Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

An Alibi eBook Original

Copyright © 2014 by Mark Reutlinger

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Alibi, an imprint of Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

ALIBI is a registered trademark and the ALIBI colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eBook ISBN 9780553393392

Cover art and design: Scott Biel

www.readalibi.com

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Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Dedication

Acknowledgments

About the Author

“The lore has not died out of the world…that soup will cure any hurt or illness and is no bad thing to have for the funeral either.”

—John Steinbeck, East of Eden

“Only the pure in heart can make a good soup.”

—Ludwig von Beethoven

1

Our Mrs. Kaplan is not what you would call competitive. Now her late husband, Sam (of blessed memory), he was competitive. As a young man he was a terrific tennis player, and he never tired of telling us about how he once beat a world champion, even if at the time Sam was sixteen and the champion was only twelve and had not yet hit his stride. He also told us how he won Mrs. K’s hand by outmaneuvering two shlemiels who were trying to win her first. But Mrs. K? Even at bridge she plays only for fun, never to win, and don’t think that doesn’t drive her partners crazy. Sometimes I tell her, “Rose,” I say, “even if you don’t care whether you win or not, would it kill you to try a little harder for your partner’s sake, at least when I’m your partner?”

“It is just a game, Ida,” she says.

Maybe to her.

Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this is so you’ll understand about the matzoh balls. Other people might want to be the champion at hitting baseballs, throwing footballs, or bouncing basketballs, but Mrs. K only cares to be the best at one thing, and that is matzoh balls. Not throwing or hitting them, of course, just making them. For matzoh ball soup, that is. Here at the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors, we take our matzoh ball soup very seriously, especially on Pesach—that’s maybe Passover to you—and no one makes matzoh balls like Mrs. K. If you have ever had the pleasure, you know that a matzoh ball can be light and fluffy like a cloud or dense and heavy like a rock. The first kind falls apart in the soup before you can eat it, and the second sits in your stomach like a pig on a plate, going nowhere. Ah, but Mrs. K, she makes a wonderful matzoh ball, light enough to digest without dissolving like an Alka-Seltzer. What’s not to like?

So every year just before Pesach, we have a little contest here at the Home. Everyone who thinks they make a nice matzoh ball soup is given a chance to make a batch for the rest of us to try, and then we vote (a secret vote, of course—we have to live with each other afterward, no?) on whose is the best, and the winner makes the matzoh ball soup for our seder that year. It may seem to you that it’s no great prize to have to do all that work and make matzoh balls for almost a hundred residents, but I assure you it is a great honor; and besides, what else have we to do here at the Home that is so important we can’t find time to prepare a few matzoh balls? As you might have guessed, Mrs. K almost always wins this contest—she is a real matzoh ball maven—and it is therefore her matzoh ball soup that usually is served at the Home on Pesach. This year was no exception, and Mrs. K again had the good fortune to be the winner. As you will see, however, the devil should have such good fortune.

2

It was the first night of Pesach. We were all seated in the dining room, beginning our seder, everyone in their best suits and frocks. Only on the High Holidays—Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur—and at funerals does everyone get so gussied up as at Pesach. (And for whom should we?) There were present most of the hundred or so residents of the Home, all except those few whose families take them home for Pesach. There were also some family members who like to come to our seder instead of making their own, either because it saves Bubbe or Zeyde the need to travel to them, or because they’d rather let the Home prepare their dinner and they just show up to eat. (Some of them, we don’t see all the rest of the year.) Mr. Walberg’s son and grandson were there, as were Mrs. Golson’s two children with her three grandchildren—one child has one and the other has two, or maybe it’s the other way around.

The dining hall was glistening and laid out like for a big party. Every corner was cleaned, every carpet shampooed. There were decorations painted by the grandchildren of the residents hanging all around. It’s an old joke that every Jewish holiday has the same theme: “They tried to kill us, they failed, now let’s eat.” Okay, so maybe on Yom Kippur we skip the last part and we fast, but we make up for it on Pesach, a holiday where eating is not only allowed, but required.

The tables in the dining hall were all covered with white linen, and each had a plate in the center with all of the symbols of Pesach, such as the maror, a bitter herb to remind us we were slaves in Egypt; the karpas, a green vegetable that is dipped in salt water for the tears we were crying as slaves; the charoset (walnuts and apples and cinnamon—my favorite), which stands for the mortar that we used to build the pyramids for that momzer the pharaoh; and, of course, the three matzohs, the unleavened bread—because who has time to let bread rise when they’re busy fleeing from Egypt?

There was one long table near the kitchen end of the room, for the rabbi and other special guests. The rest of us were seated at the square tables that seat four each, as usual, although at some there were fewer tonight, and at others they pushed two tables together to accommodate a big family. Mrs. K and I always share a table with Mr. Isaac Taubman and Karen Friedlander, both of whom are most pleasant to sit with. Taubman, a big shot in the military in his time, still makes a handsome and dignified figure, with his dark blue eyes and combed back silver-gray hair (of which he still has a great deal, which for a man in his seventies is unusual). Karen is as quiet as a mouse, although she would be a very tall and thin mouse. As you will imagine, Taubman generally does much of the talking at our table, and Karen does much of the listening.

Daisy Goldfarb, who I think likes to come late on purpose just to make a fancy-schmancy entrance, arrived just after Mrs. K and I were seated. Her hair, which is blond (no doubt with a little help from Mrs. Clairol), was beautifully styled, as she had surely visited the hairdresser earlier in the day. She always dresses elegantly, as she can afford to, and we said hello to her as she went to her table.

Bertha Finkelstein, who had moved to the Home only about two years ago, came in a few minutes later. Like Karen Friedlander, Bertha was a quiet soul, but there the resemblance ended. Bertha could afford to lose several pounds, and she never walked very well because of her swollen ankles, for which she wore special stockings. Unlike Daisy Goldfarb, Bertha was not dressed fancy, and she would not think of coming late on purpose, being extremely particular about her manners and what they call the social graces.

“Bertha is wearing such a pretty blue dress,” I said to Mrs. K, who nodded in agreement.

“I see she is sitting by herself,” Mrs. K said. “I do not think her usual table companions are at the seder.”

“She probably doesn’t mind,” I replied. “She’s one of those people who likes to keep to herself—she’s not what you call the life of the party, is she?”

“No. I suppose that’s why she chooses to sit at a table in the back corner of the dining room, where it’s almost private.”

It’s quite a contrast between her and Daisy Goldfarb.

As I was unfolding my napkin I got a nudge from Mrs. K and looked up. She smiled and nodded her head toward the waitress who was just passing, whose name was Mary. She is a slight, unkempt woman of somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five—it’s difficult to tell—who always looks like she has just lost a close relative. Mary is what you call a shlimazel: very lucky, but all of it is bad. She’s a nice person and means well, but if there’s a leak in the roof, you can be sure it is only on Mary’s head that it will be raining.

Rabbi Rosen, from the local Conservative congregation, was presiding in the front of the dining room. (“Conservative” means for Jews somewhere in the middle between Reform and Orthodox. Like a Presbyterian for the goyim, someone once told me. I wouldn’t know.) Rabbi Rosen is a fine young man. Only two years out of rabbinical school and already he has his own congregation—I should be so lucky with my Morty. He has a small mustache and beard, which I think he wears to make himself look older and wiser when he stands in front of a congregation that usually has so many people two or three times his age.

He was just finishing the blessings before the meal: He thanked God for helping us get out of Egypt, and he answered the four questions about why Pesach is different from other nights, which are traditionally asked by the youngest person present. Among the residents that would be Mr. Lowenstein, who is a mere sixty-three. (Mrs. K and I are both in our middle seventies, and although my son Morty keeps telling me seventy is “the new fifty,” whatever that means, I don’t think it counts at a seder.) But as I mentioned, many children and grandchildren were present, and so the four questions were asked, in Hebrew yet, by little Danny Walberg, only seven and such a bright boy.

Fortunately, Rabbi Rosen was smart enough to know that for a crowd like this, shorter is better, and soon we were beginning to eat. After the gefilte fish (chopped carp—if you put on lots of horseradish, it tastes better) came the matzoh ball soup, much anticipated by all, because we knew who had made it and how good it would be. The bowls of soup were served by the kitchen staff, with a few extra helpers brought in for the occasion, all in nice starched white uniforms.

Just after the soup was served, a man I did not recognize came over and sat down next to Bertha Finkelstein and appeared to say something to her. A minute later, he stood up and I could see he was wearing one of those backwards collars, and I assumed he must be the new priest from the nearby Catholic church. Sometimes the goyim join us at our seder in order to be, how do they say it, “ecumenical,” which is nice. I did not see where he went after leaving Bertha’s table.

Mr. Taubman’s son Benjamin, who is a policeman, came in a little later with his wife and daughter. He was dressed in his nice blue uniform with the brass buttons, because he was on duty, which was why he got there late and couldn’t stay.

“It’s too bad that the child has missed the telling of the Passover story,” I said to Mrs. K.

“Yes,” she replied, “but as it is the exact same story that is told every Passover, she will have plenty of chances to hear it in the future.”

At least she didn’t miss Mrs. K’s matzoh ball soup!

Anyway, Benjamin gave his father a hug and saw his family was settled before he left. Oy, such a handsome young fellow he was in his uniform—a real mensch. But such a shame they made him work on Pesach. I would bet his captain doesn’t work on Easter! As I later remarked to Mrs. K, it’s strange that I still get a little nervous shock when I see a policeman, even a nice boy like Benjamin, coming my way. It is many years since I left the old country, but somewhere inside my head there must still be the memories of those times when the police would come only to make trouble. It was to escape these things that our family came to America.

Benjamin stopped and said hello to me and Mrs. K on his way out, and to be truthful I was embarrassed at feeling nervous, even for a few seconds, when I first saw him.

As Benjamin was leaving, the rabbi tinkled his water glass with a spoon and asked for quiet. He began to speak, and he turned toward Mrs. K, so I think he was going to thank her for making the prize-winning soup, when there was a loud noise from the front of the room, like china breaking. We all looked to see what had happened. Perhaps someone had fainted or fallen ill. That certainly happens from time to time. Then we heard shouting—not the kind when there is an emergency, but the angry kind like when people are arguing. There was a lot of commotion as people toward the back tried to see for themselves what was happening in the front. There were more angry words as other voices joined in, mostly in Yiddish and none at all polite. It was quite a hoo-ha.

Finally the rabbi, accompanied by Benjamin, who had not yet left the building and had come back into the dining room to see what was happening, went over to where the commotion seemed to be coming from, and after a minute or two there was silence again. The rabbi walked back over to the head table, while the janitor made his way forward with a mop and pail. I caught Benjamin’s attention as he again headed for the door and asked him what caused the hubbub.

“Apparently one of the servers knocked over a stack of plates and spilled soup on the tablecloth. Then one of the residents at that table—I think it was Mrs. Levin, that bossy lady my dad can’t stand—began to berate the poor woman who caused the accident, and another resident whose name I didn’t catch took the server’s side, and they began to argue and, well, the rest you know. The rabbi reminded them that we are supposed to be celebrating Passover, not replaying the Six-Day War.” He gave us a nice smile and went on his way.

Certainly we had no doubt which server knocked over the china. It was the shlimazel Mary I already mentioned to you. And we were not surprised that Mrs. Levin was the one butting her nose into it, like usual. I for one was glad someone had defended poor Mary. It is not as if it was Mrs. Levin’s china that Mary had broken. Anyway, when there is trouble, what better combination to sort it out than a policeman and a rabbi?

Finally everyone went back to their tables and their soup, which fortunately came from the kitchen very hot and was still quite warm. The rabbi completed his brief remarks thanking Mrs. K, who was as usual both pleased and a bit uncomfortable, as she does not like to be the center of attention. There was a hum of low voices and then the polite slurping of soup, not to mention quite a bit of much louder slurping. It seems to me the older we get, the louder we eat. And everything seemed fine until someone behind us shouted, “Oh, my God, Mrs. Finkelstein has fallen into her soup!” And indeed, when we all looked over to where Bertha Finkelstein was sitting by herself, she was definitely lying face down in her soup bowl.

And while it is true that at the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors not everyone is a neat and tidy eater, we knew that no one of Bertha Finkelstein’s impeccable manners would think of eating her soup—much less Mrs. K’s delicious matzoh ball soup—from the bottom up, so to speak. There was definitely something very wrong with poor Mrs. Finkelstein.

3

What was wrong with Mrs. Finkelstein was that she was dead.

Now I should explain, for the benefit of those who might not have much experience with establishments like the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors, that one of our residents suddenly becoming deceased would not be such a strange or, unfortunately, uncommon occurrence. While we know that death comes to us all at our appointed time, the appointments for the residents of the Home are necessarily somewhat sooner and shorter than for the general population. Nevertheless, this was the first time that a resident, and especially one with Bertha Finkelstein’s sense of propriety, had departed by way of their bowl of chicken soup, so you can imagine that it caused more than the usual stir. In fact, everything was completely fartutst!

Poor Bertha Finkelstein, who was now as far as it was possible to be from the life of the party, was carried back to her room by members of the staff, and after a decent interval the seder resumed, although the humming and the slurping were decidedly subdued. Dr. Arnold Menschyk, the physician on call at the Home, was summoned immediately, as was Mr. Pupik, the general manager, who had chosen to have dinner at his home, which was typical of the shlemiel, but that is another story. They looked like Mutt and Jeff standing there: tall skinny Dr. Menschyk, with the frizzy hair going in all directions, and short, dumpy Mr. Pupik, with hardly any hair at all.

Now Pupik is one who likes to run what he calls a “tight ship,” and he dislikes anything that upsets the orderly flow of activities at the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors. And a resident who expires in her soup is just the sort of thing that he might call “disorderly.” But there it was, and so he and Dr. Menschyk disappeared into Bertha Finkelstein’s room, closed the door, and left us to continue without her. And to be honest, some of the residents left their soup uneaten, just in case it might have figured in Bertha’s demise. This did not go unnoticed by Mrs. K, and she was a little hurt by the implication regarding her matzoh ball soup.

Can you blame her?

4

It was almost an hour later, when we had about finished our seder—and the macaroons were delicious, as usual; Mrs. Freedman puts just the right amount of almond extract in them—that Dr. Menschyk and Mr. Pupik came out from Bertha Finkelstein’s room, looking even more upset than when they went in, and locking the door behind them. Pupik, whose round, puffy face frequently turns bright red when he is upset, looked like he was made up to play a tomato, his face was so red as he passed us. Mrs. K, in whose soup after all it was that Bertha Finkelstein expired, tried to get some information from them, but they waved her off and hurried into Pupik’s office and shut the door. Clearly they were discussing poor Bertha’s death, but what they were saying no one had any idea.

—

And that was all that we heard or found out about it for the moment. Meanwhile life, it went on, as they say, at least for the rest of us. Among us we naturally discussed what had happened and we decided that it was a heart attack that did in poor Bertha. What else could it be? Of course, there are always a few smarty-pants “experts” who have an opinion that is different from what everyone else thinks, but as usual we ignored them. It was a heart attack.

The day after the seder, which was also the second day of Pesach, we all were recovering not only from the disturbing event that we witnessed, but also from the seder itself. At our age, we are not used to eating all that heavy food, especially all the matzoh (which after all is just flour and water, also a recipe for paste) and eggs and shmaltz (chicken fat). So at the Home we didn’t observe a second seder that evening, even though some of us always did when we were younger. It’s traditional that there is a second seder, because a long time ago the beginning of the holiday was determined by when there was the new moon, and that could be decided only by the authorities in Jerusalem. Jews in the diaspora—in the rest of the world, like here in America, but back then it was places like Babylon—might miss the seder because of how long it took to get the official word from Jerusalem. So a second seder was held to make sure everyone had a chance to celebrate. But for us, once is more than enough. Thank goodness for the Metamucil.

We therefore don’t usually get around much on the second day of Pesach, and the atmosphere at the Home is very subdued. It’s not until the following day that we generally get back into our usual routines, such as they are, and life returns more to normal. As I said earlier, death is not a stranger to the Home, and we try to take it in stride.

But this time the second day of Pesach, being the day after Bertha Finkelstein’s death, was far from quiet and subdued, at least for me and Mrs. K. In fact, it was on this day that life at the Home became totally farblondzhet—all mixed up.

The day started out innocently enough. Breakfast was over and Mrs. K and I were sitting quietly in the lounge and reading. Mrs. K was reading a book, a mystery story like usual, and I was reading the newspaper. It seems always to be filled with only bad news, but should there ever be any good news, I do not want to miss it. I like to sit in the lounge, which is large and bright, with windows looking out onto the little garden in back, and sofas and stuffed chairs and potted plants sprinkled all around.

It is almost like when I and my David (of blessed memory) would sit together in the living room of our house, enjoying each other’s company without having to say a word…

Anyway, Mrs. K and I were just about to get up and get some tea, when once again we saw Dr. Menschyk scurry into Mr. Pupik’s office and close the door.

“I wonder what that means,” I said to Mrs. K. She only shrugged her shoulders a little and went back to her reading. Menschyk and Pupik were in there a very long time. Finally the two men came out of Pupik’s office and entered the lounge. Mrs. K and I were sitting on a sofa in the back corner, the quiet part of the lounge, when Mr. Pupik looked over at us and pointed in our direction. I looked around and could not see anyone else to whom this pointing might apply, so I assumed it was us. And sure enough, a moment later this Pupik-Menschyk duet made its way over to us.

Pupik looked at me and then at Mrs. K, and he said to her, “Mrs. Kaplan, would you mind if we spoke with you in private for a few minutes?” He was sort of smiling in an unpleasant kind of way, as if he had a bad case of heartburn and was trying to pretend he did not. He is, as I maybe have mentioned, a small, balding man of about fifty with beady eyes and the general look of a dyspeptic weasel at the best of times, and these were clearly not the best of times. Mrs. K looked at me as if she did not like this suggestion at all, and she said to Pupik, “It is all right if Ida comes along too?” The two men looked at each other, Menschyk shook his head just a little, and Pupik turned back to Mrs. K and said, “I’m sorry, but we’d like to speak with just you, if you don’t mind.”

I got the distinct impression it really didn’t matter whether she minded or not. Mrs. K no doubt had the same feeling. She looked at me and shrugged and stood up. The men indicated they would be going to Pupik’s office, and that is what they did. So I did not get any more of the story until maybe fifteen minutes later, when the office door opened and Mrs. K, looking almost as bad as poor Bertha Finkelstein, walked back over to where I was and sat down.

Now Rose Kaplan is one of the strongest and most self-assured women I know, and in her seventy-plus years, she has lost little of the sharp mind and boundless energy I remember from when we were much younger. She is also what you would call a person of imposing appearance, tall and perhaps a bit on the zaftig side—a well-endowed lady you might say—and I am sure she was quite a pretty young woman in her time. But now she was looking anything but energetic or imposing, and on her face was a combination of concern and annoyance that I had seldom if ever seen. “Oy vey,” she said when she reached me and sat down heavily. “This I need like I need a loch in kop—a hole in the head!”

5

Mrs. K looked very much like she needed a nice cup of tea. In fact, she looked like she needed something a lot stronger than tea, although I know that she rarely has even a schnapps after dinner, much less anything more potent. I got her a cup of strong tea, and one for me, and after a few sips she sighed, took my hand in hers, and said to me, “Let me tell you what they said. You won’t believe it.” But of course I would believe anything Mrs. K tells me—in the more than twenty years we have known each other we have been through some pretty unbelievable adventures that I am quite certain really happened. “So tell me already,” I replied. And she did.

“After we went into Pupik’s office, he indicated I should sit down at that round table he has in the outer room. So I sat down, and he and Menschyk sat opposite me.”

“It sounds like it was two against one,” I commented. “I wish I had been there to sit next to you.”

“I wish you were too, Ida, but you heard what they said when I asked.”

“Yes. So what happened then?”

“Well, first off they showed me a diamond earring, which I recognized as one of Daisy Goldfarb’s earrings—you know, the ones her son Barry bought her last year for her seventy-fifth birthday and she loves to show off whenever she has the chance. They asked me if I recognized it, and of course I do and I say so. This seemed to be news to them, because Pupik made a note on a pad he was holding. So then I asked them what this is about and what happened to Mrs. Finkelstein and what Daisy’s earring has to do with it, and they tell me—well, Pupik tells me—that Bertha did not have a heart attack, like we all assumed, and she did not drown in her soup, and she was not poisoned by it (thanks be to God). I mean, that someone should have died from something I cooked, even to think such a terrible thing…”

“Nu, so what did she die from?” I prompted Mrs. K, for I was getting quite anxious to hear and Mrs. K was getting all worked up and taking her time getting to the point. All of which was unlike her.

“I am coming to that,” she replied, after sipping some tea and regaining her composure. “So, Pupik, he says that when Dr. Menschyk examined the body, something did not look right to him. It did not look like Bertha had a heart attack. He is a smart man, Menschyk, and he does not miss much. So this he told to Pupik, and to make short a long story, it turns out that Bertha—what is the fancy term?—‘aspirated,’ I think it is, a ‘foreign object.’ In other words, she choked to death on something.”

I did not understand. “She choked on something? But if Bertha was choking, wouldn’t we have heard her? Wouldn’t someone have noticed? Given her the what-do-you-call-it, the Heinrich Maneuver?”

Mrs. K smiled and shook her head. “I think you mean ‘Heimlich.’ No, apparently it happened at about the time when Mary knocked over those dishes. Not only did the commotion drown out any sounds Bertha may have made, but everyone’s attention was on what was happening in the front of the dining room, and not on what was happening in the back corner.”

This seemed to make some sense. If it was true, Bertha had chosen an unfortunate time to choke. They are right when they say timing is everything.

“So what happened next?” I was anxious to get to the part that had so upset Mrs. K. So far it was a sad story, but no more than it was when we were thinking Bertha had had a heart attack.

“What happened next is Pupik then holds up Daisy’s earring again and he says, ‘She choked on this earring, which we believe was in the soup or one of the matzoh balls. Your soup or one of your matzoh balls’—he emphasizes the ‘your’—and then he puts it down and he just looks at me, and they both look at me, as if I could explain how this could happen. But I am just trying to take in what they said, and I am having a lot of trouble in the taking.”

Mrs. K paused to sip some more tea, and to sigh, and to sip some more tea. I was more patient now, because I was also trying to take in what she had said, and it was not easy. I could remember how proudly Daisy Goldfarb showed off those earrings to all of us at dinner after we sang “Happy Birthday” to her. I must admit some of us were just a bissel jealous of her; in fact I think it was Bertha Finkelstein herself who remarked to me that she wished she had earrings like those. And I am thinking how ironic it is that Bertha, who never had or could afford fancy earrings, did get one of them after all, in a meshugge sort of way. They say be careful what you wish for.

“Mr. Pupik,” Mrs. K finally continued, “he asked me if I could explain how one of Daisy Goldfarb’s diamond earrings came to be in my matzoh ball soup. Well, of course I cannot explain it, I don’t even believe it, but he seemed to be convinced of it.”

“That Pupik would believe the worst of anyone,” I replied. “Why someone who seems not to like people would take a job like his I cannot imagine. But did you ask him how Bertha Finkelstein could have an earring in her soup and not notice?”

“Actually, I was going to ask just that question, but Menschyk, he beat me to it. He pointed out that being diamonds, and not very big ones at that, they would not necessarily show up if dropped into soup or concealed in a matzoh ball; and Pupik adds that poor Bertha had bad eyesight.”

“Hmmm. I suppose…”

“Anyway, at that point I asked them if that is all they want. Pupik looked at Menschyk and then says, ‘Yes, for the moment,’ whatever that means, and while I was standing up, Pupik asked me, very politely mind you, ‘By the way, Mrs. Kaplan, do you happen to know where the other earring is that matches this one?’ I was in no mood to play guessing games, so I replied, ‘No, where?’ Maybe he was going to tell me it was in the gefilte fish. But no, he just says, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Kaplan,’ and he holds the door for me. The interview, he clearly is saying, is over.”

6

“So just between you and me and the teacup, Rose,” I said, “what do you think happened? I mean, if Daisy’s earring was really in the soup, how do you suppose it got there?”

She stared into the cup for a while like she was reading the tea leaves, which maybe she was. Just then Mrs. Bissela, who is a real yenta and inserts herself into everyone’s business, wandered past. You can be sure that if what you say is overheard by Mrs. Bissela, it will be public knowledge before you can say “Sha!” It’s a lot like talking on a party line telephone in the old days, or maybe it’s like saying something on that Facebook thing everyone is talking on lately. (About the Facebook I wouldn’t know, as I am what my son Morty calls a “very low-tech” person, whatever that means.)

Anyway, Mrs. K immediately changed the subject and inquired, “How is Morty?” As if she didn’t know. But I understood and I answered he was fine, and we went on in this manner until Mrs. Bissela, finding nothing interesting in our conversation, continued on her way.

“Nu,” I prompted Mrs. K, “so how do you think the earring got there already?”

“Well,” she said, “I am trying to think like Sherlock Holmes, whom as you know I admire very much from his books.” And indeed Mrs. K has probably read every story there is about Mr. Sherlock Holmes, some more than once. “So let us look at what we know for certain, and the possibilities about what we do not know.”

She consulted her little notepad and checked things off as she said them.

“We know that I won the contest and made the matzoh ball soup,” she said, “and that no one else is allowed in the kitchen when I am making the soup, in order that my recipe will stay a secret.”

I nod in agreement. “And so what are the possibilities for how the earring enters the soup?”

“First, and the easiest answer, I could have been wearing it and it fell off my ear while I was making the matzoh balls or the soup.”

“I suppose…”

“Only I wasn’t wearing Daisy’s earring, or any other earring, as anyone who saw me knows, so we can eliminate possibility number one.”

“No possibility number one,” I agreed.

“The next possibility,” she continued, “is that Daisy’s earring was already in the matzoh meal or the eggs or the onions when I mixed them together. But while I did start with an open box of matzoh meal that I found in the cupboard, and I cannot say I looked inside the box for an earring, like it was a prize from Cracker Jake or whatever it is called, this seems to me unlikely, unless Daisy was using that box before me, and while wearing her earrings.”

“And we both know,” I said, “that Daisy has not cooked anything more complicated than water for tea since she got here, and if she did she certainly would not be wearing those precious earrings of hers, which she wears only when she is all dressed up and wants to show them off. To whom would she show them in the kitchen, the man on the Quaker Oats box?”

“Exactly. So what is left? I suppose it is possible—just barely possible—that the earring fell into the soup as it was being served. But I don’t remember whether Daisy was wearing those earrings at the seder, and if she was I don’t think she was wandering around looking into soup bowls and dropping her earrings into them.”

I had to agree with this also. “So where does that leave us?”

“I don’t know about you, Ida, but it is leaving me with such a headache, I cannot think any longer. I am going to bed.”

And that is exactly what she did. With no further information being available, I did the same.

7

Things got much more complicated the next morning. Mrs. Kaplan and I were just finishing our breakfast—a little yogurt and some fruit for me, an egg and some matzoh for her—and still trying to imagine how that earring ended up choking Mrs. Finkelstein, when two men we had never seen before entered the room. One of them was tall and good-looking and built like that nice Inspector Dalgliesh who used to be on television. He had a pleasant, friendly expression on his face, like he was glad to be here and was just looking around in case his mother might want to move to such a place sometime. The other looked more like that Columbo person who also used to be on television—only shorter and needing more ironing, if you know what I mean. He had thinning hair that he apparently forgot to comb and seemed sort of nervous, looking around like he expected someone to jump out at him and say “Boo!” any second. I nudged Mrs. K and indicated she should look in their direction, which she did. Any time a stranger comes in, it is an occasion for wondering who they might be; two strangers—especially two such unusual strangers—required twice the wondering.

As we watched, short and wrinkled went over to Mrs. Katz, one of the residents, and asked her a question. She pointed in the direction of Mr. Pupik’s office. He nodded to tall and handsome and they both went back there and knocked on Pupik’s door. It opened, they went in, and it was another fifteen minutes before all four of them came out and went into Bertha Finkelstein’s room. Again they closed the door.

Meanwhile, Mrs. K and I were getting more and more curious as to what this introduction of new characters was all about. “They do not look like doctors, and they do not look like undertakers, and they certainly do not look like they would be Bertha Finkelstein’s relatives,” said Mrs. K as they were closing the apartment door behind them.

“Who, then, do you think they are?” I asked her. “And what are they doing here?”

“I don’t know, Ida,” she said, “but I will bet you bagels to blintzes that we won’t like the answer when we find out.”

—

Several minutes later, Mr. Pupik, apparently having finished whatever it was he and the others were doing in Bertha’s apartment, comes up to our table. This is something he never does just to be friendly, so we knew he had something on his mind. And he asked us if Mrs. K would mind coming to his office when we were finished eating. As it was again quite clear it would not matter if we did mind—she should come anyway—as soon as we finished Mrs. K pushed back her chair, stood up, and with a deep sigh said to me, “I wonder what it is Pupik wants from me now. Is it not enough that he implies that my matzoh balls killed poor Bertha Finkelstein? I did not sleep well at all last night worrying about this, and now he wants to go over it again?” She sighed once more.

“Anyway, Ida, I would like you should come along with me this time, so I don’t have to deal with Pupik by myself.”

Now our Mrs. Kaplan is no shrinking violet—or shrinking Rose, if you will forgive the pun—and she has proved herself more than able to take care of herself on many occasions, but now she clearly wanted some moral support.

“Of course I shall come with you,” I replied. “And you will see that there is nothing to worry about, and afterward we will both feel much better.” So we both walked down the hall into the office wing and knocked on Mr. Pupik’s door. And what we found when we entered did not make either of us feel better at all.

8

Seated in Pupik’s outer office at his conference table, which is round with six padded office chairs around it, were Dalgliesh and Columbo. They introduced themselves, and as Mrs. K suspected, they were not doctors or lawyers or family members. They were, in fact, policemen. Detectives, whose actual names we were told were Corcoran and Jenkins. Corcoran, the tall handsome one, was looking pleasant and impassive, and Jenkins was looking disheveled and jumpy, playing with a stack of pocket calendars that were on the table next to him. Pupik looked like he just got back from a funeral, although poor Bertha Finkelstein’s memorial service would not be until the next day. Corcoran got up and offered Mrs. K a seat. Me, he just looked at, as if he expected me to perform a magic trick or do a little dance. Sit down, he clearly was not inviting me to do.

