The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (7 page)

Mrs. Risk looked startled. “Arlene? Absolutely not. You don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Forgive me. Of course you’re right. I only meant her as a hypothetical example.” He fished for Bella’s hand under the table and, on finding it, plopped it onto the tablecloth between them again, firmly grasped in his own. He declared as if asked, which he hadn’t been, “Bella left before the theft—or loss—occurred, so she could contribute nothing to the investigation.”

“Oh, so there was an investigation?” inquired Mrs. Risk.

“I conducted one,” Solly stated. “And as I was saying, Bella, having lived abroad for years in extremely reduced circumstances, had no idea that such a necklace even existed until reading about the loss in the newspapers.” He patted Bella’s hand. “Frankly, I feel sure it’ll turn up and we’ll all be surprised at the simple explanation.” That, his expression seemed to say, was that.

He obviously intended to keep both his fiancé and his client. I imagine the two years Pearl had taken off from her career had squashed his financial position pretty drastically, since Pearl had been his only client for the last ten years of his professional life. I’m repeating Mrs. Risk’s information, of course.

Pearl nodded rapidly. “I agree with Solly, the necklace will turn up. That’s why I didn’t call in the police. I’m not worried, really.”

“Then I propose another toast,” said Mrs. Risk. A subject change, I hoped to God. We obediently lifted our champagne flutes.

“To both Pearls’ comebacks,” she pronounced. “To the Borscht Pearl necklace’s restoration to its rightful owner, who treasures it in memory of the beloved husband who gave it to her. And to the living Borscht Pearl’s restoration to her fans, who treasure her as much.”

A mixed bag, but it ended well, so I drank to it, as did the others.

Pearl’s eyes misted. “From your lips to God’s ears,” she said firmly.

The dinner itself went more smoothly. Toasting occurred now and then, like celebratory hiccups while we ate, and the mood became jollier and jollier. Even Bella began saying bright little nothings at which everyone giggled.

“How do you like being Pearl’s accountant?” I asked Stephen Graham, who sat to my left, and who I’d begun calling Stevie an hour ago.

He beamed. “Love it. I’m star struck, I admit it. Six months ago, when she agreed to let me take over her account—”

Melissa, his wife, interrupted, “Steve was hired by Marvin only a few weeks before the heart attack. The idea was that Steve would assist Marvin with his accounts and eventually work his way up to full partnership. Then, of course, you know.” She twitched a khaki wool covered shoulder.

Mystified, I ventured a shake of my head.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Melissa asked. “Marvin died. Heart attack.”

“Oh.”

“And so you see, months before Steve had time to learn the accounts or how the firm was run or anything, he was suddenly put into a position of scrambling to get up to speed.” She beamed. Obviously, she had no qualms that he was perfectly capable of ‘getting up to speed.’ “It’s kind of complicated, but my Steve will end up owning the firm one day.”

“Congratulations,” I told Steve, who hadn’t been allowed to comment. “And Pearl was this Marvin’s client before he died?”

“Marvin Steiner. Oh, yeah. Since the beginning of her career,” she said.

“They must have been old friends.”

“For years! It was really hard on her, him dying like that. Just when she started to get herself together from her own widowhood. Her husband died from a heart problem of some kind, too, you know.” She clutched at her husband’s hand as if to ward off any such evil happening to him.

I was happy to see that at least some married couples had a good thing going.

Then the dishes were cleared and out came Solly’s surprise.

The owner of the restaurant himself wheeled in the tray, dodging artfully between tables so as to garner the most attention possible. He skidded precariously to a halt beside us.

With a flourish he unveiled the pièce de résistance. It was a cake, iced with jewel-bright festivity to the point of causing retina damage. The cake was topped with a glittering figure with arms held out, Pearl fashion, to a tiny bride and groom. A tableau of Pearl blessing Bella and Solly’s wedding? Spun sugar tiny bells—or maybe they were stage lights—arched coyly over the cake and supported a lacy chupah over the bridal couple.

I could only blink. Tacky to the extreme, but it was Pearl’s warm kind of kitschy—tacky. I glanced at her to see if she’d been a co-conspirator. However, she looked as stunned as I, so it must have been all Solly’s doing.

We heaped upon Solly the praise and admiration that he obviously expected and he beamed as if he’d baked it himself.

