs. Risk frowned. “Who knows. Daughters often underestimate their mothers. Regardless, I’d wager that Ilene received the best Pearl had to offer in kindness, love, and help.” She gazed through the door through which Ilene had stumbled.

“It doesn’t appear as if she’s ever recovered. What a waste of a tender life.” She stood up.

I stood also, numb from the suffering I had just witnessed.

“We’ve got to call Michael, dear. I’ve put off doing that for too long. And now we owe Ilene information.”

We left by the front door without saying goodbye. They wouldn’t have wanted to see us anyway. Police spies.

M
ICHAEL MET US DOWNSTAIRS
and steered us out through the door of the Precinct building, hustling us away from the stare of the desk sergeant. In the parking lot, he flicked a glance at my two-seater and said, “My car’s over there.”

We got in and he drove us to a small cafe in Bellport where he said he liked the clam chowder.

We ordered and I settled in to wait for the usual sparring. Michael likes to make Mrs. Risk work for her information, and Mrs. Risk likes to tease.

However, I suddenly realized that today both sides seemed to be cool, almost remote from each other.

“How does it look, Michael?” Mrs. Risk asked.

Michael stopped ministering to his tea bag and sat back with a sigh. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been expecting a call from you for some days.”

Mrs. Risk interrupted indignantly. “There was no time schedule for communication.”

“No, no schedule. But after I showed you my notes, I would’ve thought—”

“We’ve had meager results. Excessively reluctant cooperation. Have you fared better?” she added politely.

After a moment’s scrutiny of her face, he dropped his eyes to the table. “I wish, for your sake, I could say the perp is an outside intruder. But I don’t think so.”

Nobody said anything for a while.

Our chowder came and Michael started to eat. He was the only one with any appetite.

“The newspapers have somehow acquired a great deal of detailed information about Pearl’s and Bella’s past,” Mrs. Risk began.

“We didn’t give it to them,” Michael stated between spoonfuls of chowder.

“I thought it highly unlikely that you had.”

“I’ve been in touch with Paris, though.”

“The files on Stanley Fischmann’s death?”

I blinked in surprise, but he only nodded, not meeting her eyes.

“You must have precious little else to go on here, then.”

I thought she sounded hopeful as she said that. He must have thought so, too, because he glanced up and said gently, “Not so little.”

“Like what?” I asked him.

“Well, the weakest point, but not to be despised, is the parallel between events.”

“Oh, Michael,” she said disparagingly.

“Stanley didn’t drown. No water in his lungs. He was dead before he hit the water.”

“From what?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Records from thirty years ago are lousy. Not kept well, and what’s been kept is unclear. Except he didn’t drown.”

“So they suspected murder?”

“The case was never closed, so yes, that’s the implication.”

I put in sarcastically, “But Bella was dating a cop and—” but wasn’t allowed to finish.

“Tchah!” exploded Mrs. Risk, glaring at me.

Michael looked up at me, startled. “Did Bella tell you that?”

“No. Is it true?”

He laughed grimly. “I can’t swear to it, but some of the information about the ‘widow’ was so detailed in an otherwise sloppy, overgeneralized document that I did wonder. That’s funny.”

“It is? How?” I asked, indignantly.

“Well,” he subsided. “I guess it isn’t, at that.”

Mrs. Risk said tartly, “Not if you’re implying that she’s killed before, which increases the suspicion she’s under at this moment.”

“Which it does.” Michael nodded.

She said, “What else do you have?”

Michael paused a moment to finish his chowder.

After taking a deep breath I seized the opportunity to say to Mrs. Risk, “With all the ruckus last night, I forgot to tell you that while I was working in my shop yesterday, I thought of something. I called Barton Peacock.” I looked at Mrs. Risk, waiting to see if I would be provoking thunder and lightning if I continued. She only gazed at me with interest.