Mrs. K immediately turned to Pupik and said, “I don’t know why you wanted me to come here, but I insist you let my friend Ida stay. I shall tell her whatever happens here anyway, so it will save me the trouble.” Pupik seemed about to protest, and Columbo/Jenkins looked more sour than before, if that is possible. But Corcoran/Dalgliesh, who was obviously the one in charge of the meeting, just smiled and said, “If that’s what you prefer, Mrs. Kaplan, we have no objection. But I should warn you that what we have to discuss is of a…shall we say, delicate nature, and you may prefer a more private conversation.”

But Mrs. K was adamant, and she sat right down and announced to everyone at once, “Then let us stop this kibitzing and get to the point. I have other things to do today.” So I sat down on a chair off to the side to listen, while Mrs. K and the three men sat at the round table. And after a last glance at me, Corcoran began, addressing Mrs. K.

“I understand from Mr. Pupik here,” Corcoran said, indicating him with a nod of his head, “that yesterday he explained that Mrs. Bertha Finkelstein choked on a diamond earring that you identified as belonging to Mrs. Daisy Goldfarb, another resident of this institution.” Oy, such formal language he used, but I suppose it’s because he had to explain things carefully so nobody would mistake what he was saying. Anyway, he went on like this, speaking pleasantly, as if he was just discussing with us the weather:

“Furthermore, the earring in question appears to have been in the soup that Mrs. Finkelstein was eating, and that was prepared by you.”

Mrs. K nodded, as so far there was nothing new in what the policeman was saying.

“Mr. Pupik tells us,” he continued, “that he was going to talk with Mrs. Goldfarb and ask her if she knew how her earring could have gotten into Mrs. Finkelstein’s soup. But before he could do that, and just a few minutes after you left his office, Mrs. Goldfarb came to Mr. Pupik’s office to report that sometime after she returned to her room the previous evening, she noticed that her earrings were missing.”

“Had been stolen,” interjected Mr. Pupik, never one to leave well enough alone.

“Well, yes, apparently that’s what she said,” Corcoran admitted, “and it certainly does look that way. She described the earrings that were stolen—missing—and they would seem to be the same ones that ended up in your soup—”

“You mean, one of them ended up in the soup, unless you are saying someone else found one in their matzoh ball,” Mrs. K said, interrupting Corcoran.

“I stand corrected,” Corcoran answered with a smile. “The same earrings of which one ended up in the soup and, unfortunately, in Mrs. Finkelstein. Anyway, at that point Mr. Pupik decided this might be a matter for the police, and that is why Mr. Jenkins and I are here.”

Pupik nodded, as if satisfied that he had done his duty and deserved a pat on the back. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“This does put a different light on the situation, as you can see,” said Corcoran. I did not see, but apparently Mrs. K did, because she nodded as if he should continue. And he did.

“What that means to us,” and here he looked at Jenkins, “is that whoever caused that earring to end up in Mrs. Finkelstein’s soup, or in the dumpling in her soup—”

“Matzoh ball,” corrected Mrs. K.

“Matzoh ball,” agreed Mr. Corcoran. “Whoever caused the earring to be in the matzoh ball in Mrs. Finkelstein’s soup, or in the soup itself, is probably the person who took Mrs. Goldfarb’s earrings in the first place. Whether they were trying to hide it or simply accidentally dropped it we do not know, of course.”

At this point there was silence. We were all digesting what Corcoran had just said. But any way you swallowed it, it sounded like he was implying that my best friend Rose Kaplan not only had caused poor Bertha Finkelstein’s death, but maybe had stolen from Daisy Goldfarb the diamond earring she used to kill her.

Oy Gotenu! It seemed like it was Mrs. K, not just poor Bertha, who was in the soup.

9

“So now you are accusing me of stealing Daisy’s earrings?” cried Mrs. K. “I who never so much as stole a paper clip when I worked in an office? Who would not be caught dead (you will excuse the expression) in those dangly-schmangly earrings of Daisy’s?” I had rarely heard Mrs. K raise her voice, but now it was several decibels above ladylike and rising.

Corcoran stepped in quickly to say, “No one is accusing you of anything, Mrs. Kaplan; I was just following the logic of the facts we have thus far discovered. Now, if you can fill in some of the facts we are still missing, I’m sure we can quickly straighten this out. To begin with, if you could tell us how you happened to be in possession of Mrs. Goldfarb’s earring…”

“But I did not possess Daisy’s earring,” protested Mrs. K, “so I cannot very well tell you how I got it.”

“You did make the dumpl…uh, the matzoh balls that were in the soup last night, did you not?” Corcoran persisted.

“Yes, of course, but—”

“And the soup?”

“Yes, and the soup, but—”

“And I am told by Mr. Pupik that you were the only one allowed in the kitchen while you were making them, is that right?”

“Yes, yes, but I did not have Daisy’s earrings in the kitchen with me, so what does that prove?”

“Then do you have another explanation for how the earring ended up in the matzoh ball soup that you made in the kitchen all by yourself?”

Well, now, that was just what Mrs. K and I were trying to come up with the previous night. And of course we did not have much success.

“And how do you know those earrings were even stolen?” Mrs. K asked, changing the subject just enough to avoid answering Corcoran’s question. “Daisy Goldfarb is a very nice person I’m sure, but she is well known to be absentminded and forgetful. She probably mislaid the earrings and when she could not find them, she thought they were stolen.”

Here Jenkins piped up for the first time: “We asked Mr. Pupik that already, and from what he told us this was clearly a case of theft.”

All eyes turned to Pupik, who suddenly looked uncomfortable, but he turned toward Mrs. K and said, “I also thought it was possible Mrs. Goldfarb had only misplaced the earrings. Such things happen all the time, of course, but then I spoke with Miss Zeiss, who as you know is Mrs. Goldfarb’s personal caretaker. She told me that earlier in the day she was helping Mrs. Goldfarb try on some clothes for the evening seder. Mrs. Goldfarb tried on the earrings in question, but she decided not to wear them after all. According to Miss Zeiss, she laid them down on the small table near the door.”

“Not a very safe place for them,” Mrs. K said.

“No,” Pupik replied, “there I agree with you. I even remarked as much to Miss Zeiss, who was a bit embarrassed and admitted she had intended to remind Mrs. Goldfarb to put them away in a safer place, but apparently she had forgotten to do so. Nevertheless the earrings were still on the table when Miss Zeiss left for the day, about 2 P.M. It is unlikely that between the time Miss Zeiss left and Mrs. Goldfarb went to the seder, Mrs. Goldfarb could have ‘misplaced’ the earrings.”

“Did Daisy say she put the earrings away before she left for the seder?” Mrs. K asked.

Pupik looked at Corcoran as if to ask him whether he should answer or not, but Corcoran made no move to interrupt, so he turned back to Mrs. K and said, “I asked her that, and she says she doesn’t remember. She may simply have forgotten about them being on the table.”

Corcoran had his mouth open as if to ask a question, but Mrs. K beat him to it.

“And did Daisy possibly pick them up and put them in her pocket, and end up walking out of the room with them when she went to the seder?” she asked. “Or did she leave the door wide open as I have often seen her do, so that any Tom, Dick, or Harvey could have taken them?”

“As you know, Mrs. Kaplan,” Pupik said in a huffy tone of voice, “we have little reason to lock doors here; apart from the occasional trinket or item of clothing reported missing, we have virtually no instances of theft at the Home. I have always prided myself on the feeling of security the residents under my charge can—”

This last was directed at Corcoran, who had to cut Pupik off at the pass before he began to list his Boy Scout merit badges and other such accomplishments.

“I’m sure you have a very secure establishment here,” said Corcoran, “but if you’ll finish telling us about the earrings…”

Pupik looked like he would much rather continue his personal résumé, but he just said, “Well, that’s about all, I guess.”

Just then the telephone rang, startling us all a bit. It was one of those loud, unpleasant electronic sounds—give me a good old-fashioned ring of the bell anytime. Anyway, Pupik reached across to his desk and answered it. After a few grunts and a wince, he put down the phone and said to us, “I’m afraid I shall have to leave for a few minutes.” To the two detectives he added, “It seems Mr. Plotnik has locked himself in the maintenance closet again and refuses to come out until I come and assure him he will not be given ‘solitary confinement’ if he ‘surrenders.’ It’s a little quirk of his, nothing to worry about, a kind of game we play.” Only it didn’t appear that Mr. Pupik enjoys playing this game. Or that he enjoys Mr. Plotnik, for that matter. Nevertheless, with a sigh he rose to leave.

“If you gentlemen would like to continue without me, please feel free to use my office,” he said. “I might be back shortly, but sometimes these things take a bit of time.”

“We understand,” said Corcoran, although I’m not so sure about the “we” part, because Mr. Jenkins did not look at all like he understood. “As a matter of fact, Jenkins and I have an appointment later this morning across town, so we probably should be going anyway. I think we can take this up in another day or so.” Then he turned to us and added, “Perhaps in the meantime Mrs. Kaplan—and you also, Mrs….”

“Berkowitz,” I told him. Such nice eyes he had.

“…Berkowitz, thank you. You both might give some thought to what we have discussed here, and it’s possible by the time we next meet you will have remembered something that will help us to resolve this unfortunate matter.” He said it in such a nice way, but I couldn’t help but get the feeling that he didn’t mean it in a nice way at all, and what he really expected was for Mrs. K to think that she had been found out and to confess that she stole Daisy’s earrings and caused Mrs. Finkelstein’s death. And it gave me such a chill in my bones that even the nice cup of tea we had immediately after leaving Pupik’s office couldn’t take it away.

10

We did not talk about earrings or detectives or Mrs. Finkelstein the rest of the day. In fact, we avoided the subject entirely and tried to act as though nothing as strange and disturbing as this had happened.

So we were sitting in the lounge and sipping tea, and on the sofa next to us sat Mr. Sol Lipman. Sol, whom Mrs. K and I know quite well, is a man of about seventy-five years, short and stocky with short gray hair. For his age (which, after all, is about my age also) he is always looking very healthy, like an athlete who has kept himself in good condition. An attractive man, is Sol Lipman.

But that day he was not looking so healthy. In fact, he was looking as if he was in some distress, with his head in his hands, staring down at the carpet. Since there was nothing of particular interest to see in the carpet, this was not a good sign. Naturally Mrs. K and I noticed, and Mrs. K went over and sat down next to Sol. I slid over to listen. Mrs. K gently asked, “Is there something wrong, Sol?”

He looked up, and when he saw Mrs. K he straightened himself and tried to look normal. He said, “Why do you ask?”

“Because you are looking like your pet dog has just been run over, and I know you do not have a dog, so it must be something else. I do not want to pry, I just wondered if it is something with which I can help.”

Sol pondered this for a minute before answering, “Thank you, Rose. It’s Lily. She has locked herself in our bathroom and will not come out.”

Lily is Sol’s wife. (Who else would be locked in his bathroom?) They share a large apartment here at the Home, with two bedrooms and even a nice kitchen. Lily is not at all like Sol. In fact, it is an example of what they say about the attracting of opposites. Lily is tall and thin, and it is likely that the most athletic thing she has ever done is to shuffle the cards for bridge, which she and Sol frequently play. Sol is usually calm and quiet; Lily tends to be quite excitable, like one of those little dogs that is all the time barking. And yet they have been married for almost fifty years! Go figure.

Mrs. K did not seem surprised to learn that Lily had locked herself in the bathroom. In fact, her response was simply, “What, again?”

“Oh, so you remember the last time?” said Sol.

“Not only do I remember,” Mrs. K said, “but it was Daisy Goldfarb and I who talked her out of the bathroom. She had become hysterical over…what was it? Something you had said to her?”

“In a way, I guess,” Sol said. “I had asked her why she so often makes meat loaf for dinner on those days when we do not eat in the dining room, why she does not try something new, like maybe a Mexican or Italian dish. She took it as a comment against her cooking—‘What, you don’t like my meat loaf?’—although that was not what I meant at all, just that a little variety would be nice.”

“Some people take everything so personally,” Mrs. K said, shaking her head.

“Lily always seems to,” Sol said. “She certainly did that time. Pretty soon she was crying and had locked herself in the bathroom, telling me to go get myself another wife if I didn’t like her cooking! Oy, what a tummel!”

“Yes, and it was not easy to calm her down, although we finally did. I cannot recall exactly what we said to her.”

“Too bad,” Sol said, “because she is in there again, and nothing I say is helping at all.”

“So what was the cause this time? You did not mention her meat loaf again, I hope.”

“No, no, nothing like that. In fact, after Lily got over being so upset and we talked about it, she agreed to try some new dishes from time to time, and it has worked out very well. No, this time I have no idea what has caused it.”

“No idea? You said or did nothing?”

“Nothing. At least nothing that I know of. I came home from some shopping I had done at the hardware store, and Lily immediately comes up to me and she is holding a book I had been reading. She shakes the book in my face and says something like ‘An alter kocker like you should be ashamed of yourself,’ and, well, from there one thing led to another…”

“And then to the bathroom?”

Sol nodded his head.

“And what is this book she is holding?”

Sol seemed to hesitate a moment before answering: “It is just one of those books that give advice on how older people like us can live happier and healthier. You know, some expert is telling you what to eat, how to exercise, like that.”

Sol sighed and went back to examining the threads in the carpet.

Mrs. K put her hand on Sol’s shoulder and asked, “Would you like that Ida and I should go and see if we can talk to her?”

I was glad to hear Mrs. K make the offer, because she needed something to get her mind away from worrying about the police and Bertha Finkelstein. Someone else’s troubles always make a good diversion from one’s own.

“Yes, certainly,” Sol said. “I’d appreciate it. Do you want me to come along?”

“Just to let us in. It is better to keep this among women.”

Sol scratched his head. “Married almost half a century and I still don’t understand what’s going on…”

—

Mrs. K and I followed Sol down the hallway to his apartment, which is in a separate wing from the single rooms that most of us occupy. Many people think of retirement homes like ours as places to live only when our husband or wife has died and we are alone. This is certainly the usual situation. But sometimes a married couple will wish to take advantage of the services a retirement home like the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors provides—meals prepared for them, doctors and nurses on call, and of course the socializing.

When we came to the door of his and Lily’s apartment, Sol knocked, just in case Lily had come out of the bathroom and we were not needed. But there was no answer, and Sol unlocked the door. He entered first, with Mrs. K and me trailing behind.

The bathroom, as in our smaller apartments, is to the left off the entrance hallway that leads to the living room. The door was shut. Sol tried the handle, but it was locked. He called out, “Lily,” and from behind the door we heard, “Go away!”

Lily was definitely in there.

“Lily,” he called through the door, “I’ve brought Rose and Ida. They want to talk with you. I will leave while you talk.”

And without waiting for an answer, Sol left, closing the door behind him. As he was going he looked over his shoulder at us and his expression quite clearly said, “I hope you can do something with her.” Poor Sol—it must be very stressful to have one’s wife locked in the bathroom.

As soon as Sol left, Mrs. K took his place at the bathroom door and said loudly, so even a person on the other side of the closed door could hear, “Lily, it’s Rose Kaplan. Ida and I would like to help. Can you tell us what is the matter?”

From the other side there was only something like a sob; no other answer.

Mrs. K tried again: “Lily, did Sol do something bad to you? Did he strike you?” I was certain Mrs. K didn’t think Sol would ever do such a thing, nor did I. She was just trying to get a response from Lily.

It worked. “No, no, he did not hit me!” Another sob. Poor Lily, she was totally farklempt.

“Then why…”

“He is…he is…”

But that seemed to be as far as she was able to go.

“What is he, Lily?” Mrs. K asked. “What are you trying to say?”

Quietly, so we had to strain to hear, Lily said, “Fooling around. He is fooling around with someone.”

Mrs. K and I looked at each other, both surprised and puzzled. Sol is not the kind of person to “fool around,” if Lily meant having what they call “intimate relations” with another woman. And at his age?

“Lily, what do you mean?”

“Sex mad, that’s what he is! Sex mad and fooling around.” By now Lily’s voice had regained its volume and we could hear her quite well. So no doubt could their neighbors.

“Why do you say that, Lily?” Mrs. K asked.

Silence.

“Lily, why do you say Sol is ‘sex mad’? And what do you mean he is fooling around? He has always been a perfect gentleman, a real mensch, as long as I have known him.”

Lily answered in a slightly calmer voice: “I found…things. I found…”

At this point it seemed she could not go on and began to sob again.

We waited, but Lily didn’t tell us what she found. Now of course I was curious to know, and I must admit not just for Sol’s sake.

Sol had already told us that Lily was waving around a book about better living for older people. But what had this to do with sex or “fooling around”?

We looked around the apartment, and immediately Mrs. K spotted a book that had been left on the sofa, with a bookmark in about the middle of the pages. She went over and picked it up and I could see that the cover said, in big gold letters, Enjoying the Golden Years: How to Live a Happy Life after 65. She then opened it to where the bookmark resided and read those two pages. Her brow furrowed but she said nothing. When she was finished, she brought it over to me and indicated I should read it also. I was a little reluctant, as I assumed it must have been something very bad to have had such an effect on Lily. But Mrs. K was insistent, so I read the two pages.

It was part of a chapter titled “Sex After 65: Keeping Intimacy a Part of Your Married Life.” I cannot remember it word for word, but it described in some detail how two older people, even who are somewhat limited physically, can still, well, you know what. There was a graphic description of how to go about this, and I was embarrassed to be reading it in public, so to speak, if Mrs. K being there made it public. On the other hand, if my late husband, David, had been reading it and I found it, I don’t think I would have been running and locking myself in the bathroom. To be honest, it is more likely I would have been running into the bedroom and hoping he would follow; but that is another matter entirely. One man’s honey is another man’s vinegar, as they say. It is the same for the ladies.

Again Mrs. K and I looked at each other. She shrugged her shoulders and took back the book as she again stood in front of the bathroom door.

“Lily, has it something to do with this book that was on the sofa, the one that talks about having sex in a person’s ‘golden years’?” I probably would not have been speaking quite so bluntly, but Mrs. K was clearly not embarrassed by this at all.

“That’s not all,” sobbed Lily. “I also found…I found…a bottle of those pills that men take to help them…to help them do what it says in that book.”

“You mean pills like, what is it called…”

“Viagra,” I whispered to Mrs. K. I have seen those silly commercials on TV so many times. I think they are men’s answer to those awful “feminine hygiene” commercials for us women. Feh! A curse on both of them.

“Yes,” Lily sobbed. “That is it. I found it in his nightstand drawer. That is how I know he is fooling around.” Further sobs.

Again Mrs. K and I looked at each other. We both thought Lily was speaking nonsense: Not only did we not think Sol would do such a thing, but a book on improving one’s sex life and a bottle of Viagra is hardly proof that one’s husband is shtupping another woman, you’ll excuse the expression. But apparently Lily thought that it was. This was much more complicated than meat loaf!

Mrs. K stopped to think about this for a minute. Then she turned to me and said quietly, “Ida, you stay here just in case. I am going to talk with Sol.”

I was not certain “just in case” what, but I nodded and pulled over a chair from the living room and sat down. I would rather have been listening to the conversation with Sol than to Lily’s sobbing. It can get on one’s nerves.

As Mrs. K told me later, she walked straight back to the lounge, where Sol was still sitting and looking distressed.

He looked up when he saw her and asked excitedly, “So did you talk with her?”

“We talked with her.”

“Nu, so what did she say? What is this mishegoss, this craziness?”

Mrs. K proceeded to tell Sol what Lily was saying to us. As he listened his expression changed so that, as Mrs. K put it, at the end he looked a little like a carp before it is chopped into gefilte fish—bulging eyes and open mouth.

“I do not know whether to laugh or cry,” he said to Mrs. K after he recovered. “Lily is totally fertummelt! All mixed up. She could not have things more backward and upside down if she were standing on her head and looking in a mirror!”

“I assume you mean you are not having an affair with some other lady, or planning to, as Lily seems to think.” (As usual, Mrs. K did not mince words.)

“Of course not,” Sol said, his tone indignant. “And I cannot believe she would even think that!” He took a minute to gather himself and then said, “I’ll tell you why I was reading that book, and why I had that medicine, if you’ll help me straighten Lily out—and get her out of the bathroom.”

“Ida and I have already offered to help,” said Mrs. K. “But you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I don’t mind. It is perfectly ordinary, and I need your advice anyway. You see,” and here he lowered his voice so only she could hear, “Lily and I have not…have not, you know, had relations for quite a while. Several years, in fact.”

Sol hesitated and waited for a reaction, but when Mrs. K did not respond, look shocked, or even change expression, he continued, “Lily says she does not enjoy it. To be truthful, I am not sure she ever did, but especially since she has gotten older. And in any event, for some time now I cannot do it anyway. I guess I have what they call ‘E.B.’ or some such thing in those television commercials.”

“I think it is ‘E.D.,’ ” Mrs. K corrected him, “but it is no matter. I understand.”

“Yes, well, lately I have been talking with friends who are my age and still have relations with their wives (and in one case, with several young ‘nieces,’ if you know what I mean), and I got to thinking that perhaps with the right advice, and maybe the right medicine, Lily and I can…can go back to acting like married people in the bedroom.”

Sol was looking here a bissel embarrassed, but he cleared his throat and continued: “So I went to a doctor, who examined me and agreed there was no reason we could not do this, and he prescribed the pills to correct my…problem. And he suggested reading some books about how older people can still enjoy, you know, sex.” It had taken him a while, but he finally said the word.

“And did you not tell Lily that you were going to this doctor and reading these books?”

“No, I thought it best to wait until the right moment to suggest we…we try it. To be honest, I was not sure just how to approach it.”

“Well,” Mrs. K said, “it looks like it is now through the bathroom door you will have to approach it.”

“Yes, it seems that way,” Sol said. He got up, straightened his jacket, and gestured for Mrs. K to lead the way.

—

Back at the apartment, I was holding the fort, as they say. Lily was not saying much, just an occasional whimper. Once or twice there was the sound of the toilet flushing. And I was not trying to strike up a conversation. What was there to say? So I was glad when Mrs. K returned, with Sol behind her. She gave me a look with the eyebrows that seemed to say, “The situation is totally fercockt,” you’ll excuse the expression.

Mrs. K gestured that I should step back from the door, which I did. Sol then went up to the door and said, “Lily, it is me, Sol. Please listen. You have things all wrong.”

“Sex mad, that’s what you are,” Lily said very loudly through the door. “Who is the tsatskele with whom you are planning to take up?”

“You don’t understand,” Sol replied, sounding very frustrated.

“What is there to understand? Is there not the book and the pills? Do you deny it?”

“I mean there is no tsatskele—no other woman. I am not seeing another woman, and I am not planning to. You have made a big mistake. I would like to explain.”

There was silence for about a minute. Then we heard some movement in the bathroom. The door handle turned slowly and there was the click of it unlocking. The door opened just a little and we could see Lily, eyes red, peeking out. We had made progress!

“So explain already,” Lily said. For the first time since we arrived she was sounding more reasonable.

Mrs. K and I exchanged a small smile. It was good to see these nice people were making up. A happy ending.

Sol stepped forward and said into the narrow door opening, “Lily, like I said, there is no other woman. There is only you.”

“Then what is with the book and the pills?” Lily asked, speaking softly but still sounding suspicious.

“That is for us. For you.” He lowered his voice way down, but I could hear that he said, “It is so we can go back to…to having sexual relations again.”

Maybe in this case he was better off not using that word. The scream from Lily was even louder than when she was accusing him of shtupping a tsatskele. In fact, from the sound of it, perhaps she would rather he were fooling around with another woman than he should fool around with her!

“Sex mad! That is what you are! At our age? You must be meshugge! Don’t you come near me with your Viagra and your crazy ideas!” The door slammed shut and the lock went click once again.

At this point, Mrs. K rolled her eyes. She whispered to me, “I hope Lily gets over this. Like they say, if you do not feed your dog at home, he will get his dinner from the neighbors.” I nodded in agreement. And Sol was a dog who had not eaten dinner in a long time.

Mrs. K gestured to me that it was now time for us to leave. It is one thing to help to remove an obstacle of misunderstanding between a husband and a wife. It is quite another to interfere when the problem is that they understand each other only too well.

So we made a quiet exit. As we passed by Sol, Mrs. K patted him on the shoulder to let him know that we were behind him.

But only from a safe distance.

11

The next day was the memorial service for Bertha Finkelstein. As you might expect, memorial services are not infrequent events at the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors. Any place where there are over a hundred residents with an average age of maybe seventy-five, and many over eighty, is bound to provide a lot of business for both the rabbi and the undertaker. Death is a fact of life, as someone once said. So these services, although sad occasions, especially when the guest of honor was a long-time or well-liked resident, are almost routine. But this service was especially difficult for Mrs. K, for obvious reasons, and I could see the strain on her face and hear it in her voice.

Rabbi Rosen made for Bertha a very nice service. Her children had given him a lot of information about her—I am certain he did not know any of this beforehand—and he made from it a little story of her life. Some of it was not so pretty.

The rabbi told us, “Bertha was born in Poland in 1930, and she had a very difficult childhood. She lived in a shtetl, a small village, and the Jews there were constantly being harassed by the authorities. Bertha told her children hair-raising stories of soldiers or mounted police riding through her village on horseback, breaking windows and even setting fire to the modest little houses of the residents. Everyone would try to hide until they went away, and if they caught someone outside, maybe an old man or woman, the soldiers would beat them, or worse. Then when Bertha was only twelve years old, the police came to the door of her house and demanded entrance. Bertha’s parents hid her in the root cellar just before the police broke down the front door. They took her parents away, and she never saw them again. Bertha was taken in by another family, and she managed to survive the Shoah—the Holocaust. After the war, she came to America, where she met and married Bernard Finkelstein (of blessed memory). It is a blessing that Bertha, after her traumatic childhood, settled down in America to a quiet and happy life, making a home for herself and Bernard, and helping Bernard to run his business. They were married for over fifty years when Bernard passed away and Bertha came here to the Home to spend her remaining years.”

So Bertha had survived the Holocaust, but not Mrs. K’s chicken soup!

The rabbi went on for a while, as rabbis will do when you give them the chance, but you get the idea. As he spoke, I was struck by how much Bertha’s past, about which I knew only a little, and mine were similar, at least as children. I too, as I already mentioned, remember the visits from the soldiers—as well as the stories my parents told of terrible pogroms they had lived through—although I grew up in what was then part of Russia and not in Poland. The lines they draw between countries, always dividing them up and changing their names or where the border is between them, really make no difference. It is the people who live there who make a difference, and for the Jews in Russia or Poland, it was the people who lived there, whatever they were called, who made our lives as difficult as possible.

—

After the service and lunch, Mrs. K told me she had been thinking about what had happened since the day before and would I mind if she ran by me some of those thoughts. I said I would be happy to oblige, and where would she like to talk?

“I think it would be best if we did not talk here in the lounge, or even in the building,” she said. “Let’s see if the shuttle is going downtown this afternoon, and if it is, we’ll go along and have a nice chat over tea at the Garden Gate Café—the one next to the Four Star Theater.”

I agreed that would be a good idea. We went up to the front desk and looked at the schedule for the shuttle. We could always take a taxi, or even the public bus, of course, but the shuttle is so much more convenient, not to mention it is free. We found that the shuttle was indeed going downtown just after lunch, so after we finished eating (the vegetable soup tasted just like warm water into which a few carrots had accidentally fallen and drowned), we signed out and climbed into the van.

Already Mr. Jack Winterfelt and his wife, Miriam, were seated in the front, which is actually where we like to sit, and at the back were some ladies from the bridge club, probably on their weekly outing to play against the ladies at the Lutheran Home. These ladies take their bridge extremely seriously, and I have heard that the competition with the Lutheran Home is fierce, sometimes leading to angry words that are not very ladylike at all. Personally, although I always try to win, I prefer a nice quiet game among friends.

So Mrs. K and I settled for the long sideways-facing seat just behind Andy, the driver. I looked out of the window and I became anxious when I saw Daisy Goldfarb leaving the building dressed in her hat and coat and heading in the direction of the van—I was not ready to talk with Daisy about her earrings, and I was sure Mrs. K was not either—but she passed right by and walked in the direction of the corner drugstore. I was relieved. Other residents climbed aboard, and pretty soon the shuttle van was almost full. Most residents like to get away into the outside world every now and then.

Mrs. K and I chatted about nothing in particular as we waited for the shuttle to leave, being careful not to mention the recent events. Jenkins, the not-so-nice detective, had warned us not to tell anyone about what we were discussing in Mr. Pupik’s office, because it was not generally known about Daisy’s earrings being stolen or any of the other details of Bertha’s death. He didn’t have to bother: Believe me, neither Mrs. K nor I had any desire to announce publicly that she was under suspicion of theft and maybe even murder.

Mrs. Rachel Silverman, a nice lady who had been at the Home for only about a year, got on the bus just in time. In fact Andy was already closing the doors when Rachel inserted her foot onto the step and he had to quickly open them again. Such a look he gave her!

Rachel, who is not built for sprinting, or for any running at all for that matter, was quite out of breath from hurrying so as not to miss the ride downtown. She looked around for a seat and saw that there was one open on the long bench next to Mrs. K. She sat down and smiled at both of us, but she seemed unable to speak for the moment.

Andy again closed the doors, after checking carefully that no one else was putting their foot in the middle. He shifted the gears with hardly any grinding sound, and we were on our way.

It was not until after the bus left that Rachel finally was able to say to us, still somewhat breathless, “Good morning.” She paused and took another breath. “I just made it, didn’t I?” Another pause. “I need to do some shopping, so I didn’t want to miss the shuttle.”

Mrs. K put her hand on Rachel’s and said, “We all seem to be running for something these days, don’t we? Even here at the Home it is not always so relaxing.”

“But maybe that is good for us,” Rachel said. “Maybe running to catch a bus is better than sitting and looking out the window at the bus going by.”