Taking an ornate antique gold pillbox from his breast pocket, Solly offered around saccharin tablets for our coffee, which all refused except Pearl, who took one. He tapped a few into his own steaming coffee. I’d seen him do this routine with the saccharin at Pearl’s party and someone there had explained it to me. He had a dislike for other sweeteners that had become something of an affectation, and his love of fancy pill boxes was well-known. We all examined this latest acquisition with admiration before he tucked it back into his pocket.

Bella stood to cut the cake amid a chorus of cheers. I cringed to think what purple and fuchsia glitter would taste like, but it was actually delicious.

The merriment was high, and so was I. Overabundant champagne and sentiment made us feel incredibly devoted to each other, friends to the death. I began perspiring in the crowded room. I fanned myself with my napkin and laughed at Pearl’s and Mrs. Risk’s teasing comments about Solly’s coming lifestyle adjustments. Even silent Ilene Fox giggled. I noticed sweat breaking out on Solly’s face, but laughed only the harder at his discomfiture. It all seemed so happy.

When Solly began frowning and rubbing at his chest I hardly noticed. Pearl had begun a routine about in-laws when Solly tilted over against Bella. He ignored her protests and began saying something like “Eeeeehhh,” with his teeth clenched. I figured Solly’d had too much to drink, a condition with which I could sympathize.

Melissa edged further down the banquette to give Bella more room. Stephen had just leaned over the table to assist Solly when Bella shifted, accidentally upsetting Solly’s balance. He fell crashing to the floor at our feet.

Mrs. Risk leaped out of her chair and pulled the table out of the way, upsetting glasses and provoking protests from our neighbors. Dr. Savoia squeezed in to crouch at Solly’s side.

“Call 911, Rachel,” he ordered in his soft voice. “Say a possible heart attack.” While he spoke he pulled at Solly’s tie and shirt buttons. Solly no longer made any noise, but frightened me all the more with the agonized expression on his face. Dr. Savoia began giving Solly mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

The people at surrounding tables stared, horrified. Pearl, face as white as our tablecloth, braced herself rigidly against Mrs. Risk’s chair.

Bella made a noise like a sobbing inhale that drew Pearl’s attention. For a long minute, they stared at each other. Pearl was the first to turn away.

The ambulance arrived.

As I tended the distraught Bella, Mrs. Risk took a moment to examine Pearl closely, I noticed to my relief. One heart attack was already one too many.

As the ambulance pulled away, carrying Dr. Savoia and Bella with Solly, the spinning wheels dug trenches in the gravel parking lot. The rest of us piled into our own cars to follow.

Before Solly could make it to the hospital, he died.

T
HE NEXT MORNING IN
Mrs. Risk’s cottage, it was as if the weather had taken it upon itself to foreshadow events to come.

The raw November wind was thrashing the remaining leaves from the oaks to fling against the leaded windowpanes. High above her roof, they wound skeletal arms around each other and swayed as if consoling each other for Solly’s dying.

As always, except on the hottest summer days, a comforting fire crackled from the depths of her fireplace and today I huddled close. Her cottage is small, four rooms on the ground floor if you don’t count closets and pantries and such. A brick fireplace is the heart of the house, with four arched hearths, each opening into a different room.

Because her beamed plaster ceilings were so low, she’d removed nearly all the interior walls to cure the cramped feel of the place. The living room took the most space, then wound to the right around the corner into the dining room, which itself blended around the corner into the kitchen. The only walls remaining set apart her bedroom and bath, finishing the rectangle. The effect, with the low ceiling, was one of cozy, but unconfining space, although she’d horrified the historical society with her ‘depravations.’ The place was two hundred years old, give or take a harvest.

The age-smoothed grey stone floor, icy in winter and cool in summer, had sunken into gentle slopes over the decades. She softened it with rugs she changed from fat cushy wool in winter to thinner cotton in summer. In winter I often burrow my feet into the deep hearthrug, battling Jezebel for the warmest spots. We both feel the cold too much, and Jezebel doesn’t share well.

Within the large kitchen pantry, narrow splintery steps led down to a cellar of reinforced dirt walls which she claimed naturally maintained the ideal humidity and temperature to safely store her precious wine. Those yards of dust-hung spider webs must help, too, or I’m sure she’d remove them. I stay upstairs. Bundles of drying herbs from her garden hang from nails in the low beams, subtly perfuming the air. And everywhere on the white plastered walls, implements she used for gardening, cooking, and weaving doubled as wall decorations.

Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t into ‘cottage’ decor. Her kitchen appliances, for example, were high-tech. It’s just that her taste runs to comfort and practicality. If she liked something, she put it wherever struck her fancy, making a jumbled but warm and welcoming effect.

A second floor covers the back half of the house. The enclosed undersized, drunkenly tilted stairs peep enticingly at me from their corner of the living room whenever I sit in the chair to the right of the fireplace. I’ve asked her what’s up there, but she never answers. Which is why I’ve made a habit of sitting in the left hand chair, putting my back to temptation. I refuse to embarrass myself by sneaking up uninvited (she’d catch me for sure), and I refuse to let my curiosity drive me crazy. She reads incessantly. It’s probably her library.

Well, I can understand a desire for privacy, if that’s what it’s all about. I’m a little the same way. So, she makes things seem more mysterious than they are. Where’s the harm in that?

I hadn’t left St. Boniface Hospital until the early morning hours. Extra sleep would have been welcome this morning, but hadn’t come. I still had plenty of time since despite being Saturday, my shop wasn’t due to open until noon. Even the hardiest tourists had abandoned Wyndham by now, forcing us shopkeepers into our annual out-of-season war against overhead. The goal in winter becomes to survive to do business again the coming summer.

Since I was awake anyway, and knew Mrs. Risk sleeps little when something’s going on, I’d come early today. It’s a daily routine for me to share her pot of herbal tea while I read the morning paper—a task Mrs. Risk has urged on me since last year. Reading the newspaper, I mean. The paper’s okay. I’d rather read adventure stories, but she thinks it’s important I learn about the world.

See, my parents had pretty much left me to raise myself, which led to what Mrs. Risk calls ‘unique results,’ meaning I’m ignorant, let’s face it. Although she never openly said so, from that day of our first talk at her house, Mrs. Risk set out to teach me things she thinks I should know. Areas she feels were neglected as I grew up, I guess.

When I caught on to her game, was I furious! How dare she decide what’s best for me, I raged to myself at the time. Of course, back then, I hadn’t yet realized that interfering is practically her career.

But in the middle of my rage, I considered the frustrations I’d run into in my life already, and I wasn’t even that old. That cooled me down. After more thought, I decided to see how it went. Maybe some of the stuff she taught might come in handy someday. So, unless she stays on the podium too long, I listen. About the weather, about herbs. About fish, banking. Everything! What keeps me hungry for more is how she ties everything to human behavior.

People. When it comes to people, I’m stumped. And I don’t like feeling stumped. Exquisitely intricate beings, she describes us humans, ‘exhibiting limitless variations of personality, endless potential for evil and good.’ So far I believe her. Especially the evil part.

Anyway, that morning, dull from shock, lack of sleep, and a hangover, I searched for mention of last night’s disaster. While I scanned the columns, I rattled the papers at Jezebel, hoping to annoy her into finding a quieter napping place. I wanted that warm spot on the rug. But Jezebel merely shot me a withering glare and stayed.

I found it on page three of the Long Island paper. I read aloud: “ ‘Mr. Solomon Mansheim, former Manhattan theatrical agent and long time personal manager of well-known comedienne Ms. Velma ‘Pearl’ Schrafft, arrived dead at St. Boniface Hospital in Wyndham-By-The-Sea at twelve twenty a.m. after being rushed by ambulance from a dinner at the restaurant, Bon Nuit—’,” I stumbled over the French pronunciation and she corrected me, “ ‘—Bistro in Harbor Glen, Long Island. He had been dining in the company of his client, his client’s sister Mrs. Bella Fischmann, Ms. Ilene Fox, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Graham, Dr. and Mrs. Antonio Savoia, Ms. Leeann Horstley, and two others.’ ”

I looked up. “They left out our names. Why?”

Mrs. Risk grimaced. “I have an agreement with the publisher. His staff never, without prior permission, prints my name. I cannot abide being mentioned in newspapers. Last evening I insisted the same privilege be extended to you.”

My surprise at this news was so great that I paused too long, and she prodded me to finish.