The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (33 page)

They were terrific fun, knowing everybody and always up on the latest gossip and events, which they would relate to keep us laughing … usually. Today was not a typical day.

Of course Aisa Garrett had come. Slight, balding, and, now that he was retired, bronzed from blissful hours spent fishing, although he rarely caught anything, or cared to, either. He owned North Shore Industries Corporation, Wyndham’s biggest (and only) industrial institution. North Shore sold heating oil and propane gas to most of Suffolk County. NSIC’s taxes supported Wyndham’s excellent school and our few cultural assets.

It was my estimation that Aisa was Mrs. Risk’s oldest and dearest friend. After me, he was her favorite accomplice in her exploits. From hints picked up during late night conversations, I figure that if he wanted to, he could explain many, if not all, of the mysteries that surrounded Mrs. Risk. But so far he didn’t want to.

A childless widower, he had last year hired a new manager for his corporation (having sent, at Mrs. Risk’s instigation, his former manager to jail for various crimes, including attempted murder of himself). The new young manager was Irish to the bone, a great piano player, and a prolific producer of children. His boisterous family was admirably fulfilling Aisa’s longing for grandchildren, so we’d been seeing less and less of Aisa in the last few months.

Black Dan Harrington’s business partner, Barton Peacock, was here for his first time. His wife had decided to visit her mother in Florida for Thanksgiving this year, which pleasure Bart had declined to share; also his two college-age children had gone skiing for the holiday with friends, thus abandoning him completely to Mrs. Risk’s hospitality. From the way he lifted his glass of red wine to examine its color against the firelight, he didn’t look like he was suffering.

Bart was a wiry dark-haired man in his late forties who seemed to live in suits. He was much shorter than his bulky, heavily muscled partner (who habitually wore flamboyant short-sleeved silk shirts and chinos.) Although he usually moved and spoke so rapidly he seemed hyperactive, this evening he was sitting fairly still—possibly weighed down by all that turkey. He squinted as if pondering a deeply puzzling problem: “Red or white? The eternal Thanksgiving question. Whether ‘tis better to spice up the old bird and aspire to a loftier red, or to quaff a gentle white with the traditional unassuming sage stuffing.” Bart took a sip of his red and licked his lips. “I tried it both ways and still can’t decide. I don’t know. Let me try some of that gewürztraminer. There were oysters in the stuffing. Would that make a difference?”

“Nah! Gevurtzt is too sweet for oysters,” said Black Dan, reaching across me to pass down a decanter of a different wine to Bart. “Trust me. An Irisher always knows his wine.” He waggled his rusty eyebrows in a teasing glance at his doubting partner.

Dan’s wife, Jennifer, sat on Dan’s other side. He’d never sit anywhere but next to his adored wife. She was a gorgeous redhead who reminded me of a young Maureen O’Hara. Dan’s grizzled copper hair and her rich auburn had produced two fiery-topped little girls, ages 8 and 10, (who were spending the long weekend with their grandparents in St. Croix). Jennifer had made friends with Michael’s date, a moderately attractive brunette (with a Prince Valiant haircut). She was a dentist named Lacy who, on arrival, had said she didn’t like wine all by itself. She’d asked for a wine cooler, instead, bringing a hush over the assembled company, who knew Mrs. Risk’s feelings on the subject.

“Would you prefer lemonade or apple cider, dear? Or may I bring you some ice water?” Mrs. Risk had inquired. On her face was the look of horrified concern she would’ve given someone stricken with a serious ailment.

No, evidently Lacy preferred a bottled wine cooler. Or a wine ‘spritzer?’

I tried, but failed to imagine Mrs. Risk diluting her treasured wine with soda water.

After Mrs. Risk and Aisa exchanged calculating looks, they’d descended into her cellar together and had come up with the pale gold gewürztraminer, which they offered Lacy. Evidently, they’d decided to educate her palate rather than crossing her off. To some success. As Dan had said, it’s a sweet wine. She liked it.

And of course, Ernie Block was here. He’s here a lot. How to explain Ernie. He’s one of Wyndham’s building contractors and a bachelor, well thought of around the villages. Running to baldness and a comfortably cushioned middle, he’d dubbed himself Mrs. Risk’s ‘protector’ last summer. On that occasion, he’d declared that he considers her (and I quote) one hell of a good-lookin’ woman who was as sharp as a tack. He added that he knew he, himself, wasn’t good enough for her, but if he ever found a man he approved of, he’d run him her way. He must’ve won her heart because he’s always welcome here.