“Perhaps you are right,” I told her as the bus hit a bump and I almost fell onto Mrs. K’s lap, “but I don’t like to think that we have to run for buses in order to have some excitement in our lives.”

Mrs. K seemed about to say something, probably about having more than enough excitement in her life at the moment, thank you, but apparently she thought better of it and only nodded in agreement.

After a few minutes of silence, we both noticed that Rachel was looking quite upset about something, as if whatever thoughts she was thinking were not at all pleasant. Mrs. K finally asked Rachel whether there was something wrong.

Rachel looked up as if she was startled. “Wrong? Not really. I was just thinking about my daughter Doreen.” As I recalled, Doreen, who I did not know personally, was one of those “second family” children, born maybe ten years after her brothers and sisters, when Rachel was already in her forties. That would make Doreen somewhere in her middle twenties perhaps.

Mrs. K, although not one to butt into other people’s business uninvited, is nevertheless always ready to give an opinion if it is requested. And sometimes the request requires some prompting.

“I have met Doreen,” Mrs. K said, “and she seems like a very nice girl. Very friendly.”

“Perhaps too friendly,” Rachel said with a rueful tone and something close to rolling her eyes.

“Too friendly?” I asked, now curious myself.

“Yes,” Rachel said. “You see, Doreen is now living on her own, working at a local department store. She is twenty-six. She lived at home until last year, when my husband, Harry, passed away, and I came here to live.” Here Rachel paused and looked down at her hands, and it was clear that it was still painful for her to talk about her husband’s passing. But after a moment, she looked up again, cleared her throat and continued where she left off.

“So she lived at home a lot longer than many children do. Not that there is anything wrong with that; she just wasn’t ready.” We both nodded in agreement.

“Anyway, while at work she met this man, whom I do not like one bit. Now I learn she is actually living with him.”

“Ah, we seldom like the men our daughters take up with,” sighed Mrs. K.

“Nor the women our sons take up with,” I added with feeling, having some experience in this regard.

“No,” Rachel agreed. “But this is a little different. I believe this man Doreen has met is a real nogoodnik, and he is taking advantage of her.”

“In what way?” Mrs. K asked.

Before Rachel could answer, the bus made an abrupt stop to avoid a taxicab that suddenly pulled out in front of it, and everyone was thrown forward, to become much more intimate with each other than we had intended. Andy said some not-so-nice words to the taxi driver, which that person could not hear of course, but we all could. He then turned around and apologized to everyone with a sheepish look, but I think we all understood. Soon we were back on our way and the conversation continued.

“You asked how this man is taking advantage of my Doreen, Rose. But I do not know. All I know is that I have met him, I have seen them together, and I do not like what I see.”

“But Doreen, she does not see the same thing?” Mrs. K asked.

Rachel sighed. “No, she only sees an older man who is taking an interest in her. Doreen, you see, was never what you would call pretty. She seldom was asked out on dates when she was in school. Harry and I thought that was a good thing at the time, as we did not have the tsuris that some of the other parents of teenage girls had.”

“Yes,” Mrs. K said. “Those can be some of the hardest years for parents, can’t they? Especially parents of pretty girls.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Rachel. “We knew plenty of other parents who would have been only too happy to trade places with us.”

“But now you are not so sure?” I asked.

“No, I’m not. Because Doreen didn’t have the experience of dealing with men at a time when we were there to advise her. Not only advise her, but run the really bad ones off with a shotgun, if necessary, as Harry would have done, I’m sure. Instead she stayed, well, innocent. Now that she is out on her own, she is not well prepared for men like this ‘Eddie’ she has met and now she is living with.”

“Is he at least Jewish, this Eddie?” I asked. It is always one of the first questions we Jewish mothers all ask when discussing the boyfriends and girlfriends of our children. Maybe we are looking even with the bad ones for a redeeming feature or two.

“Well,” Rachel said with a little laugh, “his last name is Christensen. You may draw your own conclusion.”

So much for redeeming features.

As I had thought, the van stopped at the Lutheran Home and the bridge ladies got off, and then it proceeded toward downtown. Mrs. K looked out of the bus window. We were getting close to our stop. Mrs. K turned back and asked Rachel, “So what makes you think the fellow is a nogoodnik?”

“Well, for one thing,” Rachel said, “he is extremely rude, even to me, Doreen’s mother.”

“Ah, many young people are rude these days,” Mrs. K said. “It is as if they did not learn any manners when they were growing up. And they probably did not.”

“Yes,” Rachel agreed, “but it is more than that. When I asked him what he did for a living, he kind of smirked and said, ‘Oh, a little of this and a little of that,’ which to me means either he does nothing, or it is not something he wants to talk about.”

“Maybe he works for the FBI or he is a spy and he cannot reveal what he does,” I said, trying to put in a bit of humor. No one thought it was funny, however.

“And once,” continued Rachel, “when I was speaking to Doreen, and he was standing next to her, I asked Doreen whether they had any plans for that evening, thinking I would invite them to dinner with me. Do you know what he does?”

From the tone of Rachel’s voice, I was not certain I wanted to know, but she told us anyway: “He gives her a kind of a wink, and a potch on her tuchis, and says, ‘Oh, I think we’ll stay in tonight, huh, Doreen?’ The chutzpah! And in front of her mother yet! At least Doreen had the decency to look embarrassed. I was speechless. A man who is a mensch would never do such a thing.”

“Did you say anything to Doreen about it afterward?” I asked.

“I tried to, but Doreen said it was ‘no big deal’ and something about good manners being an ‘arbitrary and temporary social construct’ while ‘love is eternal.’ I don’t know where she gets that kind of narishkeit—that nonsense. Maybe from reading those trashy romance novels.”

Mrs. K was quiet for a moment, shaking her head slightly. She was no doubt thinking that Rachel might have good reason to be concerned about this man. I know that is what I was thinking. Meanwhile, however, I could see that we were almost at our stop. Just before we got there, Mrs. K asked Rachel, “Where exactly does Doreen work?”

“At the Emporium Department Store. In the lingerie department.”

“If there is time, maybe I will stop by and say hello. I have not seen Doreen in a long time.”

“Please do,” Rachel said. “And if you have any thoughts on how to talk some sense into her, please let me know.”

Mrs. K laughed. “If I had that kind of advice,” she said as we got to our feet, “I would write one of those Dear Abby newspaper columns.”

Abby Schmabby. Mrs. K has a lot more common sense than those yentas in the newspaper.

“Anyway, enjoy your afternoon,” she said to Rachel, “and we shall see you back at the Home.” The doors opened, and we stepped down onto the sidewalk.

12

“I’ll be back to pick you up here at three o’clock,” Andy told us all as we left the bus. “Please don’t be late.” He was looking especially at old Mrs. Bloom. (She is at least eighty-five, so even by me she is old.) Last time she forgot where the bus stop was. Andy became very upset and waited fifteen minutes before finally leaving without her. Poor Mrs. Bloom had to take a taxi home. This time I saw that she was with one of the helpers from the Home, which I’m sure made both her and Andy much relieved.

After helping down the steps those who needed assistance, Andy drove off. I am never certain just where Andy goes when he leaves us with the shuttle bus. I doubt he has some other bus route to attend to. Perhaps he parks the bus and takes a nice nap on the backseat. Someday I will have to ask him.

Meanwhile, Mrs. K and I both had some shopping to do before our tea. We visited first the Peerless Shoe Store, where I bought a nice new pair of fluffy slippers, as my old ones were almost worn through. I do like fluffy slippers on a cold morning, or a cold evening for that matter. The new slippers were pink, instead of blue like my old ones, and I was pleased that I even found them on sale.

Mrs. K needed some items in the drugstore, so we stopped in there next. It was busy, perhaps because they were predicting unusually warm weather the next week and people were stocking up on things for sunburn—the creams to stop you from burning, and the other creams to make you feel better when you burn anyway. I suspect the same company makes both products and this result is no coincidence. Personally I do not use any of those products. A nice chair in the shade keeps the sun off better than anything in a bottle.

Mrs. K found the two things she was looking for—foot powder and Milk of Magnesia—and took them to the clerk, while I thumbed through a magazine on the long rack in the back of the store. There must have been a hundred magazines to choose from, but most of them I would not know from chopped liver. From the look of it, there is almost nothing you can do with yourself that someone has not made a magazine about. I will bet there is even a magazine for people who like to look at magazines, although I did not happen to see it on this occasion.

As we were leaving the drugstore, Mrs. K said, “Shall we go and find Doreen and say hello? I told Rachel we would.”

“Certainly,” I said. I knew Mrs. K was anxious to find out more about the nogoodnik, and I have to admit I was also.

We turned right and walked toward the intersection. As we were walking, Mrs. K turned to me and said, “You know, Ida, I have been thinking, ever since Rachel mentioned the name of Doreen’s friend, that his name sounds familiar. I think I have just remembered why.”

“Oh? To me it did not ring any bells. So what have you remembered?”

“Do you recall we used to have a cleaning lady at the Home, maybe five years ago, named Molly?”

I thought for a minute before answering. “Yes, wasn’t she the nice plump lady who would sneak outside to smoke cigarettes whenever she could?”

“That is her, yes. Well, I’m certain her last name was Christensen. Molly Christensen. And I know she had a son, because on occasion he showed up at the Home, to pick his mother up when her usual ride was not available. I am trying to remember whether the son’s name was Eddie. If so, it is possible that this boyfriend of Doreen’s is Molly’s son. Perhaps that is how Doreen met him.”

“Yes, it is possible. What happened to her? I only remember that there was something interesting about why she left.”

“If she is the one I am thinking of,” Mrs. K said, “she left after she won some money in the lottery and retired from cleaning. She was always buying lottery tickets at the grocery store where she bought her cigarettes, and one day she won a large amount of money. Not like a million dollars or anything—I think it was maybe a hundred thousand—but enough for her to decide she did not have to remain a cleaning lady. I remember the pleased look on her face when she told me this on her last day. Oy, such naches, such joy.”

We were by now starting to cross the street, and we stopped talking so we could pay attention to the traffic. Drivers are in such a hurry these days, even for old ladies like us they sometimes don’t bother to stop. But we made it across safely, and there in the middle of the next block was the Emporium Department Store. It is an old building, but in good condition, five stories high. The Emporium has been here a long time, and it still is what it used to be—a “full service” department store they call it, in which a person can buy anything from bathing suits to bicycles (not that I or Mrs. K would be looking for either). The aisles are wide, the ceilings are high, and the counters are made of polished wood. Macy’s basement it is not.

The lingerie department was on the ground floor. There were several counters strewn with “intimate” things, and a few headless and armless mannequins on them, each wearing either a brassiere or some other item of underwear. The ones that were wearing panties had legs, but just down to the knee. Perhaps they think putting only underwear on a model with arms and legs would be too suggestive. As it of course would not suggest anything to me, I cannot say.

What I could say is that department stores like the Emporium have changed a great deal since I was a young woman. They would never have displayed such things as underwear out in the open like that in the old days; it would be tucked away under the counter. But I suppose they must “keep up with the times” if they are to stay in business.

After a minute of looking around, Mrs. K spotted Doreen behind one of the counters. She was showing a young woman of about her own age a black lacy brassiere and something else that I assume was either what they call a “thong,” or a fancy slingshot for her son. Either way, it is difficult to imagine that a person would actually wear such a device, or, for that matter, why they would want to. It certainly would not cover anything, or protect anything, or absorb anything, and it looks like it would be extremely uncomfortable. I had a sudden picture in my head of myself and Mrs. K wearing these things, and I could not help laughing. I’m sure Mrs. K was wondering what was so funny, but I wouldn’t dare tell her.

So we waited and browsed the department until Doreen was finished with her customer. We then went up to the counter and said hello to her. At first, I don’t think she recognized us, probably because we were “out of context,” as they say. This was not a place Doreen would expect to see us. But after a few seconds she recognized us and greeted us affectionately, as if we were her close relatives.

A shayna maidel—a pretty girl—she is not, as her mother said. In fact she is quite plain and more on the zaftig side. But although she is not beautiful or slim, she makes up for it with a friendly manner and a bright smile that is as warm as a bowl of chicken soup.

As I looked at Doreen I was remembering what Rachel said: “Too friendly.”

Mrs. K told Doreen how we had a nice chat with her mother on the bus—she did not, of course, tell her the nature of our chat—and when Rachel mentioned that Doreen was working at the Emporium, we decided to stop by and say hello.

We were just beginning to make small talk when a young man walked up to the counter from behind us and said in a voice louder than ours, “C’mon, Dor, let’s go get some coffee.” He reached across the counter and took her hand.

Einstein we did not have to be to figure out that this was Eddie the nogoodnik himself. He was a slim man of maybe thirty years old, with a face like one of those birds that you see on television picking apart dead animals. His nose could open letters, it was so thin and sharp. He was dressed in nice clothes, but the colors did not match and were loud enough to make your ears ring. Not that I was judging the book by its cover.

In this case, the pages of the book were worse than the cover. To say he was being rude would be like saying Hitler was unkind. He totally ignored the fact that we were standing there and having a conversation with Doreen. It was as if we were invisible. Many things we ladies might be said to be, but believe me, invisible we are not!

Doreen at least had the decency to look embarrassed and try to pull away from his hand holding hers. She looked sheepishly at us with an apology in her eyes. We probably were looking stunned at the man’s chutzpah!

Doreen turned back to the man, this Eddie Christensen, and said in a nice way, “Please, Eddie, I’m talking with these ladies at the moment. And besides, I can’t just walk away from my counter. It’s not my break time yet.”

If we were expecting Eddie to say something like “Sorry, I’ll wait until you’re finished,” or “Okay, we can have coffee when you’re on your break,” we were greatly misjudging the man. What he actually said was, “They can wait! And no one will notice if you’re gone for a few minutes. I haven’t got time later!”

Needless to say our mouths were now hanging open, as we could not believe someone could be so rude and ill-mannered, especially to a sweet young lady like Doreen. Not to mention two nice older ladies like us, of course.

I could tell that Mrs. K wanted to give this shlemiel a piece of her mind, which believe me she could do. But she also did not want to embarrass Doreen here in public and perhaps cause more of a scene than there already was. So she quickly broke in and said to Doreen, ignoring the lout as best she could, “I can see you are busy, Doreen. We will drop by another time. It has been very nice to see you.”

And with that, she bestowed on Eddie a look that would give the devil frostbite, took me by the arm, and we walked out of the store. We did not look back, but we both could imagine the scene we were leaving behind, and it was not a pleasant one.

13

It was now time for tea, and I assure you we both needed it. Mrs. K and I exchanged opinions about Doreen and her unfortunate situation as we made our way to the Garden Gate Café, which is about two blocks from the Emporium. We decided to let the matter rest for now, as we had more important things to discuss. We entered the café and found a table next to a nice potted palm tree and out of the draft from the front door. It was a little closer to the noise from the kitchen than we would have liked, but who can be choosy in a busy place like that?

There were two extra chairs at the table and we used them to put down our packages and our purses. One thing we like about the Garden Gate Café is the comfortable chairs they have, nicely padded and with lots of room for those of us who are a bissel wider in the tuchis. We were soon approached by a nice young waitress—such a pleasant looking girl with curly blond hair done up with a red ribbon—who gave us the afternoon tea menus. It is another good thing about the Garden Gate Café that they have a wide selection of teas, and we each chose a tea that they do not serve at the Home. (It is strictly Mr. Lipton at the Home—and I don’t even think he was Jewish!) Mrs. K ordered an interesting green tea with ginger in it, and I ordered something called white tea. We also ordered two plates of fruit salad.

While we were waiting, and before we were getting down to business, we spent a few minutes looking over the diners at the other tables and remarking on those who were in some way interesting or unusual. When you live most of the time with the same people of the same age around you day and night, it is a real treat to be among a different mixture of people than we are used to.

After maybe five minutes, our tea arrived. Mrs. K’s made a very pretty color in the cup. My white tea turned out not to be white at all—so what is the big deal?

When we had our tea and our fruit salad and the waitress with the curly blond hair had left, I said to Mrs. K, “So Rose, what is it that since yesterday you’ve been thinking about Bertha?”

Mrs. K took out of her purse a notebook—she always carries a little notebook with her, in case she should want to write down something important, but this was a bigger one—and opened it up.

“I made some notes,” she said. “Do you remember that we made a list of possible ways the earring could have gotten into a matzoh ball or into the soup?”

“Certainly,” I replied, “and we didn’t come up with many possibilities.”

“No, and I still do not have many. But now that we know there was a theft involved—or at least that is what we are told and the police believe—we need to make a new list, a list of who might have taken Daisy’s earrings and deposited one of them in the soup.”

“I suppose so. And who is on this list?”

“I was thinking we should begin with the other list, and see if anyone on it fits both lists—the picking up the earring list, and the dropping it in the soup list.”

“That seems like a good idea.”

“Then here is the first list, which I have written down on my pad.” And she looked down at the pad in her hand, making a small check mark next to the first line she had written. “First possibility, the earring was dropped into the matzoh balls while they were being made. Second possibility, the earring was already in the matzoh meal. We can assume it was not in the egg or the onion or the carrots or the chicken! Third possibility, it fell in while the soup was being cooked, or served, or after that. Am I correct so far?”

“Yes, that is what we decided. And we also decided that you did not drop it into the soup or the matzoh ball mix, Daisy did not drop it into the matzoh meal box, and she also did not drop it while passing by as the soup was being served. So where does that leave us? Are we not worse off than before if we even have to eliminate Daisy because she no longer had the earrings?”

“Ah, but maybe we are better off,” said Mrs. K. “Maybe now that we are assuming that the earring was stolen, there are many more persons who might possibly have dropped the earring into the soup.”

“I’m not sure that I am following you,” I admitted. Sometimes Mrs. K jumps ahead faster than I can keep up.

“Look,” she said patiently, “if the earrings were not stolen, then Daisy must have dropped one of them into the soup, or into the makings. And if it was not Daisy, it must have been me, because I made the soup and no one else was in the kitchen. And if we eliminate Daisy, we don’t have any suspects, other than me, and maybe even I will start to believe I must have done it. But if the earrings were stolen, then the number of people who could have dropped one of them into the soup is as many as could have stolen it and were at the seder. Do you see?”

“Now I see.” I am sometimes a bit slow, but I get there eventually. “So now let us make the next list, of who could have stolen the earrings.”

“That’s just what I want to do,” said Mrs. K. “Let us begin with the obvious—with me. I could have stolen the earrings and then dropped one into the soup, just like the police seem to think I did.”

“But we know you didn’t…” I began to protest, but Mrs. K waved her hand at me and continued. “Nevertheless, we must start with the obvious and proceed to the less likely. So I am, how do they put it, ‘suspect number one.’ ”

I didn’t like the sound of that, but didn’t protest again. “And I suppose,” I added, “we have to eliminate Daisy from the list. Too bad, because she was both number two and number three on the old list.”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. K to my surprise. “Daisy is very much on the list.”

“How is that? I mean, if we assume the earrings were stolen?”

“Now ordinarily I would not say this,” Mrs. K answered, “because I like Daisy and she is a very respectable lady. But as you know, those earrings were given to her by her son Barry. And you also know that Barry Goldfarb is a regular ganif, a thief, or at least a shady character. You remember when he was in jail for some kind of insurance fraud several years ago? And Daisy has told me that it was not the first time.”

I was beginning to see where Mrs. K was driving to. “So you think Daisy’s son Barry might have put her up to something like stealing her own earrings for the insurance money? The earrings he originally gave to her?”

“Let us just say it is a possibility. Even a respectable woman like Daisy might give in to her son if he is maybe telling her he is in trouble and needs the money to pay off a debt to some bad people. I’m just saying it is possible.”

“All right, we will leave Daisy on the list,” I said reluctantly. But I could not imagine Daisy Goldfarb as a thief. “So now we have you, who we know did not do it, and Daisy, who most likely did not do it either. Is there on your list someone at least who is maybe more likely?”

14

Mrs. K took a sip of her tea and looked into the cup for a moment, where perhaps she saw the answer in the tea leaves. Then she picked up her pencil and said, “Are there any other of the residents whom we should put on the list?”

“Well,” I replied, “no one I can think of who has a better opportunity than anyone else. We cannot put them all on the list.”

“No. It would be different if someone had been sitting at Bertha’s table with her. They would have had a much better opportunity to put something in her soup. But she was sitting alone, was she not?”

I was about to agree, but then I said, “Wait a minute. What about that priest or whatever he was who sat down by her briefly?”

“I did not see a priest at the seder, and I certainly did not see one sitting next to Bertha Finkelstein,” Mrs. K replied.

“He sat down next to her for only a minute or two and then he left, I assume to talk with other residents.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“No. He was not one of the goyim I am used to seeing at the Home.”

“Well,” Mrs. K said, “that is strange, since we are usually told ahead of time when Gentiles are to visit our seder, so we know to welcome them, and I do not recall this being mentioned. But since we do not know who he was, and he was apparently sitting there for only a minute, and a priest would be unlikely to steal a pair of earrings, we will have to leave him off the list for now. I will try to remember to ask about him at the Home.”

On this we agreed. She now consulted her list again and said, “So we are down to suspect number three, all of the help.”

“What do you mean, ‘all of the help’?”

“I mean everyone who helped to serve dinner could have stolen the earrings and then accidentally dropped one into the soup. Maybe out of a pocket of an apron where they were hidden.”

“That is possible, but it too seems to me unlikely,” I told Mrs. K.

“Maybe I agree with you it is unlikely,” she responded. “But we are making a list of who could have dropped the earring, and at this point, because we have no likely suspects, it must include even the unlikely. Besides, if Daisy did leave her door open, as we both know she has done many times, almost anyone in the building could have taken those earrings, including most of those who later were serving. So let us think about who was serving.”

I did think, but I was not noticing such things at the time. Why should I? I did not know that I had reason to be noticing them until now.

Nevertheless, I took a stab at it. “Well, we know of course that up front was Mary, who caused all the commotion. I am sure that if she had tried to drop anything in the soup, it would have fallen on the floor instead.”

Mrs. K laughed. “Yes, she is perhaps least likely. Now, who was serving us?”

“I think we were served by either Jerry Anderson, the night watchman’s boy—he was filling in because of the extra guests—or by Frank—I always forget his last name—you know, one of the regular waiters. I am pretty certain it was not a woman.”

“Yes, I agree, and now that you mention him, I think it was Frank,” Mrs. K said. “I believe his last name is Neilson or Nelson or something like that. No, it is Nelson, I’m sure.” She made an entry in her notebook.

Just then I remembered something: “Wasn’t it Frank whose wife was so sick last year that he had to miss work to take care of her? It must have cost him a lot of lost wages, not to mention her being out of work as well.”

“I think you are right, Ida.” Another scribble in her notebook.

“I also remember,” she said, “hearing that Adele, who usually serves at dinner, has been ill, so she was not there for the seder. I distinctly recall that Betsy, the plump woman with the unruly hair she always has to keep pinned down under her cap, was serving at the table across from us. I remember thinking that a woman of that size should not be bending over quite so far; it is not a pretty sight. That leaves one more server, whoever replaced Adele.”

We both were silent for a few minutes while we tried to think of the fifth server.

“I have it,” Mrs. K said finally. “I remember now that there was a middle-aged man, whom I did not recognize, serving at breakfast, and I am almost certain he was there again for the seder. I don’t know his name, but he had a dark complexion and wore a somewhat shabby blue suit. Did you notice him too?”

I did not notice, but then Mrs. K always notices a lot more things than I do. I sometimes think she and I are living in two different but parallel worlds, hers being filled with many more interesting details than mine.

“Is not the one who was serving Bertha Finkelstein, and so might have dropped the earring into her soup, the only one who counts?” I asked.

“Well, that would be the most likely,” she replied, “but not the only possibility. The servers moved around quite a bit—they did not all stay in the place where they were serving. And now that I think of it, when I finished making the soup, Mrs. Catelli, the cook, who had been supervising the preparation of the rest of the dinner, came and got the soup and personally ladled it out into bowls that were already on trays for the servers to take out to the dining room. So she also has to be on the list.” More writing in the notebook.

“Wait!” I said. “Something just occurred to me. It is true you were the only one in the kitchen while you were making the soup. But of course Mrs. Catelli and her helpers were there later, making the rest of the dinner. Where was your soup while they were cooking dinner?”

“That is a good question, but I am not sure it will help us. Remember that most of the dinner was made earlier and just heated up before the meal, and I was not allowed to use the kitchen until Mrs. Catelli was finished. So there was not much time at all between when I was finished with the soup and when it was served, and I was there in the kitchen with it until they shooed me out to go sit down so I could be served with everyone else. That’s when I came to sit with you, Ida. Remember how I got there just before they served?”

“Yes, I remember. Which makes Mrs. Catelli an even better suspect. There definitely was an opportunity there if someone was looking for one. So what does your notebook now say?”

“Well, it now lists the staff—though not all by name, unfortunately—that were serving, plus Mrs. Catelli the cook. And of course Mr. Pupik was there, but we will assume he did not steal Daisy’s earrings and leave him off the list.”

“Too bad. I would like for him to be the thief. But I guess you’re right.”

Just then Mrs. K’s eyes widened and she looked over my shoulder, like she was seeing something very interesting behind me. I turned around, but I did not see anything unusual; just the front of the café and the street outside. “What are you looking at?” I asked.

“Guess who I just saw coming out of the shop across the street?”

“How should I know? Give me at least a hint.”

“Here is a big hint,” she said. “It is Frank, who is on our list of people who might have dropped the earring.”

“So what is unusual about that? Should he not be downtown like we are?”

“All that is unusual is the shop he was in,” Mrs. K said.

I looked again and I saw only three shops across the street: the ABC Bookstore, Farraday’s Ladies’ Intimate Wear, and the Coin Exchange. “It would only be worth mentioning if he was coming out of Farraday’s Ladies’ Intimate Wear,” I said, “but if that is what he likes to do in his spare time, it is not our business. I have a cousin who used to like to put on ladies’ shoes—”

“No, no, no,” Mrs. K interrupted. “He was not coming out of the Ladies’ Wear shop. He was coming out of the Coin Exchange. Now do you see?”

But now I still did not see, and I said as much to Mrs. K. So she explained: “Don’t you remember that the Coin Exchange is Isaac Rosenkrantz’s fancy-schmancy pawnshop? The only coins he exchanges are the few cents on the dollar he gives to people selling their trinkets to raise cash.”

“Yes, I recall that. But why should Frank not be dealing with Rosenkrantz? He is a perfectly respectable businessman, even if he is only a pawnbroker.”

“The question,” replied Mrs. K, “is not whether Frank should be dealing with Rosenkrantz, but why he should be dealing with Rosenkrantz. What is it he has to sell?”

I had no answer for that. Suddenly Mrs. K got a look on her face like she had just had an idea, and she said excitedly to me, “We have finished our tea and we have still an hour before Andy picks us up. Let’s go across the street and visit Rosenkrantz’s shop.”

I was not sure I liked this idea. What were we to do in Rosenkrantz’s shop? I asked Mrs. K this, and she just shrugged her shoulders. “All I know is that we will learn nothing more by sitting here.” She started to get up, leaving money on the table for the check and tip. “Are you coming with me?”

Of course I was coming. I should miss the excitement?

15

It was the first time I was in a pawnshop, or whatever fancy name it is called by Mr. Rosenkrantz, and I was both interested and nervous. Mrs. K opened the door, which had a little bell that tinkled when it moved, so we were not able to enter without being noticed. There were two or three other people in the shop, and all turned around and looked as we walked through the door. I imagine they were wondering what two old ladies are doing in such a place, and I would not blame them. All around me, I was seeing things like guns, knives, musical instruments—what would Mrs. K or I be wanting with a shotgun, a hunting knife, or a trombone? Mrs. K, however, looked like she knew just what she was doing—like she was maybe thinking of buying a tuba and joining a band. But she passed by the musical instruments and made her way over to a cabinet that contained rings and other jewelry, as if she knew exactly where it was located and was interested in purchasing something from it. I was now wondering myself if Mrs. K had been here before.

Rosenkrantz’s shop is quite remarkable. It is as old-fashioned as the Emporium, with fancy trim around the walls and ceiling and fine wood cabinets of polished mahogany. I saw now that in addition to the guns and instruments, there were items of all kinds stacked on the counters, hanging from the walls, even from the ceiling! All this time I was looking around to see if Frank, the server we were discussing, was one of the people in the shop. I did not see him, and I joined Mrs. K at the jewelry cabinet. I did see Mr. Rosenkrantz, whom I knew to look at but have seldom said “boo” to. He was helping another customer and was not yet looking our way.

I assumed that Mrs. K, who knew Rosenkrantz better than I did—there are very few yiddisher shopkeepers she does not know—was waiting to have a word with him, maybe to ask him whether Frank sold him a diamond earring. So we were bending over the cabinet and pretending to be interested in the many wedding rings in it. I was sad to see so many examples of people who once had dreams of a wonderful marriage and now had only a bad memory and a few dollars for which they sold their ring.

As I was daydreaming about this, and also looking to see whether there might be a single diamond earring displayed somewhere nearby, a sharp voice behind us said, “Ladies! What are you doing here?” I was so startled my heart jumped, and I can tell that Mrs. K was also surprised. We both turned around to see that standing behind us was Frank. He must have returned to the shop while we were not noticing. He is a tall young man, and he was smiling, but I was not sure whether it was in a friendly way or not.

Unfortunately, I did not have an answer ready for his question, and my mind raced with possible excuses for being there. Of course, I have no more use for a wedding ring than for a trombone, maybe less. But Mrs. K thinks faster than do I, because she said very coolly, “Hello, Frank. I have an old pin that I no longer have a use for, and I was curious what Mr. Rosenkrantz might give me for it. And are you likewise selling something to Mr. Rosenkrantz?”

Frank did not answer immediately, but the smile left his face. He said to Mrs. K, “I really think that’s my business.” Then he seemed to realize he was being rude and said, forcing a smile, “Actually, if you must know, I’m looking for a good used trumpet, and I saw one in the window that I wanted to check out.”

“Oh, do you play the trumpet?” Mrs. K asked.

“A little. I’m thinking of taking lessons.”

He looked uncomfortable, like his trumpet playing was a subject he did not wish to discuss with us, and he quickly added, “Well, I guess I’ll see you later at the Home. I hope you get a good price for your pin.” He nodded to both of us and turned to leave. Mrs. K said “Thank you” to his back. I think she was about to say something else, but instead she just watched as he headed for the door, pausing to take from the counter his hat, which is probably what he had returned for. Without looking back, he left the shop, the bell tinkling after him.

Just then Rosenkrantz saw us and came over. He is a tall, wiry gentleman of maybe seventy with thinning hair that is blond—no doubt only as long as he remembers to color it—and combed to the side. He has bright blue eyes and he had a big smile on his face, the look of a man who enjoys life and likes to kibitz with the ladies, which I have heard he does frequently. He was wearing a dark blue suit that could’ve used a bit of a pressing, but that was hardly noticeable next to his bright pink shirt and purple tie. I assumed he must not be married, as no wife with any saichel—common sense—would let her husband leave the house dressed like from a Polish wedding.

Rosenkrantz nodded politely to me and said to Mrs. K, “Rose, how nice to see you. To what do I owe?”

“It’s a long time, Isaac. How are you?”

“I can’t complain, thanks. Are you here to sell or to buy? Or just to say hello?” Rosenkrantz had a definite twinkle in his eye.

“Well, to be honest, I was just wondering if you could tell me, did Frank Nelson, who just went out the door, did he sell you something?”

Rosenkrantz looked a bit sideways at Mrs. K, and in a conspiratorial tone of voice he asked her, “Is there a reason you want to know this?”

“Let us just say Ida and I are curious about this.”

“Ah, curiosity. It is a tricky thing. I’m afraid I cannot tell you anything in detail. I suppose I can say that…that he and I did not end up doing any business. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

“I suppose it will have to do,” said Mrs. K. It was apparent she was disappointed about not finding out what it was that Frank and Rosenkrantz did not do business over, but it was also apparent that she would not be learning any further details from Mr. Rosenkrantz.

“So may I show you one of these beautiful rings? Even if you buy them only for the diamonds, they are a metsieh—a real bargain.” When he said this, it occurred to me that someone buying a single earring like Daisy’s could only be doing it “for the diamonds,” so it was unlikely we would see it on display, at least in one piece.

“Thank you, no,” said Mrs. K. “But if I should ever decide to get married again, I will surely keep you in mind.”

“Well, Rose,” he laughed, “I’m flattered, but I’m already married.” So much for my theory—maybe it is his wife who has the bad taste.

Mrs. K laughed also, and, with a last look around this remarkable shop, we left through the tinkling door. We had spent so much time in Rosenkrantz’s shop, not time we had originally planned to spend, that we were in danger of being late. We hurried as fast as two less-than-athletic ladies could, which is not very fast.

Fortunately, we were just in time to catch our shuttle van, which was stopped across the street. We waved to Andy that we were coming, and we hurried to cross as soon as the light turned green. We did not want to be taking a taxi home, like Mrs. Bloom.

Andy greeted us with his usual cheerfulness and asked, “So, ladies, did you do a little damage in the stores?”

Mrs. K smiled back at him as he helped her into the van. “Maybe not in the stores,” she replied, “but we made some progress fixing the damage at the Home.” And when she was seated and I next to her, she took out her notebook and made one more entry before putting it away and settling back for the ride home.

—

This time we were seated facing forward, which we much preferred. It is easier that way to keep our balance when the bus jerks and bumps, which of course it frequently does. I noticed that Rachel was not on the shuttle bus this time. I mentioned it to Andy and asked him to wait a few minutes.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Berkowitz,” he said. “Mrs. Silverman told me when she was getting off the bus earlier that she has a lot of shopping to do and she’ll be taking a taxi back.”

When I remarked on this to Mrs. K, she nodded but became thoughtful. After a minute, she turned and said to me, “Ida, we must try to do something to save poor Doreen from that terrible man. He is clearly taking advantage of her, and she does not have the nerve—or maybe it is the self-esteem—to stand up to him.”

I could only agree, of course, but I didn’t see what it was that we could do about it. If her own mother was unable to get her to see what a mistake she was making, I didn’t think we, who were almost complete strangers to her, would have more success. Nevertheless, I was confident that when Mrs. K said we must do something, something indeed would be done.

16

“So now we have this long list of people,” I said to Mrs. K the next day, “but what do we do with it? Where do we go from here?”

We were seated in the garden of the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors, where we had taken our tea on this warm and sunny afternoon. Mrs. K had her notebook on her lap and had been going over her entries, adding a note here and erasing one there. It was so pleasant out there, with the blue sky and little snow white clouds framing the climbing roses and bougainvillea, that I was not in the mood to think about thieves and death; but I knew that to Mrs. K it was extremely important that she be absolved from any part in either the theft of Daisy’s earrings or Bertha Finkelstein’s choking, and as soon as possible. I also knew that she did not trust the police to be in any hurry to absolve her—just the opposite, in fact—so she would have to do it herself, with my help of course. And about that I think she was right.

Mrs. K looked down at her notebook and then up at me. “As a way to narrow down our suspects, I would certainly like to know whether any of the persons on our list has a criminal background,” she said, “such that they would be more likely to have taken those earrings.”

“Once a thief, always a thief?” I replied.

“Something like that. Only I mean it also in a larger sense: If in the past one person has demonstrated a fine character and proper conduct his whole life, and another has shown himself to be mean, dishonest, or unreliable, which would you first suspect of a particularly bad act later in his life? The mensch or the ganif?”

This, of course, was easy to answer, so I did not bother.

“I wonder if Isaac Taubman’s son Benjamin, the policeman, would be able to help us find out,” I suggested.

“As it turns out,” Mrs. K said, “it is too bad he could not have stayed longer at the seder. People act differently when a policeman is around, especially if they have it in mind to commit a crime. But yes, that seems like a good idea. Of course, he might be willing but not able, if he does not have access to these criminal records.”

“He should have. I remember when my nephew wanted to rent an apartment across town last year, he had to pay for some company to—what do they call it—‘screen’ him to make sure he had not moved out without paying his rent at his last place, or caused a lot of damage. And he told me they also checked that he didn’t have a criminal record. I remember being surprised they would go so far just to rent you an apartment. But if some nosy landlord can find out if someone has a criminal record, surely a policeman will have no trouble. And if he cannot, maybe we can just call the same company my nephew’s landlord called and tell them these people want to rent an apartment by us. Then we can find out anything we want to know about them.”

Mrs. K laughed at this. “I think your nephew had to give his permission for the company to do this screening of him. I do not think any of the persons on our list will give us their permission. In fact, I am pretty sure it would also be against the police rules for Benjamin to do this for us; but it is too important not to at least ask him.”

—

That evening after supper, Mrs. K and I made our way to the lounge, where she hoped to have a chance to speak with Mr. Taubman privately. The lounge at the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors is divided into two large areas by a set of tall bookcases, maybe six feet high. One side is the more noisy part, with a large television and tables to play bridge and other games. On the other side are sofas and comfortable chairs with magazine racks, where residents can talk quietly or read without having to listen to Oprah or an argument over how the cards were dealt.

On this evening, as we passed through the more noisy part, several of the residents were watching what looked like that nice Jewish boy Seinfeld—it seems like he is on television several times a day at least. Over in the corner, that alter kocker Abe Wasserman was having himself a manicure from the lady named Tiffany who comes to the Home to do our hair or nails so we do not have to go to her shop, which for some residents is difficult. Abe will tell you he is very particular about his grooming, which is why he is so frequently getting his nails manicured from Tiffany. Anyone else will tell you that it is because of Tiffany, a nice young lady of maybe twenty-five, with long blond hair. She also is quite zaftig in the bristen—she has big breasts—of which she conceals very little. Oy, she could hide her handbag in her cleavage and no one would notice. And of course she leans forward and jiggles when she is polishing her client’s nails. So Abe, he sits and enjoys the view at the same time he makes himself “well groomed.” Nu, it is an innocent enough pastime.

In the more quiet side of the lounge we saw that Mr. Taubman was sitting alone and reading. Mrs. K went over and sat next to him, and I took a seat a short distance away so she could speak with him in private. Taubman, as I was saying earlier, is a dignified and handsome gentleman of about seventy-five, with wavy silver-gray hair and a warm smile. He always sits or stands straight like a soldier—add some boots and maybe a baton and he would look like MacArthur. Of course, Taubman should look like a soldier, because he was one. He was high up in the military police at one time, and he would have become a policeman afterward had he not been injured and so not qualified. Instead he went back to school and became a successful businessman. “At least I made a lot more money in one year than I would have in ten as a policeman,” he once told me, “but it wasn’t half as exciting.” He is very proud of his son Benjamin, and now through him Taubman has become a policeman at last—like they say, vicariously.

I could not hear the conversation, but according to Mrs. K, they made chit-chat for a few minutes, and then she asked him if she could have Benjamin’s telephone number. Taubman smiled kindly and said to her, “I am glad to give you his telephone number, but I’m curious as to why you would want it.”

Now Mrs. K almost always tells the truth, except when it is extremely inconvenient; but she was uncertain whether she could tell Taubman the real reason she wanted his son’s telephone number. On the other hand, what else could she say was the reason? That she wanted to invite him to Shabbos dinner next Friday? That she wanted tickets to the Policeman’s Ball? So she took a chance and told him what we had been thinking—although without the details—asking him not to tell anyone else.

After a minute thinking about this, Taubman wrinkled his brow and asked, “Don’t you think the police are capable of investigating this fairly? Do you have some reason not to trust them?”

I suppose we should have anticipated that he would see things from the side of the authorities, and take some offense at the suggestion that the police department, of which his son was a member, could not or would not do their job properly. Anyway, Mrs. K was about to answer “no” to the first question and “yes” to the second, neither of which was sounding too good to her, when Taubman’s expression changed to what Mrs. K described as a kind of conspiratorial smile, and he leaned over and said to her in a low voice, “To tell the truth, Rose, while of course I would always trust my Benjamin, and I think Corcoran is okay, from some of the stories Benjamin has told me about the department, they could use a little help from you. And that Jenkins especially is not the brightest candle in the menorah.”

Mrs. K was much relieved by this intimation from Mr. Taubman, and she was especially pleased when he agreed to ask his son for the information on her behalf. She was not looking forward to asking the favor directly of Benjamin, whom she did not know well. So she and Taubman went over her notes and list of suspects. And Taubman appeared to be having a good time taking part in this investigation. Like I said, he wanted to be a policeman, and here was a chance to play at it for a while.

They discussed the persons on the list and the chances that they were the guilty party. Although I still could not hear what they were saying, I could see it was quite a lively discussion. More than once Taubman’s eyebrows, which are quite bushy, went up as if he was surprised at something Mrs. K was saying. When they were finished discussing, Taubman took down the names that they agreed were worth asking his son to check. According to Mrs. K, it was the same list she and I drew up, except she had crossed off two names and added one more. It was, after all, just a series of guesses on our part.

As Taubman got up and turned to leave, Mrs. K put her hand on his arm to stop him. “While you are at it,” she said, “there is one other name I should like to add to that list.”

“Oh?” said Taubman, smiling good-humoredly. “Another ‘suspect’?”

“Actually, no. It seems Rachel Silverman’s daughter, Doreen, has taken up with a man who Rachel believes is a bad person. Ida and I have reason to agree, as we have met him. Could you perhaps also have Benjamin check on him?”

Mr. Taubman was now not looking so good-humored, and Mrs. K was thinking it might be because we had now asked one too many favors. But she soon found out that this was not the reason.

“I don’t know whether you are aware, Rose,” Taubman said, “that a while back Rachel Silverman and I saw quite a bit of each other. Socially, if you know what I mean. We still go to an occasional play or movie together, although not as often. So I also know Doreen quite well. She is a sweet girl, but very innocent; if someone is taking advantage of her, I hope you can do something to help. I shall certainly try to get you the information you need.”

“That is nice of you, Isaac,” said Mrs. K with a smile. “His name is Eddie Christensen. He may be the son of Molly Christensen, who used to be a cleaner here; if so I would like to know this also. Her name was spelled with two ‘e’s—I think they were Danish or Norwegian people—but if it is not her son, I do not know the spelling.”

Mr. Taubman made a further note and put his list and pen away.

Mrs. K thanked him warmly, he gave her hand a squeeze, and with a little bow in the European style he walked off in the direction of his room. That Taubman can be quite charming.

I should mention also that what Mr. Taubman related about himself and Rachel Silverman is not at all unusual. Just because we live in a “retirement community” and are “assisted with living,” we are not just a bunch of alter kockers, pardon my French, sitting and watching television with our mouths hanging open. (Well, some of us are, but that cannot be helped.) There is quite a bit of social interaction among the residents of the Home. Sometimes the interaction, it goes beyond merely “social”; but unlike young people these days, we do not talk about that sort of thing in polite conversation.

Come to think of it, I should not have been surprised that Mr. Taubman was so willing to help, not only because of his past relationship to Rachel and because he has the instinct of a policeman, but, more important, because he has always shown quite a, shall we say, “social” interest in Mrs. K.

It never hurts.

17

The next day, Thursday, Mr. Pupik told Mrs. K that the detectives would not be back until at least another week, as they had some business out of town. This gave us several more days to snoop on our own, before we found out if the police were still putting Mrs. K at the top of their list of suspects.

In the afternoon, we were taking our tea in the lounge (it wasn’t very nice weather outside, too hot to sit in comfort). I was reminded of the nice tea selections we had at the Garden Gate Café and was thinking I should have bought some of those at the grocery while we were downtown. I decided to do that on our next shopping trip, but in the meantime it was back to Mr. Lipton. More important than the tea maybe was the chance for us to talk about something other than Mrs. K’s troubles, or anyone else’s. Or so we thought.

As Mrs. K and I were sipping and discussing some local politics—one of the residents is a former mayor, another was on the City Council, and we get lots of “inside” information—we saw little Amy Bergman coming toward us, sort of furtive looking as if she was afraid she was being followed. I say “little” because Amy is like a faigeleh, a little bird: delicate, less than five feet tall and a bit stooped over, so she barely comes up even to my shoulder. Amy is also a bissel meshugge—a smidgen crazy, if you know what I mean. A nice lady, but one matzoh short of a full box.

Nevertheless, Amy is a good-hearted soul, and everyone does their best to tolerate her mishegoss. So when she approached us, we moved over and made a place for her to sit down. This she did, sitting next to Mrs. K (who was now in the middle), and immediately she put her hand on Mrs. K’s, looked around to be sure that no one was listening (I guess she did not count me, as I was definitely listening but she did not seem to notice), and she said in a low voice, “Rose, dear, isn’t it terrible about poor Bertha? And at the seder yet!”

“It is more than terrible,” answered Mrs. K. I was thinking that of course Amy could not understand just how terrible it was, as only I and Mrs. K among the residents knew that Bertha’s death was not of natural causes. I was startled therefore when I heard Amy say, “And they will probably get away with it.”

I am sure that Mrs. K was equally surprised, but she did not show it. She just said with an even voice, “I’m sorry, Amy. Who is ‘they,’ and with what will they be getting away?”

“Why, with doing in poor Bertha, of course.”

“And what makes you think anyone ‘did her in’?” Mrs. K asked.

“Oh, I heard them talking,” Amy said. Again she looked around; again she looked through me as if I was not there.

“Heard who talking?” I could tell that Mrs. K was becoming somewhat exasperated with Amy.

“It was for her money, you know,” Amy said.

At this point I was losing patience and I blurted out, much louder than I intended, “Do you mean that someone wanted to kill Bertha Finkelstein for her money?”

Both Amy and Mrs. K looked over at me as if I were a naughty child who had spoken out of turn. And indeed others in the lounge turned to see what the loud talking was about.

“Please, Ida,” said Mrs. K, “we do not want to broadcast this to the entire Home.”

I apologized and went back to just listening. But I was anxious to hear the answer to my question, even if I had asked it a bit too loudly.

“Yes, Amy,” said Mrs. K in a low voice, “is that what you are saying? That someone wanted to kill Bertha to get her money?” She said this not like someone who believed it, but like she was simply seeking information.

Amy nodded her head.

After waiting for a further reply and getting none, Mrs. K tried again: “And who is this who is wanting to kill Bertha?”

Amy looked around again, seemed satisfied the coast was clear, and said softly, “Her relatives, of course. It is they who will inherit the money. A lot of money.”

Mrs. K looked over at me and rolled her eyes. But to Amy she just said, “Which of her relatives? And how do you know this?”

Amy seemed about to answer, when Mr. Jacob Wasserman wandered over to the table near where we were sitting. (This is not the Mr. Abe Wasserman who, as I mentioned, was having himself a manicure and a good look at Tiffany’s bristen. We have at the Home two Wassermans: Abe, who is short and round, and Jacob, who is both heavy-set and quite tall. To avoid confusion we often refer to “Big Wasserman” and “Little Wasserman.”) It was Big Wasserman who was approaching. He picked up a magazine—I think it was the one from the AARP, to which everyone in the Home must belong—and, giving us ladies a polite nod of hello, sat down on the sofa across from us.

As soon as Wasserman was sitting down, Amy Bergman was standing up. Before Mrs. K or I could stop her, she was skittering through the lounge and out into the lobby, like a tiny bird flying to freedom after being released from a cage.

So much for finding out what relatives want to kill Bertha Finkelstein.

—

After a while Big Wasserman finished reading his magazine and, with another polite nod to us, he rose and left the lounge. It was getting close to dinnertime and he probably wanted to return to his apartment and get ready. We had to be doing the same soon, but first we had to discuss what we had heard from Amy Bergman.

“So what do you think, Rose?” I asked. “Is this just more of Amy’s mishegoss?”

“Most likely. But we cannot afford to ignore it completely. What if she did overhear something important? What if someone did plan to kill poor Bertha?”

“But you know how Amy is. Remember last year, when she was insisting that the bus driver was watching her? And then the gardener too? It is what they call paranoia, is it not?”

“Yes, you are right, Ida,” Mrs. K said. “But even if there is only a small chance that there is some truth in what Amy says…”

“So how do we find out whether it is truth or mishegoss?”

Mrs. K thought this over for a minute before answering, “I think I know how we can do that without too much snooping. At least by us.”

And that is how we left it. It was time for dinner.

18

It was not until Saturday afternoon, Shabbos, that Mr. Taubman got back to Mrs. K with her list. Apparently his son the policeman was not able to make the necessary look-ups until Friday evening, but when he was able it did not take long. I would have preferred that he did not do this for us on Shabbos, when Jews should not be working, but he is not my son, and besides this was like an emergency, was it not?

After dinner on Saturday, we had our Havdalah service. It is one of my favorites. To say goodbye to Shabbos, we light a special braided candle with many wicks (I do not know why, maybe to make it as bright as a whole menorah), pass around a fancy box with fragrant spices (it is called a besamim) for everyone to take a sniff, and of course there is a cup of wine. It is a nice way to say a new week is beginning.

After the service, Mrs. K and I sat down in the lounge and she looked over the list that Taubman gave her. She did not let me see it, because Taubman told her that this information was private and even he should not be seeing it. If it got out that his son was giving this information to Mrs. K (or even to his father), his job could be kaput.

I was curious, but I understood and did not complain. I just waited while Mrs. K examined the list, with many “hmms” and “tsk-tsks” and even an occasional “oy vey.”

And after maybe five minutes, she turned to me and said, “Even if I cannot let you see what it says here about particular individuals, I think I can tell you that I am surprised what some people have done in the past. You would never suspect it. Not that I hold it against them if they are good citizens now, but nevertheless it is a bit of a shock.”

“Yes, yes, but is there anything on that list that brings us any closer to who stole Daisy Goldfarb’s earrings?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Mrs. K said, while staring past me into space. Oy, she can be maddening sometimes!

“So what do we do next?” I asked. It was clear she was going to be mysterious about this list, so we might just as well get on with it.

“Sha, I must think about this for a minute,” she said. But it was more like another five minutes that she studied the two lists, hers and Benjamin’s, before she looked up and answered.

“There are some persons on this list who we might now say are more suspicious than the others. We also know that there are some on the list who are much less likely than others to have had the opportunity both to steal the earring and to drop it in the soup. Those persons, now that I see that they have nothing in their background to cause suspicion, they become so unlikely that in order that we don’t spend all our time chasing down wild gooses, I will cross them off for now and we can concentrate on the others.”

“So how many have you left on the list?” I asked.

Mrs. K looked down at the pad again, then looked up and said, “Only three.”

“That is not so bad. And what do we do with these three?”

Here Mrs. K sighed and looked up at me a bit uncertainly. “I am not sure,” she said at last. “I know what I would like to do. I would like to know where is the second earring.”

“Of course. If we knew who had the second earring, then we would know that is the person who stole the first one and dropped it in the soup.”

“Not necessarily,” she said, which I did not understand. Perhaps she meant the person who stole the earrings and the person who dropped it in the soup might be two different persons, which didn’t make sense to me, or maybe there were two persons working together; but in any case I did not pursue it. When Mrs. K comes up with her theories, it is best not to question her too closely.

One way or the other, finding the second earring was important, and I wanted to know how she intended to do it, especially if I was to be part of the doing. So I asked her as much.

“The best way to find it, I think,” she said with another sigh, “would be to search the room where each person on our short list lives. If only we could get into their rooms…”

I’m afraid I rolled my eyes at this. “And ‘if only my bubbe had wheels, she would be a wagon,’ as my mother used to say. But we are not the police, and we cannot get a—what do they call it—a search warrant and go barging into their homes. Furthermore, I am quite sure that Benjamin, as nice as he was to get us this information, would draw the line at our asking him to enter and search these persons’ rooms.”

This was not, unfortunately, cheering Mrs. K up. She was just sitting and looking forlorn.

We were both silent for several minutes, thinking our own thoughts. Finally, I asked Mrs. K, “Do the three persons remaining on the list all live here at the Home?”

“Yes, one is on the staff but lives in during the week,” she replied.

“Well, then,” I said, “maybe I have an idea.”

19

“What kind of idea?” Mrs. K asked. She looked at me eagerly, like she was a drowning swimmer and I was a nice fat log floating by.

“Well,” I said, hoping I had not falsely raised Mrs. K’s hopes, “it will not help with anyone who does not live here at the Home, but only with the residents and staff who do live here.”

“What do you mean? Surely you are not suggesting that you and I break into their rooms and snoop around? What if someone caught us, with me already under suspicion for theft of those earrings? I can just see that nudnik Jenkins sneering at having caught me with the red hands…” Mrs. K was really working herself into a tizzy about this.

“Don’t worry, Rose,” I said, handing her teacup to her and waiting until she took a sip or two and calmed down. “I do not have in mind that we should break into anyone’s rooms. At least not ourselves in person.”

“Then in some other way?” Mrs. K was getting upset again, so I thought I had better explain.

“Here is my thought. Do you remember my niece Sara, who always comes to see me and brings a little present at Chanukah?”

“Isn’t she the one who used to work as a secretary for that Mr. Franklin the lawyer?”

“That’s right. A very nice girl, Sara. A shayna maidel, and a mensch. Well, hardly a girl anymore, I guess—she must be at least forty by now. Her mother and I were quite close, even though she was several years younger than me, so I saw a lot of Sara when she was growing up. I have not seen her much lately except once a year, but we have kept in touch by telephone and I still write to her mother.”

“So what about her?”

“Well,” I said, leaning toward Mrs. K with my voice very much lowered, “and this is just between you and me and the sofa, Sara once told me that she had a good friend—I do not recall her name, if Sara even mentioned it—who has a most unusual profession.”

“And what is this profession?” Mrs. K asked. “Is she one of those mystic persons who can see through walls? Will she look into a crystal ball and tell us what is in the rooms?”

“No, no,” I assured her. And here I lowered my voice even more, not wanting that any of the snoopy ladies sitting nearby should hear. “She is by profession a burglar—she breaks into people’s houses and takes things!”

“A burglar!” exclaimed Mrs. K, so loudly that I had to put my hand over her mouth and say “sha!” before we attracted attention.

“Yes,” I said quietly, “and apparently she is good at it. And so I am just thinking, if we could convince my niece Sara to talk her friend the burglar into helping us to search the rooms of the people on that list…”

At this Mrs. K looked skeptical. In fact, she looked at me like I was a little meshugge. And I have to admit that when I heard myself actually say this to her, it did not sound like as good an idea as when it was still in my head.

“Are you suggesting,” Mrs. K said, now in a whisper, “that we hire a real burglar to break into and search these people’s rooms?” And here she indicated the list in her lap. She sounded indignant that I would even suggest such a thing.

I was not surprised she was indignant. After all, it took some chutzpah to imply that a proper lady like Mrs. K would stoop to committing a crime against another person, even to save herself from trouble such as she was in.

“Well, not exactly hire,” I said. “More like ask a favor.”

“And just why should this burglar person do us, perfect strangers, such a favor?” Mrs. K asked. And it was a reasonable question.

“I hadn’t thought of that. But I suppose she would be doing the favor for Sara, and Sara would be doing it for me, and I would be doing it for you.”

To my surprise, Mrs. K now looked as if she was actually considering the possibility, which just shows you how badly she wanted to get to the bottom of this mishmash, this mess she was in. “Yes,” she replied, “but even so, that is an awfully big favor for us to ask your Sara, and for her to ask her friend the burglar.”

I had to admit she was right about that. But we finally agreed that there was no harm in asking, so it was at least worth a try.

“I will telephone to Sara right away,” I said, “and we shall see what we shall see.”

20

I left Mrs. K making more notes on her list and went to my own room. There I looked up Sara’s telephone number. It took me a while to get up the nerve to phone, because I wasn’t sure how she would react to being asked such a thing, or for that matter how I would ask. “How is your mother, and by the way could we borrow your burglar for a while?”

But at last I convinced myself that Sara and I were close enough that she would understand, or at least forgive me for asking.

I dialed and I was much relieved that Sara answered the phone. One cannot very well leave such a message on one of those blabbing answer machines! It would be like entrusting a secret to the town yenta!

“How are you, Sara? This is your Aunt Ida,” I began.

“Auntie Ida! How nice to hear from you. What can I do for you?”

This was the difficult part, of course. “Well, Sara dear, it is a little hard to explain. Do you remember telling me that a friend of yours was a…was engaged in…took things from people’s houses for a living?”

Sara laughed. “You mean my friend Florence? Yes, that’s right. Why?”

“Well, you see, dear, my good friend Rose Kaplan, whom you have met a few times when you were here at the Home…”

“Yes, I remember Mrs. Kaplan. A tall lady, very nice, and very sharp as I recall.”

“Yes, that is her. Now if you are sitting down comfortable, let me tell you why I am calling.” And I proceeded to tell Sara the whole story about Bertha Finkelstein’s strange death in the matzoh ball soup, Daisy Goldfarb’s stolen earrings, and how the police now suspected Mrs. K of both. Sara did not interrupt, except with an occasional “uh huh” or “no kidding,” and I had no way to know if she was understanding the pickle that we were in. Finally, I got to the difficult part:

“And so, Sara dear, Mrs. K and I are wondering whether you might ask your friend…your Florence…whether she might be willing to…well, to snoop around a little in the rooms of these three individuals who are left on Mrs. K’s list. Just a look around, you understand, to see if certain items are there.”

I was holding my breath for Sara’s answer. I would not have been surprised if she had said that she wouldn’t think of suggesting such a thing to her friend. So I was greatly relieved when she said, “You know, that’s not such a bad idea. Of course, I don’t know what my friend Flo will think of it. It’s easy enough to suggest such a thing, but we wouldn’t be the ones taking the risk, would we? And what’s in it for Flo? Wouldn’t it be like asking a mechanic to fix your friend’s car for free?”

I had no good answer for that. Neither Mrs. K nor I have much money, barely enough to hire a professional mechanic, much less a professional thief!

“Flo might,” Sara continued, “say that she’ll do it, but if she finds something particularly interesting while she is, as you say, ‘snooping,’ and she happens to leave with that something in her possession and neglects to tell us about it…”

It was maybe a good thing that Sara couldn’t see me, because I probably looked shocked when I heard this. Of course there is a big difference between snooping and taking! I was torn between my wanting to save Mrs. K from those policemen, and the fact that I have always been a good law-abiding person, as has Mrs. K. (I do not count things like maybe sometimes keeping the extra change when the cashier makes a mistake in my favor, which I always consider is just their way of making up for the times when the mistake is in their favor.)

“Well,” I said at last, “I don’t think we could agree to that. But let us wait and see if that is what your friend says.”

Sara laughed. “Sure. I was just guessing anyway.”

So it was decided that Sara would ask her friend Florence for this big favor as soon as she could.

I was much relieved and thanked her several times, although in fact we did not even know what her burglar friend would say. After some chit-chat about family, I hung up and went back to report the good news—so far—to Mrs. K. I decided it was better not to tell her about the possibility of the burglar taking something away with her. Do not stir up sleeping dogs until the horse is out of the barn, I always say.

21

Sunday afternoon, before dinner, Sara telephoned me. I had been nervous about this since I talked with her, but from the sound of her voice, I was encouraged.

“Auntie Ida, I have good news,” she began. “My friend Flo has agreed to help us out. But first I have to get a bunch of information from you and Mrs. Kaplan, and I have to come and take a look around.”

I was pleased with this news, but I was also a bissel confused.

“Why does this Florence not come herself and ask her questions?”

Sara laughed. “Because she doesn’t want you to meet her in person. I’m the only one who knows about her…her profession, and she wants to keep it that way.”

This I could understand, because of course this lady does not go around telling everyone that she is a burglar. It would be bad for business. If she wanted that Sara should be the only one who was in the know on this, it was all right with me.

“So, Auntie Ida, you’ll have to tell me all the details, and I’ll tell them to Flo,” Sara said. “I’ll come to visit you tomorrow morning, and we can discuss the things that Flo needs to know, if that’s okay with you.”

And why should it not be okay? “I’m sure your friend is a very nice person,” I told her, “and we appreciate her offering to help; but the fewer ganovim—thieves—I meet in this lifetime, the better.”