None of us had been able to pretend we weren’t troubled by Pearl’s situation. Only Lacy was unaware that before Pearl had said her last words to Mrs. Risk, she’d been slated to occupy one of these chairs today.

The clatter of eating and drinking had ceased, leaving only the crackling fire to fill the silence after Charlie’s question.

Lacy glanced shyly around and bit her lip. She had an overbite that I’d watched both Michael and Charlie stare at with interest. Men like overbites, ever notice that? I think it must involve some fantasy they have concerning kissing. I, myself, have perfect alignment.

Aisa grunted, then stated firmly to Mrs. Risk, “Pearl’s being very foolish, barring you from Krasner’s.”

“Who said she was staying away?” Charlie asked with a short laugh, tearing his attention away from Lacy’s mouth. This statement somehow instigated a general stir of chairs scraping back as their owners rose.

“Let’s get the pies out here, shall we?” suggested Mrs. Risk. Jennifer Harrington began swiftly collecting plates, handing them to Dan, who, using his restaurant expertise, stacked them precariously on one arm. Ernie seized the heavy turkey platter and Michael gathered up serving bowls. Aisa stood and began peering down the throats of wine bottles and decanters. After some muttering, he took away a few, left a half dozen, and tottered off towards the cellar stairs.

“Byron, dear, you must tell me how to serve your pie.” Mrs. Risk’s voice trailed off into doubt. Byron, who loved to cook but who also prided himself on never having read a cookbook, had brought a soggy-looking butterscotch pie he’d baked this morning. He hustled away to assist.

I began removing clumps of spilled food from the linen tablecloth. Which left Charlie and Lacy pretty much to themselves. Charlie leaned on the back of my now vacant chair and began a conversation, which seemed an agreeable idea to her. I hoped Michael would object, but then, I could care less.

Allyn sidled up to me, hands clasped behind his back. “How’s your shop? Has business increased since you hung yourself over your counter?” His eyes twinkled gently. I reached over and began re-buttoning his misaligned tatty brown cardigan.

“It hasn’t hurt business,” I said, “which has to be a compliment. We’ll have to take a poll to see if people admire the painting more for my body or your—I mean, Byron’s—technique.” We laughed together. It was Allyn who’d painted my highly provocative portrait, but Byron’s name was on the canvas. Allyn loved to paint naked and nearly-naked women but Byron was given the credit, to safeguard Allyn’s reputation among the more stuffy art critics as a ‘serious’ artist. Byron and Allyn were identical twins, a fact they capitalized on shamelessly whenever Byron could diet to match Allyn’s waistline.

I beamed and told him about Bart’s and Dan’s recent orders. “I’m not buying T-bills, yet, but a good future is a definite possibility now.”

“Hmm.” His bushy eyebrows tilted up in the middle, over his little round nose. “I could mention your shop to some of my patrons.”

“Not many of your Manhattan customers would be shopping Wyndham for flowers, would they?”

“Ah, you must not have heard. I’m having a retrospective in Wyndham right before Christmas. For charity. The proceeds go to St. Boniface Hospital.”

“No kidding.”

“I’ll see if I can get a blurb about your shop on the program. Suggest you as a perfect source of flowers to send to St. Boniface patients. Maybe the gallery will need some things for the show, too. Surely they’ll decorate.”

“You’d do that?”

While we talked, the table became slowly transformed from the dregs of a battlefield to a blooming dessert tray. Aisa reappeared with a crop of dusty little dessert wine bottles clasped lovingly to his chest and set to work uncorking. Mrs. Risk handed round another set of glasses, silver, and coffee paraphernalia and gradually we drifted back to the table.

Like gameplayers we assumed different positions. I sat next to Allyn, leaving the path to Lacy wide open for Charlie, who immediately took advantage. Michael shifted to my other side, which put him next to Mrs. Risk.

Bart settled between Lacy and Jennifer Harrington, from which position they began a cozy three-way discussion of hotels they loved. I guess Lacy travels a lot. Dentists must do well, financially.

Ernie began a round of questions and answers with Aisa about wine. I hoped he realized he was risking spending the rest of the night listening. Mrs. Risk portioned out desserts and made pointed remarks correcting Aisa’s instruction. Ernie always beamed at Mrs. Risk in a knowing way, as if he knew every fault she ever had but would always consider her the most fascinating woman on earth. Ernie was no fool about anything—possibly even about her.

“So you’re planning to show up at Krasner’s?” The question had been put quietly from Michael to Mrs. Risk, but I picked it up anyway and froze, listening.