—

That evening, Mrs. K and I were sitting at our table in the dining room as the staff was serving dinner. We were deep in conversation about, well, you know about what, and we did not notice that someone had come up to the table. He cleared his throat loudly, and for the second time this week we were startled by Frank. I was wondering how long he had been standing there, and what he might have heard us saying.

“Hello again, Frank,” Mrs. K said, just as coolly as she did in Rosenkrantz’s shop. “Did you find that trumpet you were looking for?”

“Uh, no,” Frank said, rather timidly, and then he was silent. He seemed to want to say something further, but could not decide whether to do so. Finally, he got up the courage and said, “Ladies, I want to apologize for being so rude the other day in the pawnshop. It’s just that, well, I was embarrassed to tell you the real reason I was there.”

“You mean,” said Mrs. K kindly, “it was not to buy a trumpet.”

“No. I’ve never played the trumpet, and I have no intention of starting. Actually, I was there to see what I could get for my wedding ring. I feel terrible that I was trying to sell it, but my wife and I are expecting a baby and, well, with her having been so ill last year and now not able to work because of the baby, we’re really strapped for cash. I thought maybe I could pawn the ring, and then when things improve I could buy it back.”

Mrs. K and I looked at each other, and I bet we were thinking the same thing. All those pretty rings in the case we were standing over probably were only supposed to be there until “things improved.”

“Anyway,” Frank continued, and now he was talking quite fast, as if he was eager to tell us, “I got as far as asking Mr. Rosenkrantz how much he would give me for it. But when it came to actually selling it, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sell the ring. And when you asked me what I was doing there, I couldn’t admit that I had even considered selling it.” He paused and looked at both of us and then asked, “You do understand, don’t you?”

From the way she looked at me, it was clear that Mrs. K believed Frank was telling the truth about why he was in the pawnshop, and I believed it too. He was either sincere, or he was a good actor, even better than that nice Jewish movie star I like so much, the one who changed his name to Tony Curtis, and this seemed unlikely. Mrs. K took Frank’s hand in both of hers and said, “Of course we understand. It is a terrible thing to be in such a position as you find yourself, and I’m sure you will find a better way out than selling your wedding ring.”

“I’m sure I will,” Frank said. “And again I apologize for my rudeness. I’m glad I had a chance to explain.” And with that he took his hand back from Mrs. K and continued with his serving.

I was waiting to see how long it would take before Mrs. K took out her notebook and made another entry. It was only a minute, maybe two.

22

On Monday morning, Sara came to visit at the Home. We met her in the lounge. She was looking prettier than ever, and as usual she was smiling and cheerful. It is one of the things I like most about her.

I put my arm around Sara’s waist and said to Mrs. K, “Rose, you remember Sara Mandel, my younger sister’s daughter, do you not?”

“Of course,” Mrs. K answered. “I also remember the delicious box of chocolates that you brought Ida last Chanukah, because she was nice enough to share them with me. Not that I needed the calories, of course.”

She and Sara continued with some small talk, and after I inquired after Sara’s mother (who she said is in good health), we went out to the garden. The air was fragrant and warm, and again I wished we were talking about a more pleasant subject, or just enjoying the pretty flowers; but again we were not.

We found a nice secluded bench, a fancy cement one with painted on it a lot of those naked flying babies the Romans are so fond of.

Sara is, like I was saying, a nice-looking girl in her early forties, slim and well-proportioned, as they say. She has her mother’s beautiful dark hair, and when she smiles it is like the sun has just come out. She is also a good-hearted girl, always ready to help a friend or someone in the family. But this was a kind of help I did not like to ask of anyone, even Sara.

Once we were all seated and enjoying the sun on our faces, Mrs. K asked Sara, “So was it hard to convince your friend Florence to…to help us?”

“Well, maybe just a little,” Sara said. “As it happened, I was scheduled to have lunch with Flo the next day. When I first mentioned it to her, she was almost as surprised as I had been. She seemed kind of dubious about the idea, and she didn’t give me an answer right away.

“After she’d finished her berry pie à la mode—I really don’t know how she keeps her figure, the way she puts away desserts—she asked me how I felt about it. ‘If you were me, would you do it for them?’

“Of course I said yes, but then I’m in a different position, aren’t I? I mean, Auntie Ida here is family. She’s always been good to me and to my mother, and I owe her the favor.” She turned and looked at me and smiled. Such a sweet smile she has.

I did not think Sara owed me anything, but it was nice of her to think so. She continued: “I also explained my concern about who you might turn to if we didn’t help. I guess I sounded really anxious about that, because I was.”

I felt bad that Sara was worried about us, but like she said, we are mishpocha, family, and I suppose it is understandable.

“So what did your friend finally say?” I asked.

“She thought about it for a while, and then she said, ‘I’ll do it. But really, I’d be doing it for you as much as for them.’ I protested she didn’t owe me anything, but Flo insisted she did, for all the times I helped her out of jams. I think she said something like, if I hadn’t helped her, she might be talking to me from behind bars instead of a lunch table.”

Sara laughed at this, but the mention of someone being put behind bars made me again wish I had not suggested we hire a burglar, especially one who sometimes gets rescued by my niece. Mrs. K, who was never comfortable with the idea, was also looking concerned, and we exchanged an “oy vey” glance.

“Do you really think there would be much risk of anyone ending up…‘behind bars,’ as you put it?” I asked. “Because if there is…”

Sara patted my hand to reassure me. “No, I really don’t think so. In fact, I told Flo I wouldn’t want her to take any big risk on my behalf, or yours. But she insisted it wasn’t really much of a risk as long as she had all of the information she’d need to do the job properly.”

“And that is why you are here today? To get this information?” Mrs. K asked.

“Right. Flo said that most failed burglaries are because of something the burglar didn’t know about the place, something they only find out when it’s too late. Like the location of the alarm or the presence of the guard dog. If she knows everything she needs to know, there won’t be any nasty surprises.”

Yes, surprises were exactly what we did not need, especially the nasty ones.

“As I told Auntie Ida, Flo said I’d have to get that information for her, because she didn’t want to come here in person. If I remember right, she actually said, ‘This time you can be an accessory before the fact, not just after.’ ”

Another oy vey moment. But I kept quiet and we plunged ahead.

“Flo then handed me a piece of paper and a pen and dictated a list of questions I was to ask you, and other things I was to find out by observation here at the Home.” She took what I suppose was that piece of paper out of her pocketbook to show us.

Mrs. K took the paper, which appeared to be a list of instructions of some kind, glanced at it, and handed it back to her. Then she and I told Sara the details of the story that she did not already know. Finally, Mrs. K took out her own list, the names of possible suspects, which she had now transferred from her notebook to a new piece of paper. After each name, she had written the number of the person’s room.

I had not seen the new list, so until now I did not know who she had added and who she had crossed off. I looked over her shoulder and read the names. I was surprised to see who was added; but there was no time to ask why, so I just sat quietly and tried to figure out what Mrs. K had in mind.

“Now all we want your friend to do,” Mrs. K explained to Sara, “is to have a look around each of these rooms, with what you might call a burglar’s eye. I mean, she will know the kind of places people tend to hide things they don’t want found, won’t she?”

“I would think so,” Sara said. “And what exactly is she looking for, Mrs. Kaplan?”

“Please, call me Rose. For a single earring she is looking. One that looks like this.” And Mrs. K pulled out of her pocket a sketch she had made of the missing earring, the duplicate of the one that poor Bertha had the misfortune to swallow.

Sara reached into her purse and took out a notepad like a secretary uses and made some notes on it. Such a good girl—always prepared.

“And if she finds it, should she take it and give it to you?” Sara asked Mrs. K.

“Oh, no, no,” said Mrs. K quickly, as if Sara had suggested handing her a smoking pistol. “She should leave it exactly where it is. If it were found in my possession, I would be pickled like a herring! We just need to know it is there.”

Sara crossed something out and then wrote more notes.

“And here are a couple of other things she should please be looking for while she is there,” Mrs. K added, handing Sara another small piece of paper.

Sara glanced at the new list and then tucked it away in her pocket and said, “Flo asked me to find out when would be the best time to, uh, to do this thing. Is there a time when these people will definitely be out of their rooms?”

“Yes, I was coming to that,” Mrs. K said. “Tomorrow evening, there is a big recital in the auditorium of the Home. Mario Bernardi, the famous tenor (whose real name is Marty Bernard, a nice Jewish boy, but that is beside the point), he is in town on a tour, and it so happens a friend of his mother lives at the Home. So he has agreed to give a small recital, and almost everyone will be there.”

“How long should this recital take?”

“I would think about an hour,” Mrs. K said. “But afterward there is a big reception with kugel and coffee and maybe the tenor, he signs autographs. So the whole affair should take at least two hours.”

“Beginning when?”

“7:30 promptly. Dinner will be over by 6:30, and that will give the staff time to clean up and the residents time to dress for the recital. It is a big deal to have such fancy entertainment.”

Sara made another scribble in her notes, saying, “This all sounds fine, although of course Flo is the professional, so she’ll know if it’s enough information.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. K, “it is about this profession I have wanted to ask you, if you don’t mind.”

Sara smiled and said, “What did you want to ask?”

“It is about your friend. I guess I am curious, especially since we are, in a way, hiring her for this…this job, how it is she happens to be a lady burglar. And how you happen to be friends with her.”

When Mrs. K mentioned the word “burglar,” I looked around to see if anyone was nearby who might have overheard. There was no one, but I continued to watch nervously during the entire discussion, afraid that our plan to hire a ganif might be discovered. It is not, after all, the kind of thing proper ladies are supposed to be discussing in the garden of the Julius and Rebecca Cohen Home for Jewish Seniors.

Sara seemed a little reluctant to answer Mrs. K’s question, and I couldn’t blame her, as she had already made it clear that being a burglar is not something her friend Florence wishes to advertise. But after thinking about it for a moment, Sara said, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you a bit about Flo. And maybe you’ll think she’s an awful person, or we both are; but I hope not.”

“I am sure I won’t think anything of the kind,” Mrs. K said. But she did not sound entirely convincing, and of course we had yet to hear what Sara had to say.

“Okay,” Sara said. “Just a bit of Flo’s background. She used to be a housecleaner, among other jobs she’d tried, but several things caused her to change professions. Mainly, she wanted to be her own boss; she wanted an intellectual—and physical—challenge; she seems to thrive on taking risks and living on the edge, so to speak; and frankly, she succumbed to the temptation created by all the valuable jewels, paintings, and other goodies that she was constantly surrounded by in the homes she cleaned. Flo had a high-class clientele.

“As a basically honest person—as far as I know, burglary is her one small blind spot in that regard—she didn’t want to violate the trust that her housecleaning clients had placed in her.” If burglary is a small blind spot, I am thinking, would murder just be a slightly larger one? “So she never took anything that didn’t belong to her from the houses she cleaned.”

Mrs. K interrupted to say, “Honest maybe, but wouldn’t she also be afraid that the cleaning lady would be the first person suspected if the family jewels suddenly disappeared?”

Sara laughed. “Yes, I’m sure that also entered into it,” she agreed. “So all in all, she thought the best thing to do was to change her job from cleaning houses to, you might say, cleaning them out.”

Mrs. K and I exchanged a glance. I have heard of changing careers, but becoming a ganif? Oy vey!

“I see,” Mrs. K said. “And did you know your friend was making this…this change?”

“Not right away. Flo told me about it after she had made up her mind. She probably didn’t want to be talked out of it. But she didn’t tell anyone else. Flo and I have been friends for many years, since school, and I’m the only person in whom she’s confided.”

I myself was finding this story quite fascinating, because although I knew about Sara’s friend being a burglar, I had never heard the details of how it came about. I was wondering what I would do if Mrs. K suddenly told me she had decided to become a burglar. But the thought was so silly I just chuckled to myself and asked Sara, “How did you feel when your friend told you this? It must have been quite a shock.”

Sara kind of rolled her eyes. “I definitely was surprised to find out what she was doing. I mean, suppose your best friend worked for a bank, and one day she said to you, ‘By the way, I’ve decided to change jobs, from bank teller to bank robber. I’ll probably have to get new business cards printed.’ What does one say?”

“You tried to talk her out of it?” Mrs. K asked.

“Oh, I made an effort, but she’d pretty well made up her mind. I may be rationalizing this, but I felt a bit like a person whose best friend is an alcoholic. One’s impulse is not to shun them or moralize, but to try to help.”

This was a shock. “You don’t help her to…to burgle, do you?” I asked. Oy, that is all I need, a ganif in the family yet.

Sara laughed and patted my arm. “No, no, nothing like that. I told her right off I didn’t want any part of her little capers.”

I relaxed. But then she said, “However, I have had to help her out of some tight jams she’s gotten herself into. And let me tell you it has been exciting—a bit too exciting at times.”

Neither Mrs. K nor I wanted to hear the details of such excitement.

“As long as you are comfortable with what your friend is doing,” Mrs. K said, “that is all that counts.” But she again did not sound like she meant it.

“I guess I am, at least by now. But when Auntie Ida called and said she and her friend wanted Flo to break into some of the rooms at the retirement home, I was really taken aback. After all, it’s one thing when your best friend tells you she wants to become a burglar; it’s quite another when your sweet old aunt tells you she wants to hire one!”

What could I say? So I said nothing.

“But you and your friend did decide to help us, and we certainly appreciate it,” Mrs. K said.

“Well, after Auntie Ida had explained the circumstances, and how you were being unfairly accused of this crime, I decided it wasn’t for me to try to talk you out of it; truth be known, like Flo said, by helping her get out of jams, I myself had already been, technically at least, an accessory after the fact of several of Flo’s felonies and misdemeanors.”

Something else I did not need to hear. I do not know exactly what is an “accessory,” but I am pretty sure it is something like the opposite of “innocent bystander.”

“So I decided I would carry the message to Flo, without passing judgment on it or on you. Besides, I rationalized, if you couldn’t hire an honest burglar like Flo, you might try instead to hire one who wasn’t so trustworthy and who might take advantage of you.”

It is true. As my mother would have said, better to be in bed with the wolf you know than the wolf you don’t.

At this point Sara said she had to leave soon, so we should finish our business. She examined the notes she had taken, including those her friend had dictated, seemed satisfied, and then asked, “May I see the rooms in question, so I can describe their location to Flo?”

“Of course, a good idea,” Mrs. K said. She rose. Sara had to help me up, as sitting on that stone bench did not do my back any good. Once I was straightened up, we walked over to the residential wing and made like we were having a casual stroll by the rooms in question.

23

The residential rooms are all on one floor. There are several sections of wide corridor, well lighted and separated by fire doors along the way. The apartment doors go down both sides of the corridor. Each door has a resident’s name next to it, and between the doors on one side are nice padded chairs, small square tables with fancy lamps that are always turned on, and several longer tables, each with a pretty vase or statue on it. To tell the truth, I do not understand why we need these bigger tables—they just make more work for the staff keeping them dusted. But perhaps they are supposed to make the Home look like the house of some rich macher: Who else can afford to have fancy tables on which he only puts a few flowers? Anyway, the other side of the corridor has only a wooden rail for people who cannot walk without holding on. At least on that side there are no useless tables to get in their way.

We passed first Isaac Taubman’s room, which is closest to the common area, and then we proceeded down the hall past the rooms of Daisy Goldfarb, Mr. Isaac Klein, Mrs. Deborah McLean (her husband was not Jewish, but a mensch just the same), past my room and Mrs. K’s, around the corner past the door of Marian Levin, and finally, passing many more doors, all the way to the far end. In that section is Bertha Finkelstein’s room, which was locked up and waiting for her relatives to arrive and make an inventory of her belongings. The staff had already taken her nameplate off the wall next to her door. I do not like to think about it.

Sara took more notes on her pad. She did not ask a lot of questions, so I assumed everything was clear and there were no problems she could foresee for her friend. And why should there be? What could be simpler than a well-lit corridor and a nice big door with the resident’s name next to it? No poking around in the dark looking for the door or how to get in!

Next we went outside to the back lawn. We had to walk on the lawn itself—there is no path, I suppose because no one usually walks there except to mow the lawn and tend the flower beds. But the lawn is available to be used by the residents if they wish, and sometimes we stroll on it or even have a picnic on a nice day. A wooden fence about six feet high separates this back lawn area from the street. It is just an ordinary fence—none of that ugly wire with the sharp teeth that you see sometimes at the top of fences, which is a good thing, so it shouldn’t look like we are being held prisoner.

We strolled by the outside windows in back of the rooms—there are two windows for each room—and Sara took still more notes. (Such a good secretary she must have made.) She frowned a bit, but again she did not ask any questions. I suppose when you’ve seen one window, you’ve seen them all.

“Since these windows all look alike, at least to me, we’ll have to tell Flo the number of rooms, or windows, from the end of the building to the rooms you want her to search, in case she decides to go in from back here,” Sara said. Mrs. K nodded.

Sara now seemed to be paying particular attention to the floodlights that are on the ends of the building, even tapping on the little tunnel that runs from the lights down the side and into the building. The lights were added after the Home was built, and I think this is where the electric wires were put.

Sara asked where my room was. We had a little trouble deciding because, as Sara commented, all the windows do look alike, and both of us had closed our blinds to keep out the afternoon sun; but by looking inside one that was open we recognized whose it was and counted from there. Sara went right up to my room and seemed to be examining closely the window, which was open, and writing something down. I asked what she was looking for.

“Well, Flo told me to notice the type of windows you had. These, you can see, are what they call awning windows, because of how they’re hinged at the top and open outward. They’re locked, as you know, by this handle thingy that turns and engages a slot at the bottom of the window frame.” She turned the handle and demonstrated. Of course, I know how to lock the window, but I never really thought much about how it worked. In fact, I seldom lock the window, and I doubt many others do, as there has never been any problem with break-ins (until now, of course). I told this to Sara and she immediately made a note of it.

She then opened the window out as far as it would go, no doubt to see if her friend could fit through it. I didn’t think so, but I kept quiet and let Sara do her job. She looked especially closely at some writing on the handle, which I could not read without my reading glasses—ah, to have eyes like that again—and of course made a note.

“Flo told me to be sure to find out the brand of lock the windows use. You can see the windows don’t open out very far. Flo says with the older style of window and with certain brands of lock, it’s relatively easy to defeat the detent mechanism that keeps them from opening wider, but with modern windows it’s much harder.”

Who knew? An education in burglary we were getting.

—

We returned to the lounge, on the way counting the number of rooms to the important ones as Sara had asked. Sara said she would take all of the information back to her friend, and she would telephone me if she needed anything further. Then she gave me a kiss on the cheek, squeezed Mrs. K’s hand, and turned to leave. But Mrs. K still had hold of her hand, and she seemed reluctant to let it go.

“Sara, dear,” she said, “you won’t say a word of this to anyone but your friend, will you? I feel very bad about asking someone to break the law like this, I who always pride myself on being a good citizen. I couldn’t stand it if anyone found out.” She sounded quite upset.

It was not like Mrs. K, who as I have said is quite a strong person, to be this emotional, and it just showed what tsuris—distress—she was going through. For her sake, I hoped we were making a good decision.

“You don’t have to worry about that, Rose,” Sara replied, putting her arm around Mrs. K. “I’ve had a lot of practice keeping Flo’s professional life a secret, and of course she isn’t likely to tell anyone. Even if she were somehow caught, she would never say she was there because of you.”

The thought of the burglar lady being “caught” I had tried not to think until then. And even though Florence had told Sara there wasn’t much chance of it if she planned properly, it was always possible. Suddenly I was feeling a cold chill down my spine, and it was not because the air conditioning was on. Yes, what if this burglar was caught in one of the rooms? Then we would all be in the soup!

Mrs. K, however, did not seem to be extra upset by what Sara said. And after giving both of us another hug, Sara was gone.

I and Mrs. K looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing.

Like the Romans say: The cast it is dyed.

24

About an hour and a half after Sara left, I received a telephone call from her.

I and Mrs. K had been anxious to hear what the burglar lady had said, and I got right to the point.

“So what did your friend Florence say when you gave her the information?”

Sara sounded a bissel unhappy. “Well, it’s sort of good news and bad news.”

Why is it that there is almost never just plain good news, but always it is this “good news and bad news” thing that spoils it?

“Nu, so what is the good news?”

“The good news is Flo is still willing to do the job.”

“Mazel tov. And the bad news?”

“The bad news is that Flo said she wouldn’t be able to search all of the rooms in the time you said she’d have.”

“Not all the rooms? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. She was pretty adamant about it.”

“But how long could it take to go in a few doors, look around, and come out again?”

Sara laughed. “Turns out it’s not quite that simple. Maybe it’d be best if I repeat what Flo told me so you’ll understand, and you can explain to Mrs. Kaplan.”

“Yes, please do that. I know she will not be happy about it, but I am sure there is a good reason.”

“Okay, so first I described the ‘lay of the land,’ so to speak, what you had shown me about the rooms and the corridors and the back windows and all that.”

“And was all of that satisfactory to her?” I asked.

“Well, yes and no,” she answered. Again not a straight this way or that way, but a wishy-washy “a bissel this, a bissel that.” Nothing is simple these days. Never is there a straight answer.

“I don’t know from ‘yes and no,’ ” I said. “Either she has the information she needs or she does not, no?”

Again Sara laughed. “Well, yes, she does. It’s just not all that she would like it to be. For example, I told her there was a long corridor that jogs around a couple of corners, a good six feet wide and brightly lit by overhead lights and table lamps. Maybe fifty or more doors, all identical, along both sides of the corridor, each with a handicap-type handle and a deadbolt, and a nameplate next to it. I noticed that Flo didn’t seem pleased with the picture I was describing.

“I asked her if something was wrong, because it seemed like a pretty simple setup to me.

“She said, ‘Well, let me put it this way: If you were going to break into a house at night, would you choose to do it at a large, well-lighted front door with two sturdy locks, located right on the only sidewalk people in that neighborhood use?’

“I saw what she meant and said no, I’d prefer a small, dark door with a cheap lock, located where no one ever bothers to pass by.”

I had to admit I saw also what she meant.

“So then I figured she’d probably want to hear about the back windows, since there are only the two ways into the rooms, front door and back window. Unless, of course, there’s a basement she could tunnel up from.”

I assured her I was unaware of any such basement, but she said she was not serious about the tunnel anyway.

“So I told her what I had noticed about the type of windows they were, the locks, the fence around the back lawn, all of that. She seemed to think it was not ideal, but she said it probably would be okay for her purposes.”

“Okay is good enough,” I said. “So you were telling me about the bad news.”

“Right. After I described everything, Flo wanted to know about how much time she would have to complete the job and get away. I said about two hours, while this opera singer is giving a recital in the social hall, and that just about everyone would be there.

“She said, ‘I hope “just about” includes the people in these rooms.’ ”

I said I was sure Mrs. Kaplan would’ve said if it didn’t. In fact, I remembered her mentioning that one of the rooms was occupied by a woman who they were sure would be at the recital, because she was one of the people who helped to arrange it.

“Anyway, she said that two hours is not enough time to do all of these rooms, having to get the windows open and climb in and all. Not with the margin for error she would need to have.”

“So how many rooms does she think she could search in that time?” I asked.

Sara said, “Flo looked at the diagram and then closed her eyes and seemed to be picturing the scene. When she opened them again, she said, given that there are floodlights to deal with, and she doesn’t know about the window locks for sure, she’d need to have at least an hour for each room. So two rooms max.”

“Only two?” I said. “You are right, this is not good news.”

“Yes, I told Flo this would be a disappointment to you ladies, but I certainly wasn’t going to suggest that she take any more chances than she was comfortable with.”

“Of course not,” I replied. “We appreciate what your friend is doing for us, and we will just have to be satisfied.”

This was easy to say, but I knew Mrs. K would not be happy about it. She would have to choose where it was most important to snoop.

I hoped she would choose to snoop the right ones.

—

I relayed to Mrs. K what Sara had told me. As expected, she was not happy to hear it, but she said she understood and that we should not look a gift horse in the pisk.

“The only thing I can do,” she said, “is to decide which two rooms I most want the burglar to look at.”

So after a few minutes of thinking about this, she looked up, sighed, and told me the two names that I should tell to Sara, who would tell them to her friend.

And then we could only wait.

25

Tuesday evening was the big deal recital. Like Mrs. K said, everybody was there, like it was Rosh Hashanah, and dressed just as fancy. Well, everybody was there except those not able to leave their rooms, and for them the staff set up a recorder machine so they could see it at another time.

Ordinarily, I and Mrs. K would have been enjoying Mr. Bernard’s recital (or Mr. Bernardi’s, if you prefer—so playing like he’s Italian makes him a better opera singer?), as we both like to go to the opera and we never hear a famous opera singer “close and personal,” as they say. But instead we both were shvitzing, perspiring like it was ninety degrees inside, because we knew that while the tenor was singing, our burglar was burglaring.

I think we both now wanted to call off the snooping, to get Sara to tell her friend not to bother. We had the cold feet, in spite of our shvitzing!

The recital was very nice, however, and when Bernardi was through singing everybody clapped loudly, which was probably just as well, because maybe it would warn the burglar lady that the recital was over and she should hurry up.

We were even more nervous during the reception, because we were then even closer to finding out whether all of our shvitzing was for nothing. Neither of us could eat any of the delicious apple kugel; well, maybe we did have just a bissel to keep our spirits up. And a chocolate candy or two. And some coffee, although I would have preferred a nice cup of tea.

Before long the reception too was over, and it was still about fifteen minutes short of the two hours that Mrs. K had estimated. We had no way to keep it going or to stop everyone from going back to their rooms, which they began to do. I was praying that the burglar lady had already finished her work and was a long time gone, and I am sure Mrs. K was doing the same, not that we would have expected God to help someone to break the law. But maybe this would be the exception, as it was in a good cause. It couldn’t hurt.

Mrs. K and I made our way to the residential wing, almost having to hold each other up, so nervous we were when we passed the doors behind which might still be our burglar. Just as we reached the first such door, with several other residents nearby, there was a loud clunk noise that seemed to come from behind it. I was surprised my heart didn’t jump right out of my body, and I was ready to plotz right there on the spot.

Mrs. K, however, she did not panic. What she did do was to drop her purse on the floor and say loudly to me, “What a klutz I am, not looking where I was going!” Several residents looked over and assumed the noise they heard was Mrs. K bumping into one of the tables against the wall.

When no one showed any more interest in the noise that we heard, Mrs. K picked up her purse and, with a big sigh of “Oy vey,” took my arm and we continued down the hall.

We went to our rooms and tried to sleep—we did not expect to hear from Sara until the next morning at the earliest. I did not sleep very well, and the time went by slowly. Both are unusual at my age.

—

In the morning, Mrs. K and I were too nervous to go to breakfast, but we took some chocolate macaroons and tea back to my room to wait. It was ten o’clock before the telephone finally rang. I almost spilled my tea as I quickly reached for the telephone and then almost dropped the receiver before I could say, “Hello, Sara?”

At first there was silence, then, “No, this is Pupik. Is Mrs. Kaplan there with you?”

What a disappointment. But I took a deep breath and said, “Yes, just a minute,” and I handed the telephone to Mrs. K, telling her, “It is Pupik. He wants to speak to you.” She looked puzzled but took the receiver and said, “Hello?”

Mrs. K listened, and then she said, “Yes, all right, and I shall bring Mrs. Berkowitz with me again.” She then listened some more, her brow wrinkling like she was not very pleased at what she was hearing. To whatever Pupik had said, she replied, “You want I should bring my lawyer instead?” Whatever Pupik answered to that, it caused Mrs. K to smile. After she hung up the telephone, for a few moments she did not say anything. She just stared in front of her, like she was thinking deep thoughts. Finally I could not wait any longer.

“Nu, so what did Pupik have to say already?”

She seemed to snap out of her thinking and looked at me. “He told me he had just received a call from that Detective Corcoran. He and that other policeman will be here Friday morning, and Pupik wants me to come to his office ‘promptly at ten o’clock’ to meet with them.”

“And am I to come along?”

“Oh, yes. He wanted I should come by myself, but I insisted you must be there too. He just needed a bit of…persuasion. I have a feeling this meeting will be the one where either we convince the policemen that I am innocent and they should leave me alone, or they will get more serious about trying to prove I am guilty. And then I really will need a lawyer. So I am very much hoping we hear good news from your niece Sara, and that it is soon that we hear it.”

I was of course hoping the same thing.

26

It was not until 11:30 that morning that the telephone again rang. Mrs. K and I looked at each other anxiously. I picked up the receiver and again I said, “Hello.” This time I did not assume it was Sara on the other end.

But this time it was Sara.

“How are you, Auntie Ida?” she said cheerily.

I was not in such a cheery mood, but I tried to sound like I was. “I am fine, thank you; but Mrs. Kaplan and I are anxious we should hear what it is that your friend Florence found last night.” I was very much hoping that what she found would not turn out to be bupkis—nothing.

“Well,” Sara said, in almost a teasing way, “I think Flo has some news for you, but she wants to tell you herself. Is it okay if I put her on the line? Is Mrs. Kaplan there also?”

“Yes, she is here. Do you want I should put her on the phone?”

“Do you have an extension so that both of you can talk?”

“Well, yes, but it is in the bathroom—it is mostly for using in an emergency—but I suppose one of us could use that.”

“Good. You get Mrs. Kaplan on the other phone, and I’ll give the phone here to Flo.”

I would not, of course, have thought of suggesting that Mrs. K go and sit in my tiny bathroom to talk on the phone, although I assure you I keep it nice and neat and clean. It just would not have been dignified. So I handed the phone to Mrs. K, telling her that the burglar lady wanted to speak to her in person, and I went and sat on the seat of the place where one does one’s business and picked up the emergency telephone.

Mrs. K now said, “Hello, is this Florence?” And now on the other end of the line was a voice I did not recognize. It was strong and confident-sounding.

“Hello, yes, this is Florence, but please call me Flo. Is this Ida?”

“No, this is Rose Kaplan, and you can call me Rose. I think Ida is in the bathroom.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, should we wait for her to finish?” asked the new voice.

“No, no, you misunderstand,” I said. “I am here in the bathroom on the telephone. It is the only other one I have in my room here at the Home.”

“Oh, I see. Okay, then shall I go ahead and tell you about last night?”

“Please do,” said Mrs. K, perhaps sounding a little more anxious than she would have liked. But who could blame her? I was anxious too, and it was not me who was maybe being arrested tomorrow for theft, or worse.

“Well, you asked me to look for certain things in two of the rooms there at the Home, and as you know I was there last night.”

“Actually,” Mrs. K said, “we did not know for sure. We were hoping you had been here, but as we heard about it from no one, we assumed either you did not come, or you did your coming and going very quietly, without anyone, including us, knowing you were here.” I did not mention the noise we heard and how Mrs. K covered it over.

“Well, yes, that’s usually the general idea in my line of work. So anyway, I was there and I was able to get into the first of the two rooms in question from the outside, through the window.”

I was glad to hear this. I had not wanted her to be taking any big risks on our behalf, and I told her so.

There was for some reason a long pause at the other end of the phone, but then the burglar lady said, “No, of course not” and changed the subject, saying, “You might want to let your administrator there know that those old-style locks on the windows are pretty useless at stopping a determined professional from getting in. In fact, even a determined toddler could probably manage, although it might take him a bit longer.”

“Yes, certainly I will tell him,” Mrs. K said, “but please go on and tell us what you found when you entered the rooms.”

“Sure, sorry. I tend to ramble. Okay, so in that first room, I found the earring that you described. Your sketch was actually pretty good, and once I looked in the right place, I was sure I had found the right one.”

Although I was in the bathroom and could not see Mrs. K when she heard this from the burglar lady, I could almost hear the sigh of relief she must have been letting out. I myself felt dizzy and almost fell over into the tub, but I managed to catch myself in time.

“Mazel tov!” exclaimed Mrs. K. “That is just what I wanted to hear. Now please tell me where you found it.”

“Well, it was pretty well hidden,” says the burglar lady. “It took me maybe ten minutes to find it. But when I looked on her closet shelf, way behind some sweaters, there was a small plastic bag there, and the earring was in that bag. Lingerie drawers and closet shelves are both common but poor hiding places, not difficult for a snoop like me.”

Mrs. K was silent for a moment, and then she said, “Yes, I will remember that. So did you find what I was looking for in the other room?”

Mrs. K had not shared her list of items with me before she gave it to Sara, so I was wondering to what she was referring.

Here there was a long pause again, and the burglar lady cleared her throat, and then she said, “Uh, I’m afraid there was kind of a hitch there.”

“A hitch? What is a hitch?” said Mrs. K. I too wanted to know. It did not sound good. Oy, was this another case of “good news/bad news”?

—

There was a silence on the phone, and then the burglar lady, Florence, she says, “You know, it might be better if I explained in person.”

“But I thought you didn’t want us to meet with you, only through Sara,” I said. It seemed to me she had been very clear about this.

“Yes, I know. But I’m sure I can trust you both to keep my little secret, just like Sara has.”

“That is not a problem,” said Mrs. K. “The fewer people who know I am meeting with a ganif, much less hiring one, the better. No offense intended.”

Florence laughed. “None taken. Why don’t we do this: If Sara can make it over to your place sometime this afternoon to pick you up, could you get away for an hour or so?”

Mrs. K put her hand over the phone and shouted to me, “That is okay with you, Ida?” I called back that it was, and so Mrs. K said into the phone, “That would be fine. But can’t you tell me now what you found?”

“I’d rather tell you the whole story, and not over the phone, if that’s all right.”

“If that’s what you want,” Mrs. K said. “Where shall we meet? Ida and I like the Garden Gate Café downtown. They have nice tea, and—”

Florence interrupted. “No, no. It’s better if we aren’t seen together. You know, just in case.”

I wanted to ask just in case what, and I’m sure Mrs. K wanted to also, but I think we both knew the answer to that, and Mrs. K just asked, “So where do you suggest?”

“I think either my or Sara’s apartment would be good. I’ll check what’s more convenient for her. Just a minute.” We heard some muffled speaking, apparently Florence talking with Sara, and then she comes back on the phone and says, “We’ll meet at Sara’s apartment. Is two o’clock okay for her to pick you up?”

“I think so,” Mrs. K said, adding, “Okay with you, Ida?”

I said it was, and then I remembered something that had been troubling me since my last conversation with Sara, and I decided I must ask the burglar lady a delicate question.

“May I ask you, and you do not have to answer if you do not want to: Did you happen to…to take away with you anything from this room? I understood this to be a possibility…”

Mrs. K, whom I never did tell about Sara’s mention of the burglar maybe taking something for her trouble, asked, “What are you talking about, Ida?”

But the burglar lady on the other end of the line only laughed and said, “No, I left everything just as it was. Shouldn’t I have?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “It is just that Sara told me you might want some kind of…some kind of payment for your trouble, being a professional person and all that. You might want to take away something with you.”

There was a long silence on the telephone, then the muffled sound of the burglar lady talking to someone there with her, who I again assumed was Sara. Then she laughed again, and when she caught her breath she said, “I see. Yes, Sara mentioned that, but I told her it wouldn’t be necessary. She must’ve neglected to tell you. No, I certainly wouldn’t steal anything from the ladies in an old folks’—I’m sorry, I mean a retirement home. That’s not my style. And besides, I agreed to do this job for you as a favor to Sara. People in my line of work can use a few good deeds to balance off the more, shall we say, questionable things we do. And it isn’t often that I have a chance to use my professional talents on what you might call the right side of the law. Or at least to catch a thief, instead of being one.”

I was relieved to hear this, as I am certain was Mrs. K. And my opinion of this Florence the burglar lady rose very much higher.

—

We hung up the phones and I joined Mrs. K in the bedroom, where is the other phone. I first made use of the toilet, since I was already there, and at my age, just being in a bathroom is usually enough suggestion to require it; and with all of the stress lately, well, you can imagine. When I entered the bedroom, Mrs. K was not looking happy, and I couldn’t blame her. Although the burglar lady had found part of the information Mrs. K was hoping to get, apparently there was some problem with getting the rest of it. A problem she didn’t want to discuss on the phone.

“So now we have to wait and see what is this ‘hitch,’ Ida,” Mrs. K said. “And we have to shlep over to Sara’s to do it. I just hope it is only a small hitch, because there is left only one small but important piece to the puzzle.”

I was never good at puzzles. It is an example of how differently Mrs. K’s mind works from mine, that she figures out puzzles in her head that I cannot even figure out on paper. But of course with this particular puzzle, who stole Daisy’s earrings and who killed Bertha Finkelstein, she needs all the help she can get.

27

At lunch neither of us said much, and we did not eat much either. Just a bissel lentil soup and maybe some corned beef. We were both on shpilkes, pins and needles, nervously waiting for Sara to come and pick us up and take us to the burglar lady.

Finally it was two o’clock, and only a minute or two after the hour Sara arrived. We were sitting in the lobby of the Home looking out the big glass front windows when an enormous car made its way up the circular driveway and around to the front door, where it stopped. It looked like one of those old cars like you see in magazine articles about the “good old days.” It was dark blue and had so much shiny metal on the front and side, with big rows of sparkly teeth in front, it looked like a fierce animal that was ready to leap on some poor smaller one.

To my surprise, though, it was Sara. Not the animal, but driving it. She stopped and got out of the car as Mrs. K and I got up to meet her.

“Am I late?” she said as she came through the big glass doors.

“Not at all,” said Mrs. K, “you are just on time. But what is that you are driving? I have never seen a car that big.”

Sara laughed. “Sure you have, just not in a while. Don’t you remember when they were all this big? It’s an old Buick that I inherited from my dad. I kind of like it, because it’s different, though it does guzzle a lot of gas.”

“I’m sure it does,” Mrs. K said, staring out at it.

“So let’s get started,” Sara said, and she took my arm and escorted me out to the big car, as Mrs. K followed. She opened the doors for us, as they were quite heavy and took some effort to pull and push. But inside there was so much room, it was like sitting in a nice soft chair in the lounge. I sat in front with Sara, and Mrs. K sat in the back.

It was not a long ride to Sara’s apartment, and because the car was noisy and Sara seemed to have her hands full steering it, we did not talk much, except to ask if Sara knew what it was her friend Florence wanted to tell us in person. But Sara just said it was better that Florence tell us, so we had no choice but to wait.

As I said, Sara, who is not a large woman—she has a nice, slender figure—had to make a big effort to drive this monster car, and there were a few times she seemed to come awfully close to the other cars or the side of the street. But she managed to avoid hitting anything, and I managed to keep my pisk closed and not be a backseat driver (although I could not help a quiet squeak or two when the near misses were on my side).

Soon we arrived at a bekovedik—respectable-looking—apartment building. Sara parked the car at the curb in front—I don’t know how she managed to fit it in, but she needed only two or three tries to do it—and got out. She came around to open the doors for me and Mrs. K, which I’m sure we appreciated. She again took my arm and the three of us entered the building through large glass doors that opened automatically when we stepped in front of them.

We entered a fancy-schmancy lobby, with nice carpeting and glass tables on top of which were vases of flowers. Against one wall were two elevators, the doors painted gold. Sara pushed the button for “up,” and when the elevator came we got in and she pushed another button for her floor. Up we went, a little faster than my stomach would have preferred, and when it stopped (and my stomach caught up) we stepped out, turned left, and walked down a long hallway to Sara’s door.

The hallway in Sara’s building was different from that at the Home, being narrower and somewhat darker. But there were several brightly colored lines painted all along the walls, from one end to the other, which really made it seem quite cheerful. They could do with something like that by us.

Sara used her key to open the door and ushered us in. There was a small entrance hall decorated with brightly colored prints. A door probably had a coat closet behind it, and an opening opposite the front door led directly into a large, sunny living room. As soon as we entered the apartment, a woman who had been sitting on a sofa in the living room got up and smiled, although she did not come to greet us. The reason was obvious.

Now, the lady waiting for us was tall, athletic-looking, and quite attractive, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a pretty outfit of a yellow skirt and a light blue blouse. But the first thing we noticed about the woman was not her face or her clothes, but her foot. It was in a cast, and she was using a metal cane, like they give you at the hospital to use while you are recovering from something wrong with your leg.

I did not have to be Mr. Sherlock Holmes—or even Mrs. K—to make with the deduction that this cast was the burglar lady’s “little hitch.”

—

Sara introduced us to the lady with the cast, whose name was Florence Palmer. We all sat in the living room, Mrs. K and me on the sofa and Sara and Florence (who had asked us to call her “Flo,” but we do not know her that well) on big stuffed chairs facing it. On a coffee table between us Sara had kindly put out a bowl of mixed nuts, and she offered us something to drink.

“Yes, Sara, dear, a cup of hot tea would be most welcome,” Mrs. K said. I added, “For me too, if you don’t mind.” Sara went into the kitchen and came back a few minutes later with a silver teapot that I recognized as part of a set that had been in our house when her mother and I were growing up. I was pleased to see it was still in the family, and that Sara was thoughtful enough to bring it out on this occasion, as it is not the kind of thing young people these days like to use. She also brought some shortbread cookies, not my favorite (a bissel too rich at my age), but it is the thought that counts.

“Well,” Florence said after we were settled and sipping our tea, “you can see that I had a little accident. Would you like to hear just about that, or the whole story of the other night?”

Mrs. K looked at me and I shrugged my shoulders a bit, so she turned and said to Florence, “Well, since we are here and I am quite interested in hearing all about how you found the earring, please go ahead and tell us the whole megillah.”

We all settled back, and Florence began her story.

28

“I’d already decided that going in through the front doors of the rooms was a non-starter,” Florence said. “Sara had told me there were handle locks and deadbolts. Not only were the two locks likely to be tough to open, even for someone like me who took a locksmith course as part of my ‘professional training,’ but the fact that the hallway was well lit and a public thoroughfare, in effect, made it too risky to operate there.

“That, of course, left the windows in back. Sara told me the number of windows from each end of the building to the ones that Mrs. Kaplan wanted searched, so that I would know which ones to enter. There was no other way to tell them apart, as they’re all the same size and at the same height, as you know.”

“Yes,” Mrs. K said. “Even we had to peek into a window and then count to be sure which rooms were ours.”

“Right. Anyway, I dressed in my usual work clothes—a jumpsuit, black on black, both fashionable and practical—and drove out to the Home hoping to get there just as the entertainment was starting. But I ran into traffic and arrived a little later than I wanted. That’s why I like to give myself plenty of extra time, for any unplanned delays. Anyway, I parked about a block away from the Home. When I got to the fence around the back lawn, I followed it until I found a dark corner where I couldn’t be seen. After checking around for other life forms, I boosted myself over to the other side. Unfortunately, I had chosen a poor spot to land, because there were rose bushes planted along the fence at that point, something I guess Sara hadn’t noticed.” She glanced at Sara, who looked slightly embarrassed.

“No, I guess I hadn’t. Sorry,” Sara said.

Florence did not seem too upset about it. “Not to worry. Once I’d extricated myself from the rose thorns while stifling a scream of pain from several scratches, I kept in the shadows and made my way toward the back of the building.”

“Was it dark back there?” I asked.

“Actually, it was darker than I thought it would be, which is good. Those floodlights on the ends of the buildings are activated by motion, but the sensors don’t have a very wide range, and I found that if I stayed very close to the building, they didn’t go on.”

“That was fortunate,” Mrs. K said. “What would you have done if they had turned on?”

“Oh, there are ways to shut them off, but they take time and I was lucky I didn’t have to bother.”

“So how did you find your way in the dark?” Mrs. K asked. “Did you have with you a flashlight?”

“Exactly. Plus, the moon was pretty bright that night, which helped. I slowly made my way along the dark windows and counted to find the first one I was supposed to enter. After counting twice to be certain I had the right window, I found that it was shut and locked.”

“Oh, dear.” I think Mrs. K and I said this at the same time.

“Oh, dear is right. Anyway, after cursing and wondering what the room’s occupant had against fresh air, I set to work on the window. It should have taken me only a minute or so to open it and defeat the limiting whatsis, because they use an old-style lock that just requires the right kind of tool. Which I had. And which took this occasion to break in three places at once. Careless of me not to have a spare, but there it was. Opening the window without the special tool took an extra fifteen or twenty minutes, which kind of put me behind schedule, so that once I got in I was in a hurry.”

“But you found the earring, yes?” Mrs. K asked, even though Florence had already said she had earlier.

“Oh, yes. It took longer than I’d expected to search the room and locate the earring, but it turned out that was actually the easy part. Just as I was preparing to put everything back in order and get the heck out of there, I heard the residents returning from the recital, coming down the hallway toward the room I was in. At any moment, that room’s resident might open the door and walk in on me.

“What can you say to a person who enters their room, which was totally unpopulated when they left it, and finds you looking back at them?”

“What indeed,” Mrs. K said.

“Obviously, I had few options. Violence was out, of course. I assumed I wouldn’t be able to convince even a doddering octogenarian that I somehow belonged there. (Spontaneous late-night telephone repairs?) I supposed I could’ve yelled ‘Boo!’ and made a break for it. If I was lucky, and they didn’t die of a heart attack, the startled person would chalk it up to a hallucination brought on by advancing senility.”

I think Florence suddenly realized whom she was talking to, because she stopped with a look like she was embarrassed.

“Umm, sorry about that,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply that everyone there is senile or anything. I was just…you know, making a point.” She looked at Sara for help, but Sara had started laughing and was no help at all.

Mrs. K came to her rescue instead. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Some of us are, and the rest of us don’t mind you saying so. But we get your point. Please already get to how that happened”—indicating the cast on Florence’s foot.

“Sorry. I’m almost there. I wanted to avoid a confrontation, so I was backing up rapidly toward the window when I accidentally tripped over a small table and fell. I didn’t make a lot of noise falling, but I also knocked what turned out to be a small metal jewelry box onto the floor. It made a hell of a racket for something so small.”

“That must have been the noise we heard when walking down the hallway,” I said, and Mrs. K nodded in agreement.

“So you were passing by when I made that noise? Geez, that was lucky. Anyway, I held my breath as I heard voices raised just outside the door and I assumed someone must have heard the crash. But when no one opened the door, I started to get up but found I’d hurt my ankle rather badly. All I could do was hop on the other foot over to the window and crawl out. Once on the grass, I promptly sat down and assessed the damage.”

“I can imagine it was very painful,” Mrs. K said in a sympathetic tone. She seemed to have forgotten for the moment that it also meant Florence’s burglaring was kaput for the night, if not longer.

“I didn’t sit there long, because time was running out, and I knew it would take me a while to hobble back to the fence. And then I still had to make it back over the fence and to my car.”

“Oy gevalt!” said Mrs. K. “How did you do all this with a bad ankle?”

“I didn’t. Not by myself. Oh, I somehow made it back to the fence. But there was no way I was going to get over the fence and then drive home without help.”

“So what did you do?” I asked. “Who was there to help you?”

But as soon as I asked the question, I was sure I knew the answer. We all looked over at Sara, who had not spoken up through this whole megillah, and she sort of raised her hand.

“Sara to the rescue once again,” she said, a little sheepishly.

Florence jumped back in. “Yeah, I have Sara on speed dial. Under H for ‘Help’!”

There was silence for a minute as we all digested what Florence had said. Then Mrs. K got back to the important point. “So where does this leave us with our investigation? I take it you are temporarily out of the burglar business?”

“I’m afraid so. I made the ankle much worse by hobbling on it, and then getting over the fence, even with Sara’s help, really did it in. Even without the accident, I’d run out of time. It was really my fault, all that wasted time, and I would’ve considered finishing the job another day, but now…” She kind of shrugged her shoulders in a helpless manner.

Mrs. K looked at me and said, “Well, Ida, I suppose I will have to make do without the information from the second room. It does make a small hole in my theory, but there is nothing we can do.”

I nodded and took her hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze. Nothing we could do.

“Unless…”

This was Florence speaking up again. We all looked at her, puzzled.

“Yes? Unless what?” said Mrs. K. She did not sound hopeful.

“Unless you’d like to give it a try yourselves.”

29

There was a long pause, while we all tried to make sense of what Florence had said.

It was Mrs. K who spoke up first. “I beg your pardon, but at my age my hearing is not as good as it used to be. I thought you said we should burgle the second room ourselves. Ida and me.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“And what kind of a meshuggeneh idea is that? Two old ladies should be climbing over fences and crawling through windows and…and—” I thought Mrs. K was going to plotz for sure. Even Sara seemed shocked at the thought, shocked or amused, because she covered her mouth with her hand and stared at Florence.

Florence did not seem upset by this reaction. In fact, she must have expected it, because she smiled and gestured for everyone to calm down and let her explain.

“I know it sounds crazy,” she said, “and no one is going to force anyone to do it, of course, but let me tell you what I mean.”

After a minute we all settled back in our seats to hear what possibly this lady burglar could have in mind.

“Here’s my thought. As I understand it, the second room is presently unoccupied, is that right?”

Mrs. K nodded. “Yes, it was Bertha’s room.”

“Good. That takes away one of the trickiest aspects of breaking in. And since you’re already living in the Home, no one will have to climb over any fences.”

Well, this at least was a relief. A small one.

“Now, opening these old-style awning windows isn’t really that difficult. I could teach you to do it in less than a half hour.”

“But it took you that long to open the one last night,” Mrs. K pointed out.

“Yes, but that was only because my special tool broke. It’s one I fashioned myself and had used often, and it just wore out, I guess. I can easily make another one. It’s highly unlikely a second one would break, especially when it’s new.”

Mrs. K nodded, but said nothing, so Florence continued. “As I mentioned, if you stay close to the building, the floodlights don’t go on. So you won’t have to worry about being seen. And I can give you flashlights to find your way.”

“But that only gets us to the window,” Mrs. K said, “and maybe if you are correct it is easy to open the window. What then?”

Florence stopped smiling, because clearly this was the more difficult question to answer. Her brow was furrowed; you know, like she was picturing this in her head. I know I was, and it did not look at all pretty.

“Yes,” Florence said, “that’s where it does get tricky. If you think you or Ida could climb into a window—and out again, of course—then you should consider giving it a try. I’ll be honest—when I realized I wouldn’t be able to finish this job for you, I was really disappointed. I felt that I was letting you down. Then it occurred to me that maybe, if I gave you some pointers and whatever tools you needed, just maybe you could do it yourself. But when, in my mind, I came to this part of the process, getting in and out of the window, well, I just wasn’t sure. It depends on how, uh, how…”

“How bendy we are?” put in Mrs. K. “How heavy? How wide? We are not spring chickens, you know. But then we are not alter kockers either. How far did you say these windows would open?”

I almost plotzed myself when I heard this. I had assumed Mrs. K was just letting Florence explain her fershlugginer idea out of courtesy. I could not believe she was actually considering it seriously. I knew she was anxious to prove her innocence, but I also remembered how she resisted even the idea of hiring a burglar.

Now to consider being one herself—and me also—oy vey iz mir!

—

“Rose, are you completely meshugge?” I said. “We should become burglars? And at our age?” I am afraid I did not sound very calm. Sometimes Mrs. K can be so exasperating.

Mrs. K took my hand and said, “Now, now, Ida. I did not say anything of the kind. I am just letting Florence here explain her idea. We should always be willing to listen.”

“Listen, schmissen—you have never been willing to consider even the slightest indiscretion, much less one that could land you—and me—in jail.” I hoped she would come to her senses before we both ended up ahf tsuris—in big trouble!

Mrs. K smiled and said, “First of all, I should remind you that it was you, not me, who first suggested we hire this nice lady to get our information by breaking into several rooms.”

I had to admit this was true. We would not be sitting here discussing learning to be ganovim were it not for me. Me and my bright ideas!

“But, Rose,” I protested, becoming maybe a bit frustrated, “I did not mean that I wanted us to do such a thing ourselves. It was Sara who had a best friend who was a burglar, not me!” Until now, at least.

Mrs. K continued, “Further, although it is no doubt against some law to enter someone else’s room without being invited…”

“And through the back window,” I added.

“Yes, and through the back window, I doubt it is technically burglary that we would be doing, since we would not be taking anything. Or breaking anything, I hope.” This she said smiling at Florence, who smiled back—a bit ruefully, perhaps. “We would just be looking.”

True, looking is not taking, although I was not so sure the police would see it that way.

“But even if it is a burglary, I was also remembering that on more than one occasion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes himself, who as you know I hold in very high esteem, found it necessary to break into places to which he was not invited. Always in a good cause, of course, and not to steal anything. And…” (here she looked directly at me) “if I remember correctly, at least once or twice Dr. Watson accompanied him.”

“No doubt under protest,” I responded.

As I have said, Mrs. K is a big admirer of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, having read all of the books about him, many more than once, and she has a wonderful memory. So if she says Mr. Holmes was sometimes a burglar, I have to believe it. And to tell the truth, while I do not say that Mrs. K is as brilliant a detective as Mr. Holmes, I have seen how her mind works in the same way, and it would be a close thing between them. As for me, I am content to be Mrs. K’s helper and to be telling you this story.

Mrs. K now turned back to Florence and Sara and said, “So, Florence, you should please explain better what you have in mind. I’m sure you are now aware of our…our limitations.”

Florence laughed. “Yes, certainly. To tell the truth, I hadn’t completely thought it through; generally, I thought I could give you a short lesson in how to open one of those windows, assuming it was locked. I noticed many were open last night, and if so everything becomes much easier. Then you and Ida might take a short stroll on the back lawn tomorrow, just to look at the layout and decide whether it seemed doable. If you felt comfortable about it, then as soon as there was a time when most of the residents would be out of their rooms—maybe another recital or something—you could…could do the thing.” I guess she was reluctant to say “could commit the crime.” But we knew what she meant.

Mrs. K shook her head. “No, there is no recital that I know of, and we cannot wait for one. It will have to be done very soon if at all, because the policemen are supposed to come back…it is by Friday, I think. But I believe there is a movie being shown in the lounge tomorrow evening, is there not, Ida?”

I nodded my head. “Thursday is usually movie night at the Home,” I explained to Florence and Sara, “and most of the residents attend. There is a big screen they set up and it is a lot like going to the theater. There is even popcorn.” I realized I was adding much more detail than was necessary. It was from being nervous, I think.

“So,” Mrs. K continued, “it is tomorrow night or not at all.” Then turning to me, she said, “What do you say, Ida? Shall we become burglars for a day?”

How could I refuse?

—

We all moved to a table in Sara’s kitchen, and Sara brought out a pad of yellow paper for Mrs. K and one for Florence and two pencils. She also refilled our teacups.

“Okay, here’s what the window looks like,” Florence said, drawing a picture on her pad. And she proceeded to explain about the lock and the gadget that keeps the window from opening too far. Mrs. K and I watched and listened and asked a few questions until we both thought we understood.

Florence then gave us some ideas about what we should be carrying with us and what we should wear.

“I’ll prepare one of these dandy little tools that’ll help you open the window,” she said, “and Sara will drop it off in the morning. As for clothing, you’ll recall what I said I was wearing…”

“If you are suggesting we should put on one of those black jumping suits or whatever it is called and paint our faces black, like I see in the movies, it is not going to happen,” Mrs. K told Florence.

Florence laughed at this and said, “No, I’m only suggesting you wear something dark, and pants would be much better than a dress or skirt.”

Mrs. K shook her head. “I do not think either Ida or I own a pair of pants. It is not what would be considered dignified at our age, and especially with our…our dimensions. And there will not be time to buy any. So we will have to do our best with wearing something dark.”

“Okay, but no flowers or polka dots,” Florence said kindly, and Mrs. K agreed.

“You can also borrow a lightweight stepstool I sometimes use. One of you can carry it, to make it easier for the other to get in the window. Sara can bring that over too.”

We nodded.

“Once you’re inside and have seen what you came to see, just climb back out and close the window. Don’t worry about locking it again, which you probably couldn’t do anyway, even with my special tool. No one will notice, and if they do, since nothing will be missing, they’ll just think they left it unlocked. And that’s all there is to it.”

All there is to it? Maybe it is no big deal for her, but it sounded like a pretty big deal to me. I looked over at Mrs. K, but she was looking closely at Florence’s drawing and did not seem to be disturbed by what we were planning. In fact, she seemed quite invigorated, as if this was going to be some kind of game that she is looking forward to playing.

If it was going to be a game, I thought, I hoped it was more like matzoh balls than like bridge: I hoped this time she was definitely playing to win!

—

When we returned to the Home, Sara dropping us off with her big blue car, and after Mrs. K and I had had a cup of tea, we went out to the back lawn and strolled up and down, trying to look casual and looking at the windows, how many of them were open, whether they were our size.

“Ida,” Mrs. K said as we re-entered the building, “I think we can do this. Are you willing to give it a try?”

I was not going to leave her to do it by herself, was I? I just hoped we could get kosher food in jail.

30

Thursday morning. We had to wait until after dinner, when the movie would be shown, to make our break-in, meaning we had a whole day ahead to be nervous. So it was just as well that we found something to completely take our minds off of burglary.

In all the excitement over Bertha’s earring, I had completely forgotten to ask Mrs. K whether Benjamin found out anything interesting about the nogoodnik Eddie Christensen. So I asked her as we were sitting in the lounge waiting for lunch to be served.

“I know you said you are not supposed to reveal what Taubman told you…”

“I’m sorry, Ida,” she said, “I meant to tell you. I spoke with Taubman and explained that it was very important, for Doreen’s benefit, that I be able to talk about Eddie’s…situation. He said he understood and that I should just use my discretion.”

“Nu, so please use it and tell me already.”

“It is interesting, and also disturbing. First, it appears this Eddie Christensen is indeed the son of our Molly, the former cleaner at the Home. And I feel sorry for Molly if that is so.”

“From what we have seen of him, I would certainly agree.”

“But there is more than what we have ourselves seen. To begin with, Eddie has been arrested many times by the police. He has a long record.”

I was not totally surprised, but I was still shocked to learn that Rachel’s Doreen was living with such a farshtinkiner, and planning to marry him yet!

“What kind of things has he been arrested for?” I asked. “Like robbing banks and murder?” I perhaps watch too much television, as this was the first thing I could think of.

“Nothing like that, danken Got. Mostly it is for having drugs, or for petty theft, nothing of great consequence. But he also is suspected of having some connection to much worse people, the ones who commit the more serious crimes.”

“You mean like that big Italian family, what is their name?”

“You are thinking maybe of the Mafia.”

“That is them.” Again too much television, I suppose.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mrs. K said, “at least that is not the impression I got. They probably are just plain American criminals, a local gang, which is just as bad. But whoever they are, the police are watching Eddie to see what he and the others are up to. When they get enough evidence, the police will arrest them.”

“This sounds bad for Doreen,” I said.

“It gets worse, I’m afraid. A few years ago, when he was about to be put on trial for stealing from someone, the important witness was to be a young woman with whom Eddie had been living. Apparently she saw the stolen items when he brought them home. Well, it turns out they had just recently gotten married, and so the woman could not be forced to testify against Eddie, and the prosecution was dropped. Mr. Taubman said it is some kind of privilege not to testify against your husband.”

I was getting confused now. “But Eddie is not married—Rachel has told us he is in fact going to marry Doreen…”

“That is what I said to Taubman. He said Benjamin did not mention, and in fact may not know, what has become of Eddie’s wife—that information perhaps is not in his file.”

I let this sink in for a minute, and briefly I had a chill down my spine. Mrs. K was correct—it was all very disturbing. And at least one thing was clear:

“Rose, we must try to protect Doreen. Perhaps if we tell her what we have found out…”

Mrs. K shook her head. “No, I’m afraid she would just consider us two meddling yentas. She is no doubt flattered by Eddie’s attentions, and she is not likely to believe anything bad about him that we tell her.”

“So what do we do? Surely we must do something.”

“I intend to do something,” Mrs. K said. “I intend to go and see the only person who will be able to deal properly with Mr. Eddie Christensen.”

“Who is that?”

“His mother, of course.”

—

When Mrs. K decides to do something, it usually gets done very soon. Of course, at our age, if we do not act on our decisions while they are fresh in our minds, we are likely to forget to act on them at all.

So right after lunch, Mrs. K got Molly Christensen’s address and telephone number from the telephone directory. She telephoned Molly and asked if it was okay that we come over to speak with her that afternoon. Molly remembered Mrs. K and said she would be glad to see her. She would be home and we should feel free to drop in.