Charlie, having also heard, answered for her. “You know she is, why bother asking?”

“Because. Because I’d like to know for sure,” came Michael’s uncomfortable reply.

“You have something planned, don’t you,” I accused him.

“She’s right. You do. What?” asked Mrs. Risk sharply.

He looked miserable. “We’ve uncovered some new evidence—a motive, a very good motive for Pearl. In addition to being upset over Solly dumping her for Bella. I’m expecting certain documents Saturday—” he broke off. “I can’t really go into it.”

I flicked a glance at Mrs. Risk out of the corner of my eye, who glanced at me at the same moment. Solly’s thefts and his undermining of Pearl’s finances. Had Michael’s men dug it out?

Mrs. Risk turned back to Michael and asked carefully, “Is this evidence more than circumstantial?”

“Possibly. Heavily damning, even if circumstantial.” He poked a fork at his dessert, but didn’t eat. “Saturday—” he began, but I cut him off.

“Saturday, what? You would arrest Pearl Saturday? In front of all her fans? On national TV? Before or after her show?” I demanded.

“Rachel—” he began, grimacing.

“The man said he can’t discuss it,” Charlie said sarcastically. Michael shot him a tired look.

I bristled. “Why Saturday? How about Sunday? Or Monday? What’s so special about Saturday to you? It’s Pearl’s one hour of victory, the one hour she’s been working towards for months. Sixty very big minutes that can keep her alive in her profession for the rest of her life.” I found myself on my feet, shouting. Embarrassed, I shut my mouth and slid back down into my seat.

Michael dropped his napkin on top of his untouched pie. “It’s hard enough, for Christ’s sake. I do what I have to do. You know I like Ms. Schrafft. But—”

“What about Bella?” I asked, subdued now.

Michael stared at me unhappily, sighed, and looked away. He said, as if unwillingly, “We’ve traced a single boat ticket to London, England, in 1965. London’s across the Channel from France.” He paused, then added, “Purchased in Velma Schrafft’s name.”

“How the devil can you find out who bought a ticket twenty nine years ago?” scoffed Aisa Garrett. “I don’t believe it.”

“Michael?” I felt like I couldn’t catch my breath.

He said nothing.

“He’s already gone far beyond his duty in telling us this much, Rachel,” said Mrs. Risk. “Calm yourself, dear. Michael, don’t worry. You have our affection just as much now as always.”

I shoved my chair back and stood. “No, he doesn’t. What can a few days matter? She won’t escape. Where can a woman as famous as Pearl run? To Brazil with the ex-Nazis? If you interrupt her show, her live TV broadcast, Michael, they’ll never forgive her, all those people she made commitments to. She’ll starve. Thanks to Solly, she’s—” I realized that while it was still remotely possible Michael didn’t know about Solly’s ruin of Pearl’s finances I’d better shut my mouth. Then I thought, appalled, now I’m doing it. Keeping things from the police.

Michael said coldly, “If Pearl killed Solly and we can prove it, it’s my job to arrest her at the earliest possible moment. It won’t matter whether she keeps Saturday’s commitments or not. Her future won’t be in show business.”

I bolted from the room.

Alone in the kitchen I clutched the edges of the sink and leaned towards the window. Water sheeted the small square panes and blurred my view of the naked brown stalks that were all that was left of the herbs and roses and other things Mrs. Risk liked to grow. The garden looked drowned. I felt a similar drowning inside me, a clawing panic against what smothered me. Fears. Anger. For me. For Pearl. So what if she was guilty. If she’d killed Solly, I had a lot of nerve to judge her. Two and a half years ago I’d plotted to poison my husband. I still felt justified, thinking of it. Not one shred of guilt. I was desperate, then. Desperate people, people in pain, we’re all just trying not to drown.

An arm stole tenderly around me and I leaned back against a familiar warm chest. Charlie’s voice came softly in my ear, “Don’t cry, Rachel. Whatever’s best is what will happen. Michael doesn’t want to win her arrest, like a prize. He only wants to discover the truth.”

“I’m not crying,” I stated as I surreptitiously blotted my tears on his sleeve.

“My mistake,” he said. He turned me around and, pulling me firmly against him, he kissed me. Although it started as a sweet, soft consoling kiss, it gradually became reminiscent of the one he’d given me in my husband’s fishmarket. I lost all reason and will power and control over my legs, and he had to hold me tight to keep me from falling down. Finally, one infinitesimal millimeter at a time, he lifted his lips away from mine.