Mrs. K then asked me if I would like to accompany her to see Molly. I was not otherwise occupied on this Thursday afternoon, and of course I was curious as to what Mrs. K intended to say to Molly, so I readily agreed.

Molly lived across town, and we decided to take a taxi to get there. I should point out that although both Mrs. K and I drove cars when we were younger, neither of us feels comfortable doing it now. Our reactions are a little slower and our eyesight is not so good. So like most of the residents at the Home, we do not own a car and must take a bus or taxi when we go out, at least if Andy’s shuttle is not available. Some residents, like Mr. Taubman, do own cars and keep them in the garage under the Home. If we really need to go somewhere by car, sometimes we can ask of them a favor to drive us. But on this errand to Eddie’s mother, Mrs. K and I had to go alone.

I excused myself to freshen up before we left, and a few minutes later I met Mrs. K in the reception area of the Home. I saw that she had also returned to her room and was now wearing one of her pretty hats, the blue one with the white ribbon. It is a shame ladies do not wear them much these days, but everything is so “casual” now, even in the evening.

We were about to ask the receptionist to call a taxi for us when Mrs. K stopped short. She turned to me and said, “No, Ida, we cannot leave just yet. I just remembered something important I planned to do first.”

She then turned in the direction of the lounge and walked toward the back corner, where Mrs. Bissela was sitting in her usual spot—it is where she can see everything that is going on in the rest of the lounge—knitting what looked like a child’s sweater. It was white and light blue and very soft looking. This also somewhat describes Mrs. Bissela: She has light skin and blue eyes that seem to sparkle, rosy cheeks, and being more or less on the rounded side is soft-looking as well.

She looked up as we approached, and smiled. She is always glad to have someone to talk to, and she always has something—or more likely someone—to talk about. As it turned out, that is exactly why Mrs. K was coming over to see her.

“Rose, come and sit down,” Mrs. Bissela said, patting the cushion next to her. “And you too, Ida. We have not talked in quite a while.”

“Thank you, Hannah,” Mrs. K said, and we both sat. I was glad to get off my feet for a few minutes, but I was sure we were not there just to rest. Mrs. K had a purpose, and I would soon find out what it was.

We began to shmooze about the Home—this resident who is getting a little shikker, drunk, from too much schnapps after dinner, that resident who has found a new girlfriend twenty years younger than he, the latest gossip about Mr. Pupik—and soon I could see that Mrs. K had managed to turn the conversation toward Bertha Finkelstein.

“So, Hannah,” she said, “what do you think happened to Bertha? A heart attack, no?”

I now saw where Mrs. K was going. If anyone had heard about what caused Bertha’s death, it would be Mrs. Bissela. And if anyone had heard what anyone else is saying about her death, it would be the same person. Our Mrs. Bissela is like that Wiki-tiki thing I keep reading about. You know, it is like the encyclopedia but on the computer, where anyone can write things even if they are not true. There is much Mrs. Bissela can tell you about what goes on at the Home, but it is only as reliable as the person from whom she has heard it.

“Oy, a gevaldikeh zach, a terrible thing,” says Mrs. Bissela. “Yes, a heart attack it must have been. And that it should happen right there at the seder…”

I am glad that the way Bertha died and the suspicion on Mrs. K by the police had apparently not been heard even by Mrs. Bissela. Pupik may be a momzer, but apparently he is a momzer who can keep shut his pisk.

“It was indeed terrible,” agreed Mrs. K. “Did you know Bertha well?”

“Not very well, no,” Mrs. Bissela said.

“I was just wondering about her family. You know, did she have close relatives living nearby. I mean, if there is a large estate to divide up…”

“Oh, there is no large estate,” Mrs. Bissela said, interrupting. “And there is hardly any family.” Here she became more confidential-like and leaned closer to Mrs. K. “The day after Bertha dies, I hear Pupik telling Joy Laetner, the morning receptionist, that they have traced her closest relatives to somewhere in England, and that she should send them a message that he hands her.”

“So no nearby relatives?”

“No. And as for there being a large estate, I was told by Mrs. Switzer’s daughter Sonia, who works for Goldman the lawyer—you know, he looks after the financial affairs of the less well-to-do of our residents—she told me in confidence that Bertha’s is only a small estate. Of course, she did not reveal any details…”

“Of course not,” Mrs. K said.

So Amy Bergman’s story about the evil relatives and the big estate turned out to be just more of that poor woman’s mishegoss, as we thought was most likely at the time. Nevertheless, it didn’t hurt to check the facts with a higher authority.

31

We left Mrs. Bissela after a few more minutes and returned to the lobby. There we told the receptionist at the front desk—I think this was Marilyn, who works in the afternoons—where we were going, and we signed out so no one would think we had wandered off absentmindedly and disappeared. (Believe me, it happens!) She telephoned the taxi company, and it was only about five minutes before a taxi arrived for us at the front door. Business must be slow on Thursdays. The taxi was bright yellow with a checkered stripe along the side, and on the door it said “Midtown Yellow Cab.” It could have used a washing, but it seemed to have all of its necessary parts. Mrs. K wrote the address on a slip of paper and handed it to the driver. He nodded and opened the back door for us.

It is a small but important benefit of being our age that we can ride in taxis for half price with the pink vouchers that are handed out at the Home. When I was younger I never rode in a taxi, as it was a luxury we couldn’t afford. So now when the driver held the door open for me, I remembered how it used to be and I felt very hoity-toity!

The driver was not one to inspire confidence in his passengers. In fact, he was looking extremely shlumpy: He needed a shave and his uniform looked like he had been sleeping in it, which perhaps he was doing before we called. But we couldn’t be choosy, and besides, it is how one drives that counts, not how one looks. (Still, his shlumpyness did lessen my hoity-toity feeling just a bissel.)

On the way, Mrs. K and I did not say much to each other. She had her eyes closed but I knew she was not asleep, just thinking. I was wondering how she intended to get Molly to help Doreen, and that is probably what she was wondering too.

At one point I asked her, “Do you think Molly will be willing to help us, or will she only defend her son?”

She looked up and said nothing for a moment, as I must have interrupted her thoughts, but finally she answered, “I suppose that depends on what is the relationship between them. Does she recognize Eddie for who he is, or only for who she wishes he would be?” She again closed her eyes.

I was not so deep in thought, so I was looking out the window and seeing where we were going. The driver apparently was not doing the same, because he was going very fast and just missed hitting a bus, a dog, and two old ladies in a crosswalk. I was at this point wishing Andy was driving the taxi and wondering whether we would make it to Molly’s house alive. Are all taxi drivers in such a hurry?

To get to Molly’s house we had to go through a rough-looking neighborhood, and at first I was afraid we would find Molly’s house there. It would not have been a good place to get out of the car. But fortunately we kept driving and finally came out into a neighborhood that I did not recognize. It looked as if most of the houses had been built only recently. In fact, many of them looked like they were not built at all, but that thing they do with the sheep—“cloned,” I think it is called—because they all looked exactly the same. I will bet a person living there would have a hard time finding his house if he should forget the address. Anyway, Molly was not there either.

Soon we were in another, slightly older neighborhood, but still quite respectable. We passed several clusters of houses, each with a name like “Sunny Heights” (although they were on level ground) and “Laurel Woods” (although I saw no woods in the area, laurel or otherwise). Finally, the taxi turned into what you would call a “gated community.” That is because there was supposed to be a gate across the entrance, I assume to keep out the riffraff. But since the gate was wide open, the riffraff was free to enter, and we drove in as well.

This community was named “The Pines,” and indeed there were small pine trees in front of every house. With this I was impressed. All of the pine trees were about eight or ten feet high. I wondered how they would get along with each other when they were ten times that height; but I suppose the present occupants of the houses did not need to worry about that, at least for many years.

The taxi stopped in front of number 238, which I assumed was Molly’s house. It was a nice enough house, painted yellow with brown trim, a bit faded. In the front there was a white picket fence surrounding a small lawn (and a pine tree, of course), and between the house and the lawn were a few clumps of flowers. It did not look as if anyone was taking too much trouble with it; just enough to keep things neat.

Mrs. K paid the taxi driver and told him not to wait. I am sure from the way he drives that he does not like to wait for anything or anyone, from stop lights to passengers. Then she and I went through the gate in the fence and walked up the few steps to the front door. The mat on the top step said “Welcome,” and I was hoping it was being sincere.

Mrs. K knocked several times rapidly on the door. I don’t know why she didn’t use the doorbell that was just to the left of the door; perhaps she did not see it. There was no response and after maybe half a minute, Mrs. K started to knock again. Just then the door was thrown open and she pulled her hand back just in time to avoid striking Molly Christensen directly on the nose. For it was indeed she who opened the door, out of breath as if she had been running up or down stairs to reach the door. And as I could see a stairway just behind her in the foyer, this was probably what had happened.

Molly is about sixty years old, give or take. She had gained some weight in the five or so years since we last had seen her, but then who has not? She was dressed in a red housecoat that looked almost new, with pretty matching red slippers. Her hair was pushed up in a bun, just like I remembered it when she was working at the Home.

She greeted us cheerfully. “Well, well. It’s good to see you ladies after all this time. Please come in.” She stepped aside so we could enter.

“It is good to see you also,” said Mrs. K, and I nodded in agreement. We went through to the living room, past the stairway that Molly must have run down to answer the door. I think I heard someone upstairs close a door, but I could have been mistaken. She gestured for us to sit down on the sofa, which was powder blue, as was the carpet. In fact, there was quite a bit of powder blue in the room, no doubt a color Molly is particularly fond of. Personally I can take it or leave it.

Molly excused herself and went out to the kitchen. Soon she returned with cold drinks on a tray and some cookies on a plate. She served us each a drink, which turned out to be lemonade, one of my favorites, and passed the plate of cookies. Coconut. Nu, so one out of two is not so bad.

We spent a few minutes discussing the years when Molly was working at the Home. It turned out Mrs. K was correct about Molly winning the lottery, except she had won closer to two hundred fifty thousand dollars than the one hundred thousand Mrs. K recalled.

“Whatever did you do with so much money?” I exclaimed, before I realized that it was not polite to ask such a question.

I started to apologize, but Molly waved it away and said, “Oh, I don’t mind telling you. I got some really good advice from a man my late husband knew who is in the business of investing other people’s money for them. I put most of the money into the investments he suggested, and they have done very well, almost doubling in the last five years. I also had some money saved up, mostly from the insurance policy when my husband passed away, and I invested that also. Now I am able to live off of the income if I am careful what I spend.”

“You worked hard all your life,” said Mrs. K, “and you certainly deserve to have a comfortable retirement. Zie ga zink! May you enjoy it in good health.”

Molly looked pleased and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Kaplan.”

“Rose, please.”

“Rose. But what is it you wanted to see me about? You haven’t come all the way out here just to talk about me.”

“No, you are quite right,” said Mrs. K. “In fact, we want to talk to you about your son, Eddie.” Mrs. K does not believe in beating around the bush.

Now Molly no longer looked so pleased, and the smile suddenly was gone. But she said quite politely, “My son, Eddie? I don’t understand. I didn’t know you even knew him.”

“We don’t really,” Mrs. K replied, “but we did meet him, in a way, recently. And I am sure we met him many years ago when he came to pick you up at the Home a few times.”

“I see,” Molly said. “But what about Eddie could you want to discuss?” She sounded wary, as if she didn’t know whether she wanted to discuss her son with us and was waiting for more details before deciding.

Mrs. K explained briefly about Doreen. “She is a very innocent young woman,” she said, “and Eddie is, shall we say, not the kind of man she should be marrying, or even living with, at this stage of her life.”

I looked at Molly’s eyes, trying to read whether she was going to act as the mother bear defending her cub from attack. They did not give away what she was thinking, however. She asked Mrs. K, “Why do you think so? If you don’t even know Eddie…”

“We do not know him, but we know a lot about him.” And she related our meeting with Eddie at the Emporium.

Molly listened, still with that fixed expression that did not reveal her feelings, and then said, “Yes, well, I know that Eddie certainly could use some manners, and I’m certainly sorry about his rudeness to you. Mind you, he has always been attentive and respectful to me, especially since his father died—in fact, he still is. And I tried to teach him as best I could, but with working every day and no father around…”

As my beloved mother used to say, “Parents can give their children everything but common sense.”

Molly now was becoming somewhat agitated. She took out a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose. “But I still don’t see why you are telling me this. I know Eddie is a little rough around the edges. But he is a grown man and I cannot be responsible for his bad manners.” She looked to both of us, as if seeking our agreement that she was not responsible. She was looking unhappy now, and I was sorry that we were the reason.

Mrs. K said, in a sympathetic tone that I am certain was genuine, “I am afraid it is more than bad manners.” And she proceeded to tell Molly what she had learned from the police, leaving out, of course, how she learned it. Molly looked even more unhappy as the telling continued, especially when Mrs. K came to the parts about Eddie being already married and having ties to bad people, maybe mobsters.

Seeing Molly’s evident distress, Mrs. K asked her, “Did you not already know this?”

Molly shook her head slowly, saying, “Not all of it. I knew he got married a couple of years ago, but he told me they had separated. I guess I assumed that by now they were divorced. And perhaps they are.”

“Let us hope so,” Mrs. K said.

“I also knew he’s had some scrapes with the law. I had to arrange for bail for him a couple of times, in fact. But I didn’t know what serious trouble he’s in.”

“I am not surprised,” Mrs. K said, “as he would not be likely to tell you about it. But I have a reason for telling you. We may together be able to make things better for both Doreen and Eddie.”

Molly looked up at Mrs. K. “What do you mean? I don’t see what good can come of any of this.”

“I mean that what is good for Doreen is to be rid of Eddie, as he is not at all the kind of man she should begin her life with. But she is young and unsophisticated, and while Eddie is flattering her with attention, she will not leave him. And what Eddie needs is to stay out of prison, and to stay away from the big-time criminals he has been flirting with. But he is foolish and has learned bad ways, and he will not of his own accord change them. Do you agree?”

Molly nodded slowly, as if to herself. Then she looked up at Mrs. K and said, “Yes, you’re quite right. I certainly want to get Eddie away from both the police and those criminals he pals around with. But how do we make that happen?”

“Ah, that is where you come in. Only you can make it happen.”

“How is that?”

“For one thing, I will bet you are using a part of that income you are receiving to support Eddie, is that right?”

“Yes, of course. He’s hardly ever had a real job, although he does get some money somewhere. I’d rather not know exactly where. But when he is short of money, I usually give him what he asks for.” She added more quietly, “I guess I’m afraid of what he’ll go out and do to get it if I don’t give it to him.”

Molly seemed on the verge of tears as she said this. It cannot be easy for a mother to admit such things, either to others or to herself.

“That is what I would have expected,” Mrs. K said. “So you have some financial leverage, if you know what I mean. Now, I have also learned that the police are watching Eddie, together with these others. They are building their case, as they say, gathering evidence, and he may soon be arrested and go to jail for a long time.”

Molly put her face in her hands on hearing this. Finally she looked up, tears in her eyes, and said, “This is just what I’ve been afraid of. I’ve been worried about Eddie for quite a while. The people he calls his friends, the trouble with the law he’s been getting into. And now you say he’s going to be arrested again…”

“But that is actually a good thing for our purpose, believe it or not,” Mrs. K said, putting her hand on that of Molly. “We want Eddie to go away and leave Doreen alone. We can hope that Eddie, when you tell him he is close to being arrested, will also want to get away from here in order to stay out of prison. Sometimes it takes coming just to the edge of the cliff to make us stop and back up.”

“And you want me to tell him this. To tell him to leave town.”

“To leave town, to leave the state even. I know that if he were my son, I would want him as far away as possible from the trouble he has made for himself.

“And there is another thing. You must offer your support.”

“You mean the money I give him? All I’m doing is supporting his bad living.”

“No, I mean more than the money, although that is part of it. You say he still feels close to you. He does not act toward you as he does toward others. This is not uncommon for a mother and a son, and I was hoping it was the case with you and Eddie. Clearly he loves you, despite his ill-mannered ways with others. It is probably the only genuine emotion he feels toward anyone. And he needs your love in return. Being the kind of person he is to others, yours is no doubt the only true love he receives.”

Molly thought about this for a minute before nodding and answering, “I guess you’re right. But how does that help in the present situation?”

“You are the only person who can convince Eddie to leave. Tell him to do it for himself. And tell him to do it for you. That only when he is safely away from the trouble he is in will you be happy again.”

Molly nodded but said nothing, so Mrs. K continued: “You might offer to help him if he needs money to make a new start, but make it clear that if he does not leave, you will no longer offer your support. In other words, you must offer him a carrot but be ready to use instead a stick.”

There was a long pause. Finally, Molly looked up at us both and said, “You’re right, of course. It’s the only way. I don’t want to see my son end up in prison, and I don’t want him to be the cause of a young woman being hurt. I don’t know whether I can get him to leave town, but I’ll do my best to put the fear of God into him.”

“It will be sufficient, I think, if you put in him at least the fear of his mother and of the police.”

Molly was now actually looking more cheerful again, or at least less miserable. She looked determined, like a person who knows what they have to do.

Molly went over to a small desk and from a drawer took out a pencil and paper. She wrote down Mrs. K’s telephone number, and then she phoned for a taxi for us. When the taxi arrived, we exchanged a few more words and Molly showed us to the door. As we went outside, she gave Mrs. K a hug and said, “Thank you for telling me about Eddie. I didn’t want to face it, I guess, but now I know I have to. I’ll do what I can. He really is a good boy underneath…underneath.”

She looked like she believed it. I hoped she was right.

—

As we rode home in the taxi—it was also yellow, but much cleaner, and not only did this driver not seem as determined as the first one to break the sound barrier, but also he missed other cars by several inches more than the other—I asked Mrs. K, “Rose, even if Mr. Taubman said you should use your discretion in revealing what he told you about Eddie, do you think it was right to tell Molly that the police are watching Eddie and his friends and may arrest them? I mean, if Molly tells Eddie and Eddie tells the others, could you not be interfering with the plan of the police to arrest them?”

Mrs. K smiled and patted my hand. “Do not worry, Ida,” she said. “This was the only way I could think of to try to get Eddie away from Doreen, except of course if he were actually arrested and put in jail. But we have seen that the last time that happened, he ended up marrying some other poor girl in order to keep her quiet. It could happen again, this time to Doreen. So I asked Mr. Taubman to ask his son Benjamin whether he thinks the police would rather have Eddie stay here and they arrest him, or have him leave town for good and they cannot arrest him.”

“And what was his answer?”

“He did not hesitate. ‘From my point of view, if we arrest him,’ he said, ‘we have to try him, convict him, and if that’s successful keep him in jail, and when he gets out he’ll still be hanging around here making trouble. No, by all means let him, and even the others, leave town and be someone else’s problem!’ ”

And “Amen” to that!

—

I do not know what Molly said to her son, Eddie, or whether she said anything at all to him. But I do know that the next time we saw Rachel Silverman, about a week later, she was looking very pleased. She couldn’t wait to tell us that she had received a call from Doreen, who told her that Eddie had come to their apartment while she was at work, took his belongings and left, with no explanation.

“She is giving up the apartment and moving in with two of her girlfriends from the store, and she seems to have gotten over Eddie almost as fast as she fell for him.”

Mazel tov! How quickly the young recover from that which once seemed “eternal.”

32

By the time we were finished with our mission to save Doreen from the nogoodnik, it was almost dinnertime. It had been good to have this distraction during the day, but now we were only an hour or so away from being burglars, and neither of us had much of an appetite—just a bowl of soup and a little chicken and a piece of apple strudel for dessert was all I could eat.

The movie—it was an old one with that shayna maidel Marilyn Monroe—began a little after seven, and would last about two hours, so that was how much time Mrs. K and I had to work with. As soon as we saw that the residents were heading for the lounge—they did not walk quickly, but there was a definite movement in that direction—we hurried to our rooms and changed into the darkest dresses we had. Mine was purple, perhaps nicer than I would have liked to use for such a purpose, but it was the darkest I could find. Mrs. K wore a pretty black dress that I knew she used to save for special occasions, but now she seldom wore because it was a bit tight on her. Nu, this was a special occasion, was it not?

Sara had come by just before dinner and dropped off the small tool that Florence had made for us, together with two small flashlights and a metal stepstool that folded almost flat and weighed almost nothing. The tool she handed us looked like a cross between a screwdriver and one of those things you use to open bottles with. To look at it you would not think it could open even a bottle, much less a window.

Sara had not looked happy when she arrived, and after we took the items from her she said, “Flo had told me what she was going to suggest. I didn’t make too much of a fuss about it, but now that you’ve agreed to do it, I’m not so sure. You can still decide not to, you know. I mean, it would be terrible if…if…well, you know.”

“If we got caught?” Mrs. K said. “So what will they do to two old ladies for looking around in an unoccupied room? Besides, no one will catch us. We will be like the…who is it…The Shadow. Or maybe you are too young to remember him on the radio. Anyway, you should not worry. With Florence’s instructions and tools, I’m sure there is nothing to it.”

Understandably, Sara did not seem entirely convinced, but she smiled and kissed us both before she left. It was like we were going on a secret mission behind enemy lines and she did not expect us to come back. It was sweet of her to be so worried for us. But oy, it also made me more worried for us than I had already been.

We thought everyone who was going to the movie had already passed through the hallway, but we were mistaken. We were walking toward the door leading to the back lawn, Mrs. K carrying a flashlight and the special tool and me carrying a flashlight and the stepstool, when a familiar voice from behind us said, “Are you two going to the movie? I think we’re almost late.”

It was Mrs. Bissela, probably the last person we needed to be seen by.

Mrs. K turned around and said, “Hello, Hannah. Are you going there?”

“I am. Shall we go together? We’ll have to hurry or we’ll miss the beginning.”

“Actually, Ida and I thought we would skip the movie tonight,” said Mrs. K. “We’ve both seen it before, and it’s a nice night for a little stroll on the lawn.”

This seemed to me like a fair answer, it being mostly true, until Mrs. Bissela said, “With a stepstool?” She pointed at what I was carrying.

My brain worked furiously to come up with a reason we might be taking a stepstool on a stroll—fortunately Mrs. Bissela could not see the burglar tool Mrs. K was carrying—but it just made me dizzy. Just as I was about to say something stupid, like “What stepstool?” Mrs. K saved the day (as usual).

“Oh, that is because a bird left a mess on Ida’s window, and we thought since we’ll be back there anyway, we might as well clean it off, rather than wait until Harold can get to it.”

Had Mrs. Bissela taken the time to think about this statement, it might not have held up too well. But she was in a hurry, and thinking is not what you would call Hannah’s strong suit, so she just said, “Oh, well, have a nice walk” and went on her way.

Mrs. K and I exchanged a look of relief, then scanned the hallway for more latecomers before continuing on our mission.

—

When the coast was clear, we again went out the back door. The night was cloudy, but there was still enough moonlight so we did not need the flashlights. And by staying close to the building, like the burglar lady said, we did not make the floodlights go on. Mrs. K was in front and I was behind, carrying the stepstool. Mrs. K had asked me to count the windows, as Florence had done, so we would know which is the one we should enter. I was doing that as we walked along, when suddenly the window we were just coming to shot out in front of Mrs. K with a man’s hairy arm attached, almost impaling poor Mrs. K on its corner! At the same time, a man’s hoarse voice shouted, “Let’s get some fresh air in here!” Then the light in the room went on and projected a beam right across our path.

Mrs. K put on the brakes and stopped about two inches from the window frame, which was now protruding outward, but I am not built for fast stopping, and I stumbled right into the back of Mrs. K, making a kind of pluff sound as the air was pushed out of me. It is a good thing we are both well padded, because neither of us was hurt, and my accidental push did not move Mrs. K into the edge of the open window. But we must have made enough noise to be heard inside, as the man’s voice immediately said, “What was that noise?” To which a woman’s scolding voice answered, “I didn’t hear anything. Come away from there.” By this time, I think both Mrs. K and I had recognized those voices—to tell the truth, it would be hard not to—as coming from Lester and Gertrude Scheiber. Lester and Gerty have what you would call a marriage of “give and take”: She gives him hell, and he takes it. Since they’ve been doing it that way for over fifty years, I suppose it works for them.

As slowly and quietly as we could, we sank down and sat huddled on the grass in the bit of shadow under the window ledge, where we hoped we wouldn’t be noticeable. Then, as we were kind of balanced there, inside the lighted room Gerty’s voice said, or more precisely whined, “You’re such a shlemiel, Lester, always leaving something behind! If it isn’t your glasses it’s your pills or your wallet. Now hurry up or we’ll miss the whole movie!”

Lester’s voice answered, “Sha! Do you want that everyone in the neighborhood should hear you?” He sounded irritated. “So who should hear?” replies Gerty. “Everyone else is already at the movie! Only you are here poking around looking for your glasses.”

There was the sound of rummaging in a drawer, the drawer closing loudly, another opening and more rummaging, and then Lester, sounding either tired or just resigned, said, “I found them. Let’s go.” I was very glad, because sitting there on the damp grass, folded up like a human hamantash (that’s a three-cornered cookie—you should read the story of Purim), my bursitis was sure to start acting up.

Gerty wasn’t quite through with him, though: “Let’s go, he says, like we haven’t already missed the best part. And close that window! You want that bugs should fly in while we’re gone? And the night air is so damp I’ll catch my death…”

It occurred to me this was sounding a little like my own family when I was growing up, the way my parents sometimes would argue. Nu, people are the same everywhere.

There was the sound of rapidly shuffling feet, and then suddenly the hairy arm again shoots out of the window, this time almost grazing the top of Mrs. K’s head. It grabbed for the handle and pulled it shut with a loud thud, leaving us both shvitzing but at least undiscovered.

Gerty’s voice continued on, of course, though now more muffled. “You’ll see, we will have to sit in the back on those hard folding chairs. You know how my legs swell up when I have to sit on those folding chairs…” And so on, as the light finally went out, the door closed, and the string of protests trailed off.

And then finally we could straighten up and take a deep breath. What a relief!

—

We continued our walking and I my counting and eventually we came to the window of the room we were supposed to search. This one was already slightly ajar, not what we expected for an unoccupied room, but definitely a good thing. Now it was time for Mrs. K to take out the little tool that Florence had made for her and use it to disable the thing that limits how far the window can be opened. I couldn’t really see how she fiddled with it, but in only about a minute the window was open all the way, leaving quite a large space for entering.

Now, of course, came the tricky part. One of us had to climb in. I had volunteered, although Mrs. K had not yet told me what we were looking for, but she insisted that it be her. “I am the one for whom this is important,” she had said before we came outside, “and I should be the one taking the biggest risk. I really do appreciate your help, Ida, and your offer, but I would not think of having you do the…the dirty work, as they say.” So I agreed, and now it was time for Mrs. K to climb in the window.

I set up the stepstool under the window and held it while Mrs. K stepped on it and leaned over the window ledge. Fortunately, there was a table of some kind in the room just under the window, on which were a few tchotchkes that could be moved aside, so Mrs. K was able to climb from the stepstool onto the table without too much difficulty. I will not describe what this looked like from my angle; suffice it to say it was not a pretty sight. But the important thing was that Mrs. K was in the room, having made almost no noise.

As Mrs. K told me afterward, she was standing in the room feeling pretty good about herself, when, in the dark, she heard a loud snnaarkkk. I even heard it outside. You can bet that we both jumped! Mrs. K looked around with her flashlight, and what she saw was a man asleep in the bed and snoring! Or rather he was asleep on the bed, because he was naked, uncovered, and about eighty-five years old, as was the woman sleeping next to him. Who knows what they had been up to that wore them out enough to miss the movie. Mrs. K later said it felt like when a child might open their parents’ bedroom door and find them, well, in a compromising position. Then she thought for a moment and added, “At least he was not propped on his pillow smoking a cigarette.” Umbeshrien! God forbid!

But the more important fact was that we obviously had chosen the wrong room! The room we wanted was supposed to be unoccupied, and it was unlikely these people on the bed were, what do they call it, “squatters.” In fact, Mrs. K knew immediately just who they were, having seen enough—more than enough—before quickly turning off the flashlight. They were Max and Sadie Rinefeld, whose room was right next to the one we wanted. Like a shlemiel, I had miscounted the windows! Oy, I should have counted twice, like Florence did.

As you can imagine, Mrs. K could not get out of there fast enough. Although I had only heard the snoring, and I didn’t yet know any of the details, that was enough to tell me what had happened and that Mrs. K would be making as quick an exit as possible. Sure enough, within a minute at the most she had climbed back onto the table and was backing out of the window. This was another sight I do not wish to see again, but I did my best to help her down. Once she was safely out of the window, with just a small tear in her dress, we made our way to the next window and again sat down on the grass under it, to catch our breath and decide what to do next.

But what could we do, except get ready to burgle for a second time that night?

And in case you should be wondering, it was a long time before Mrs. K was again able to look either Max or Sadie Rinefeld in the pisk, in the face. Or in any other part.

33

We now had the correct window, but unfortunately it was not open. Of course, being an unoccupied room, this was what we expected. With me holding the flashlight, Mrs. K slid the special tool in between the window and the frame and, after working at it for a minute or so, she was able to slide back the lock and pull the window out. I cannot help but be impressed, how Mrs. K is as good at bad things as she is at good things! She would have made quite a successful ganif, I am certain. Or maybe that is not a compliment.

So once again I was setting up the stepstool and Mrs. K was climbing into a window. This time there was no table conveniently placed inside, so Mrs. K leaned in to see if she could find something onto which to climb. She was bent over the sill, her upper body in and her tuchis (from which she could afford to lose a few pounds, but couldn’t we all) still out—another picture best forgotten—apparently trying to reach a nearby chair and pull it over to the window when she leaned just a little too far. For a second or two she teetered between in and out. I was about to grab her legs and try to pull her out when I heard a muffled “oy gevalt” and Mrs. K slowly slid down the sill and into the room. I am thinking, Oy, what an umglich. What a calamity!

I leaned into the window and, as loud as I dared, I whispered, “Rose, are you all right? Are you hurt?” Whatever it was she was looking to find in that room, it couldn’t be worth hurting herself, not to mention being discovered there.

I waited, hearing nothing and fearing the worst. Then from somewhere on the dark floor that I could not see, comes Mrs. K’s voice: “You see, Ida? There was nothing to it. I am in.”

—

I could just barely see that Mrs. K was getting up and of course I was very relieved. I know that Mrs. K was a good athlete when she was in school, and although she is many years, and many pounds, beyond those days, she is still in remarkably good condition. Nevertheless, I would not recommend she make a habit of climbing in and out of windows. And I especially would not recommend this particular method of doing so.

This time I did not hear any snoring noises or other signs of life, other than Mrs. K brushing herself off as she stood up. She came to the window and whispered, “Ida, now that I am inside, it might be best if you go back around and stand in the hallway by the door to this room. I do not expect anyone to come in, of course, but still I would feel better knowing you are there. You can put the stepstool inside with me so no one will see it if they should walk by on the lawn.”

“But won’t you need help getting back out?”

“Possibly, in which case I hope you can come back to help me.”

“How will I know when you are ready to leave?”

“A good question. How about if I knock softly twice on the door, and if you hear me, you knock twice back to tell me you are coming to help me climb out. If I don’t hear the twice back, I shall try again.”

“Knock twice. Fine. And what if, God forbid, someone is coming to the room?”

“No one will be coming to Bertha’s old room, Ida. But yes, just in case, then you knock twice first.”

So everything was to knock twice. At least it was easy for me to remember.

I handed Mrs. K the stepstool through the window and I made my way back to the door that led into the building. The hallways were deserted, the movie being less than half over. I walked down the hall to the door in question. I did not have to count the doors like I did the windows, of course, because I know from the front which room is which, and besides, as I mentioned earlier, names of residents are next to their doors. When I got to the door with no nameplate one past the Rinefelds, behind which Mrs. K was doing her search, I stopped and began my watching. I was nervous, and I only hoped no one came down the hall before Mrs. K left the room.

—

Nu, hope is one thing; what actually happens is another. As I was watching, who do I see coming toward me but Mr. Harold Campbell (like in the soup!), the Home’s maintenance man. We all just call him Harold. What he was doing there at this time of night I could not imagine, but still, there he was, and he was definitely heading my way.

I stepped in front of the door behind which was Mrs. K doing her burgling. When he saw me, Harold smiled and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Berkowitz. Shouldn’t you be watching that movie in the lounge?” Harold is short and round, with red cheeks and always a smile on his face. What you would call a jolly type of person.

I leaned against the door and tried to smile back and be casual. “Oh, I already saw this movie. I was just…just going to my room. To lie down. I mean to go to bed early.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Harold said. “I just have to get into the room behind you there for a minute.”

Oy gevalt! Why this room, and why just now? I asked him this.

“Oh, I was in there earlier today fixing a faucet—the people next door could hear it dripping, believe it or not—and I left a wrench behind. I have a job across town in the morning and I’ll need that wrench, so I thought I’d better come and get it now. A plumber ain’t any good without his wrenches, eh?” He laughed at his little saying. I think I smiled rather weakly.

He advanced toward the door, no doubt expecting me to move over. Only I was not going to move over. What I was going to do I had very little time to decide. I wished I had Mrs. K’s saichel, her common sense and ability to think super-quick on her feet, because I would have to come up with something in the few seconds before I and Harold collided.

What with the excitement and stress of the earlier part of the evening and this new threat that we would be found out by Harold, my heart was pounding and I was feeling a little faint. So the easiest thing to do was just that: I fainted.

Not really, of course, but it did not take much acting on my part, so close I was to it for real. I just slid down the door, sat on the hall carpet, and closed my eyes. With me resting against it, there was no way Harold, or anyone else for that matter, was going to open that door.

—

Harold right away bent down and put his hand on my wrist, saying, “Mrs. Berkowitz, are you all right? Mrs. Berkowitz?”

I did not want that he should start with the CPR, so I opened my eyes and said, “Yes, I just felt a bissel weak there for a moment. If you could help me up and to my room, I’ll just lie down.”

Harold looked concerned, as would be expected, and said, “Are you sure? Would you like me to call the doctor?”

“No, no! I’ll be just fine. This has happened before, and a rest is all I need. In my room. With some help.”

Finally he nodded and said, “Sure, I’ll help you up. Now take it slowly.”

I did take it slowly, because while I was standing up, I was knocking twice on the door. I thought Harold would not notice, but he said, “What was that for?”

“Nothing. My hand just slipped and hit the door.” Twice? But what else could I say?

Harold did not look convinced, but of course there was not much he could do about it at this time, so he took my arm and we set off in the direction of my room. I hoped no one else would come along before we got there. I hoped even more that before Harold returned from helping me to my room, Mrs. K would have heard the two knocks and somehow discovered that I was no longer in the hallway.

She was, as they say, on her own.

34

Harold held my arm to steady me as we made our way toward my room. While we were walking in the hallway (as slowly as I could manage), I was frantically trying to think of ways to keep Harold from returning to the room in which Mrs. K was doing her looking around before she had time to finish looking and get out.

We reached my room and I would have stalled for a minute or two looking for my key, except that I didn’t have my purse with me and had only one small pocket in my dress where to look for it, and anyway Harold offered to open the door for me with his passkey. So how was I going to keep him there once I was safely in my room? Now, were I forty or fifty years younger, I might have had several ways to keep a man from leaving my room, some of which I need not discuss here. But under the circumstances, the best I could do was to offer Harold a cup of tea for his trouble.

“That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Berkowitz,” he said once he had escorted me inside and through the small entrance hall and deposited me on my sofa, “but it’s getting kind of late, and I have to get back home. Maybe some other time. As long as you’re okay now…”

I was considering protesting I was not okay, or even falling down with fainting again, anything to keep Harold occupied awhile longer, but I hesitated too long and after a few seconds Harold said, “You know you have a call button by your bed and in the bathroom, just in case you need help later.” I nodded and made like to stand, so I could at least delay him with some kind of shmooze, some small talk at the door. But he just turned and said, “Don’t get up, Mrs. Berkowitz. You just rest. I’ll see myself out.”

Before I could say or do anything else to stop him, he walked quickly back to the door, opened it, and was gone.

On his way to discover Mrs. K in mid-burgle!

—

Harold had not been gone more than a minute or two, during which time I did nothing but sit with shpilkes, when there was a loud knock on my door. A very forceful knock.

My first thought was that I needed a visitor like a loch in kop. But immediately it occurred to me who this visitor might be.

Oy gevalt, I thought, it is Harold and he has found Mrs. K and is demanding an explanation. Or worse yet, it is Mr. Pupik and he will demand that we move out, or even he will call the police! The fact that the shmegegge Pupik never stays there after five o’clock if he can possibly help it, and he never joins the residents for movies or anything else he doesn’t absolutely have to, not to mention that there had not been time for Harold to report to Pupik even if he did find Mrs. K, did not even occur to me, so worked up I had become.

The knocking became more insistent and I knew I had to answer it, so I lifted myself out of my chair and hurried to the door.

It was not Harold standing there, and not Pupik.

It was Mrs. K!

“Rose! How did you…I mean, did Harold…that is…”

Mrs. K smiled, stepped inside and closed the door behind her. She looked pleased with herself.

“So tell me already, Rose. Did you find what you were looking for? Did Harold find you? Are we in big trouble?”

Mrs. K laughed. “I passed Harold in the hallway. We said hello. What do you mean did he find me?”

I explained what had happened from the time I was discovered by Harold in front of the door.

“Did you hear me knock twice on the door?” I asked.

“So that really was you knocking?” she said. “I thought so, but I wasn’t sure. I listened for any further sounds, but I did not hear anything else, so after a minute I went to the door and I looked out through that little glass peeping hole thing that shows you who is at the door. I did not see anyone in front of the door, and I could see the hallway was empty, at least just in front of the door. I must say I wondered where you had gone.”

I recounted briefly how I had pretended to faint and asked Harold to help me to my room.

Mrs. K smiled broadly and took my hand. “Ida! That was brilliant. Such quick thinking, certainly as good a plan as I could have come up with in a few seconds. I am very impressed.”

To have Mrs. K, who has the sharpest mind of anyone I have ever known, say that I thought as quickly as she would have was like being awarded some kind of shiny medal. But I had no time to kvell, to enjoy the compliment, because Mrs. K quickly continued: “I had already found what I was looking for, so I decided rather than crawl back out the window, which I have to say I was not looking forward to, I would close the window and try to leave by the front door.”

“Wasn’t that risky, should someone see you?” I asked.

“I suppose. But there was no time to worry about that. I quickly considered the matter and thought, if in fact you had knocked twice, that meant somebody was coming. But clearly you were no longer in front of the door. I knew you would not abandon your post, so to speak, except for a good reason, and the only reason I could think of under the circumstances (other than perhaps an extremely urgent call of nature) was that you were somehow busy keeping that somebody away from the door.”

My pretending to faint did not involve any such complicated reasoning, but I still appreciated her earlier compliment.

“I couldn’t see enough through the peeping hole, so I opened the door just a bissel and looked out. I saw no one, so I opened it farther and still could see no one in the hallway. Now assuming my theory was probably correct, I took a deep breath, said a little broche, opened the door just enough to get through, and casually walked out of the room.”

“Gotenu! What if someone had seen you?”

“Yes, I know. I tried to look as though I had business in the room, so if someone saw me it would not seem strange that I should be leaving.”

“And did Harold not see you?”

“Oh, yes, but by that time I was just walking down the hall. Fortunately, he did not see me leave the room. Of course, until now I didn’t know just how fortunate that was. I’m not sure what I would have said to him, but I’m sure I would have thought of something.”

I had to sit down, being both relieved and feeling like a shmatteh that has been soaked in water and wrung out.

Then suddenly something occurred to me. I began to feel panic again.

“Speaking of leaving things behind,” I said, “I do not see you carrying the burglar lady’s stepstool! Did you leave it in the room? What if Harold found it? And even if he did not, Florence will expect us to return it. Perhaps it even has her name on it somewhere!” I was getting myself all worked up over this, until Mrs. K patted my hand and smiled.

“Do not worry, Ida. I had already dropped the stepstool out the back window when you knocked. I’m afraid it is still there, and we will have to retrieve it. But I doubt anyone will notice it before we get to it.”

I was much relieved. “So tell me what you found. I am bursting to hear.”

The satisfied look came back to Mrs. K’s face. “I found just what I expected, Ida. The dress has no pockets.”

Since at that point Mrs. K had not yet told me just what her theory was, I did not understand what the significance of this statement could be.

I would soon find out.

—

We made our way outside and down the back lawn again, but this time we were not as worried that someone might see us, because we were not going to pry open any more windows or climb into any more strange rooms. Ever, I hoped. We found the stepstool lying outside the window where Mrs. K had dropped, it, and we casually picked it up as if it were a common thing to retrieve stepstools in back of the Home at night and brought it back to my room.

We did meet some of the residents coming back from the movie. Either they thought our carrying a stepstool down the hall at night was nothing strange, or they thought it so strange they did not wish to ask us embarrassing questions about it. Either way, if Mrs. K now had all the information she needed, I didn’t mind we might be thought a little meshuggeneh.

And if I am honest, considering the kind of chances we had taken that evening, I would have had to agree with them.

35

The morning after our adventure as burglars, Mrs. K and I were up early having our breakfast, because at ten o’clock we were to meet with Pupik and the policemen. No rest for the weary, as they say. Even though Mrs. K by now had answered all my questions and told me what she intended to do, I was still nervous; in fact, I was more nervous than Mrs. K, who seemed to be more relaxed than I had seen her since the seder.

I became even more anxious when we entered Pupik’s office and I saw the two policemen already sitting at the table, Jenkins having some official-looking papers in front of him. I was sure they were there to arrest poor Mrs. K. It would be just like I have seen it on television: They would be “reading her her rights,” as they call it, and telling her she could make one telephone call…but of course I was jumping to too many conclusions. In fact, before we had even sat down, Mrs. K looked straight at Corcoran (the nice young man who reminded me of Dalgliesh) and said, “I know who took Daisy Goldfarb’s earring, who put it in Mrs. Finkelstein’s soup, and where the other earring is now. Do you want I should tell you, or would you rather play detective games first?”

—

I was glad that I had a good view of the table as Mrs. K made this statement, because the look on Mr. Pupik’s face was not to be missed. His mouth, it was open as if he was about to say something, but nothing was coming out. A herring out of water he most resembled. Jenkins looked like he had just swallowed something very unpleasant and wished he could spit it out.

Corcoran, however, looked only amused. He smiled at Mrs. K and said in a pleasant voice, “Well, now, Mrs. Kaplan, that is indeed quite a statement. And although I have to admit to being a little skeptical that you can back it up, I have a feeling it would be best not to take what you say lightly.

“I thought that I would be telling you my theory of the case. But I’m sure that all of us will be most anxious to hear your version first.”

At this he looked around at the others in the room. He too saw the expressions that I’m describing, and I’m sure he did not think for a minute that either Pupik or Jenkins was at all anxious to hear Mrs. K’s version. But as he was clearly the one in charge of the meeting, he did not ask their opinion on the matter, but nodded to Mrs. K, who smiled and proceeded:

“What we all know for certain is the following: Poor Bertha Finkelstein died at our seder when she choked on an earring that belonged to Daisy Goldfarb. I made the soup and matzoh balls that Mrs. Finkelstein was eating when she died. The earring had to be put there by either Daisy or by someone who stole it from her, and because she has reported her earrings to be stolen and we have no reason to suspect otherwise, we can assume it is the thief who was responsible for the earring ending up in Mrs. Finkelstein. Are we all agreed on these things?”

Mrs. K looked from one person at the table to another, and although no one spoke out, all either nodded or made no indication of protest. So she continued: “Now, because I know that I was the only one with access to the kitchen while the soup was made, and I also know that I did not steal the earrings from Daisy Goldfarb, God forbid, therefore in my mind it had to be someone else who was responsible, someone who also could have dropped the earring into the soup, either by accident or on purpose.”

Here Jenkins broke in, saying, “What do you mean ‘on purpose’? Are you suggesting someone not only stole the earrings, but then they deliberately put one in the victim’s soup so she would choke on it? I think you’ve been reading too many mystery novels, Mrs. Kaplan.”

It looked like Corcoran was about to jump in and tell Jenkins to be quiet, but before he could do it Mrs. K looked right at Jenkins and said, “Not at all, Mr. Jenkins. If you’ll let me continue, I’ll explain just what I do mean.”

Jenkins looked over at Corcoran, who nodded, and Jenkins reluctantly said to Mrs. K, “Sure, go ahead.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Now as I was saying, the earring had to be dropped in the soup either accidentally or on purpose, and it had to be by someone in a position to drop it there. Again because I eliminated myself, that did not leave many other possibilities. For one thing, Mrs. Finkelstein was sitting at a table alone, because her usual table companions had not come to the seder.

“Although it was possible that the serving person who brought the soup to Mrs. Finkelstein, or even the cook, dropped the earring in, I tried to picture just how they would do that accidentally. But all of the pictures I imagined were too silly to take seriously, or at least they were extremely unlikely. And as you so clearly put it, Mr. Jenkins, it is not at all likely that someone trying to kill poor Bertha—and I cannot imagine a single possible reason anyone would have for doing such a thing—would choose this method to do it.”

By now even Corcoran was getting anxious to hear where Mrs. K was heading, and he said to her, “That is all true, but it does seem to lead back to you, does it not, Mrs. Kaplan?”

“Not at all,” she replied, with another nice smile for Corcoran. “Remember, because I know I did not take the earrings, I have to look farther for the answer, even if you would be willing to stop here and blame me.” She is no longer smiling when she says this. “And so I ask myself, have I eliminated absolutely everybody who was in a position to put that earring into the soup? And after much thinking, I conclude I have not. There is one more person, and that person was in the best position of all to do this.”

“And just who is that, Mrs. Kaplan?” Corcoran asked, and I knew it was everyone at the table who wanted to know the same thing.

Mrs. K looked directly at Corcoran and said softly (she is quite good at the dramatics, our Mrs. K), “It is Bertha Finkelstein herself.”

36

There was complete silence in the room. I could hear the electric clock on the wall tick-tock the seconds, maybe ten times, before it was Corcoran who asked, speaking slowly like he was very confused, “Are you saying that Mrs. Finkelstein stole Mrs. Goldfarb’s earrings and then used one of them to commit suicide?” He was, I think, trying to keep from laughing. He controlled himself, however, and waited for an answer.

“Yes, and no,” she told him. “Or perhaps I should say partly yes, and absolutely no.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I shall explain. Yes, it was Mrs. Finkelstein who stole Daisy’s earring. One earring, not both. And although she did choke herself on the stolen earring, it was not on purpose, but an accident.”

This time it was Pupik who piped up. “Mrs. Kaplan, this is all a waste of time, and I for one have better things to do than listen to some patently ridiculous theory that couldn’t possibly have happened. If you think you will save yourself by blaming the poor dead woman, when she obviously cannot defend herself, let me tell you…”

But before Pupik could rant further, Corcoran put his hand on Pupik’s arm and said in a soothing voice, “Please, I’d like to let Mrs. Kaplan finish her explanation before we pass judgment on it. I’m sure she is going to tell us just how she came to this rather…extraordinary conclusion. Is that correct, Mrs. Kaplan?”

“Of course, Mr. Corcoran,” she said to him. “I know it seems improbable, but as my own favorite detective used to say, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, you should look very closely at the not so likely.’ ”

“Well,” said Corcoran with a smile, “I’m not sure Mr. Holmes said it quite that way, but I think we see the point. Please proceed.”

And Mrs. K did: “As I was saying, Mrs. Finkelstein was the only other person who had a good opportunity to both steal the earrings and put them in the soup. And she was in the best position of all to do it, as no one else was sitting near her.”

Here Mrs. K paused. She raised a finger as if correcting herself, and said: “Actually it is not completely true that no one sat next to Mrs. Finkelstein. Ida told me that someone dressed as a clergyman sat down briefly and spoke with Bertha, so I asked our receptionist about it, and she told me it was indeed the new assistant priest at the Catholic church, just as Ida had guessed.” She looked over and nodded in my direction. “He had come by unexpectedly and was looking for Mr. Pupik to introduce himself and wish him a happy Passover, which was nice of him, I’m sure. He apparently saw Bertha sitting there all by herself and sat down just to be friendly and introduce himself. In any case, he certainly did not steal Daisy’s earrings.”

With this, at least, no one argued, so Mrs. K continued: “So that left Bertha herself. But even if I could suspect her of being a thief, which knowing her I could not, like you I could not think of any reason she would put one of the earrings in her soup. Certainly not to commit suicide! So I gave up on this for the moment and concentrated on whether Bertha would have any likelihood of stealing Daisy’s earrings in the first place. I add her to the list I am preparing of persons about whom I would like to know if they have criminal records.”

“You were going to check on their criminal records?” interrupted Corcoran in an incredulous tone. “How…”

“This I cannot tell you, so it is no use asking.” Corcoran started to say something but apparently decided to wait and let Mrs. K finish. “But I managed to get this information, and it was very surprising to me. There in black and white is at least a possible motive for Bertha Finkelstein as a thief. Or if not exactly a motive, at least an explanation.”

“And what was that?” Corcoran asked.

“It seems that Mrs. Finkelstein had been arrested at least twice in the past for theft, but each time she was let off when it was found that she suffered from kleptomania. She could not help herself taking something very attractive, not for her profit, but just to have it. In both cases she returned the items and received treatment and she was not charged. But I know that there have been small things, shiny trinkets mostly, that have disappeared from time to time here at the Home, and I would not be at all surprised if Bertha Finkelstein was responsible for at least some of those.”

“Did you know about this, Mr. Pupik?” Corcoran asked, turning toward him.

Pupik looked uncomfortable and squirmed a little, which I did not mind at all seeing, and he said, “Well, yes, it’s on her confidential record. She has received psychological counseling and I’m not aware of any incidents where it has been proven that she has taken anything here at the Home. And in any case, I don’t see how that concerns Mrs. Kaplan or how she found out about it…”

“Yes,” Corcoran said, “I’ll also want to know how she found out about it, but not at the moment. Meanwhile, I wish you had told us this earlier, as it does possibly put things in a different light.” He looked not very pleased with Pupik. He turned again to Mrs. K and asked her to continue.

“So now I had a possible connection between Bertha and the theft, and I tried to reconstruct in my mind how it might have occurred. As you know, the theft, if it occurred, could have happened anytime between about 2 P.M., when Miss Zeiss helped Daisy to remove the earrings and put them on the table by the door, and the time we are going to the seder, about 5 P.M., because Daisy does not remember putting them away or even noticing them on the table. I also know that Daisy is absentminded and sometimes leaves her door not only unlocked, but open, when she leaves her room. Finally, I recalled that Bertha Finkelstein was one of the last persons to come to the seder, as my friend Ida remarked to me on the nice blue dress she was wearing when she came in.” And here she looked at me again and smiled, and I was pleased to be included in the story.

“So I put two and three together and I had my answer. Daisy left her door open when she left for the seder. The earrings were on the table by the door, in plain sight of someone passing by. Bertha Finkelstein has always admired the shiny earrings, and when she sees them there on the table as she is walking to the seder, she cannot resist the taking.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Jenkins, getting red in the face. “If Mrs. Finkelstein took the earrings, then where’s the other one? We didn’t find it on the victim’s person, or near her chair, or in her room. Where is it?” Oy, he was working himself up into a real tizzy like he was about to plotz!

But Mrs. K just looked at Jenkins and said, quite calmly, “I shall tell you where is the other earring. It is in Daisy Goldfarb’s closet.”

“I beg your pardon,” Corcoran said.

“I did not say that Bertha took both earrings. She took only one. She did not take the earring because she wanted to wear it, but because she could not resist this pretty object that she has admired. The other earring she left behind. It was no doubt a thing she did on impulse, without really thinking about it.”

“And you say the other earring is still in Mrs. Goldfarb’s possession?” Corcoran said.

“Yes, on the shelf behind some sweaters. I expect you will want to check that I am right when we are finished here.”

Jenkins began to say something, but it seemed as if he could not find the words, so Corcoran spoke first. “Mrs. Kaplan, you are full of surprises. Now you are telling us that Mrs. Goldfarb still had the other earring when she reported both of them stolen? That is what you told us, isn’t it, Mr. Pupik?”

Pupik, who was looking even more confused and much more uncomfortable than even Jenkins, only nodded. Corcoran then said to Mrs. K, “And why did she report two earrings stolen if only one was taken?”

Mrs. K shook her head slowly at Corcoran and said, “Now, I know you are smart enough that you have figured that out already. Mrs. Goldfarb has a wonderful pair of earrings. She loves to wear them and show them off. One is stolen. Now she has only one earring, and although in theory it is worth the same as the stolen one, it is of no use to her without its mate. On the other hand, she will receive more money from the insurance company for the loss of two earrings than just one. Better she should say both earrings were stolen and end up with the money and also an extra one.”

Mr. Pupik now stood up and shook his finger at Mrs. K, saying, “Now wait just a minute. It’s bad enough you accuse poor Mrs. Finkelstein of having stolen Mrs. Goldfarb’s earring. Now you are impugning the integrity of Mrs. Goldfarb as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to sue you for slander!” He was really working himself up here.

Mrs. K did not seem ruffled, however. She turned to Pupik and said, “Daisy Goldfarb is a friend of mine and I have a hard time thinking of her as cheating the insurance company. But I also know that her no-good son Barry, a real ganif, has already been convicted before of doing just that. It is not at all difficult for me to imagine Daisy’s son seeing the chance to cheat the insurance company and convincing his mother to go along with it. She has always made excuses for Barry and protected him when she should have let him suffer the consequences of his bad acts, and I have never heard of her saying no to him on anything he asked. And that,” she said to Corcoran, “is why you will find the second earring just where I told you, at least if you look for it before Daisy has a chance to put it somewhere else.”

Everyone was silent again as they tried to digest this latest information. Finally, it was Corcoran again who spoke up: “Before we start searching people’s rooms, Mrs. Kaplan, you haven’t told us yet how Mrs. Finkelstein, assuming she took Mrs. Goldfarb’s earring, came to choke on it.”

“Yes, I was getting to that. I was thinking very hard about the seder and everything I could remember about it, such as who came in and when, who said and did what. I was also thinking that although we are all assuming that the earring that choked Mrs. Finkelstein was either in the matzoh balls or in the soup, that is not necessarily the only possibility. All we really know is that it ended up in Mrs. Finkelstein. And suddenly it was like a lightbulb went on in my head, just like you see in the newspaper cartoons.”

Here she made a gesture with her hand over the top of her head, to indicate this lightbulb. Then she said, “Just after Bertha Finkelstein sat down at her table, in comes Benjamin, Mr. Taubman’s son.” She turned to Pupik and said, “You know Benjamin—he is the policeman. Oy, there could not be a bigger contrast than between Mr. Taubman’s son and Daisy Goldfarb’s: one is a policeman, a real mensch, and the other is a ganif!”

“Yes, but please get to the point,” Pupik said. I noticed that his tone was not as belligerent now as it was a few minutes earlier.

“Well, when Benjamin came in, all dressed in his fine police uniform with the shiny brass buttons, Ida remarked to me that she still gets a little nervous when she sees a policeman in uniform approaching. It is a force of habit from when she was growing up in a country where a visit from the police could only mean bad trouble.” And again Mrs. K gave me a nice smile, and I was again glad I had been of help, even if I did not know it at the time.

“Now Bertha Finkelstein had also grown up in such a bad country, Poland, before coming to America, so one might assume it is likely that she too felt some panic when a policeman appeared unexpectedly, even if she knew who he was. Furthermore, as we learned from the rabbi at the memorial service for Bertha, she had a particularly terrible experience with the police as a child, when they took away her parents and she never saw them again.” She paused for a moment at this sad thought, then continued: “And remember, I am also assuming that Bertha had just taken one of Daisy’s earrings, on her way to the seder, and she had it in her hand—stolen goods, you might say.

“What does someone who is holding a small incriminating object do when they suddenly see the police coming toward them?”

She looked around the table for an answer. Corcoran said what we are all thinking: “I suppose she tries to hide it.”

“Exactly,” Mrs. K said. “I have read where people who are holding narcotics try to flush them down the toilet, or throw them out the window, or—and this is where I am coming to—swallow them. Is that not correct?” This was directed at both Corcoran and Jenkins.

“Well, yes, sometimes…” said Corcoran slowly, “but might she more likely have dropped the earring into her pocket? Or even down the front of her dress?”

“Ah! We are thinking the same way, because that is exactly what I thought. That is why we had to bur…that is, I remembered that Bertha’s pretty blue dress had no pockets—and a high neckline buttoned at the top. She was a modest person and did not wear dresses that were open across here.” Mrs. K gestured with her hand across her chest.

I nearly plotzed when Mrs. K almost mentioned about the burglaring! But she did not miss a beat. “What poor Bertha Finkelstein did in that moment of panic was to put the stolen earring into her mouth. I do not know whether she intended just to hold it there or to swallow it, but one way or the other it got lodged in her throat, and we all know the rest.”

When no one had anything to say, Mrs. K added: “That is the whole megillah—the whole story. Bertha Finkelstein stole one earring. Daisy Goldfarb hid the other, as you will find if you look. Bertha choked on that earring when in a moment of panic she tried to swallow it but breathed it in instead.

“There is nothing more to say.” And Mrs. K sat down.

37

The rest of the story does not take long to tell. After everyone had a chance to digest what Mrs. K said, the two detectives retreated to Mr. Pupik’s private office and were talking there for at least ten minutes. When they came out, they had decided they would look for the missing earring in Daisy Goldfarb’s room, as Mrs. K had suggested, and they would look at the blue dress that Bertha Finkelstein was wearing at the seder. Meanwhile, Mrs. K and I were excused, and we returned to the lounge, where we flopped down onto a sofa, both exhausted and relieved. Mrs. K had no doubt that she had made her case, and I was feeling like I had been watching an exciting television detective story, but watching from the inside instead of the outside. And maybe I had.

A few days later, after they had done their checking and made other inquiries, the two policemen called us together once more in Pupik’s office. This time there was no problem with my being there, and the whole atmosphere was much more pleasant than the last time, although Pupik still looked like he had just eaten a lemon. After we all again were seated at the table—I was next to Mrs. K, Pupik was next to me, and Corcoran and his wrinkled friend sat across from us—Corcoran spoke first:

“Without going into unnecessary detail, let me start by saying that we did follow up on the suggestion that Mrs. Kaplan made about the missing earring and the blue dress.” Ha! These were more than just suggestions; but let him call them what he wants.

Looking directly at Mrs. K, and with a bit of a smile, he then went on, “We did indeed find the earring where you said it was, and we also found Mrs. Finkelstein’s blue dress with the high neckline and no pockets, just as you described.”

Mrs. K looked over at me and nodded her head a bit, showing that this was just as she expected. I was wondering whether it was what the policemen expected.

Corcoran then addressed all of us at the table. “I cannot say that the department is convinced that Mrs. Kaplan’s version of events is the correct one. Probably we’ll never know for sure. What we are convinced of, however, is that, to be frank, Mrs. Kaplan’s explanation of what happened to Mrs. Finkelstein is at least as probable as any other theory that we have been able to come up with.” Here again he looked at Mrs. K, and now he was clearly smiling. “That being so, we’ve decided that there is no basis upon which to bring any charges against her and consider the case, at least insofar as Mrs. Kaplan is concerned, to be closed.” (I think “insofar as Mrs. K is concerned” means that Daisy Goldfarb and her son the ganif might be hearing from the police in the near future.) Mrs. K took my hand and gave it a little squeeze.

Corcoran then tried once more to find out how Mrs. K knew about the other earring’s location, and how she had learned about Bertha Finkelstein’s criminal record, but when he saw he was not likely to succeed, he just shook his head and let the matter drop. I was relieved, as I had been afraid that somehow the part played by Mrs. K and me, not to mention by Sara and her nice friend the burglar lady, and the help we got from Benjamin, might be found out. Now it will remain just our little secret.

As we and the detectives were leaving, Jenkins and Pupik went out the door first. Before he left, Corcoran turned to Mrs. K, offered his hand, and said, in a confidential sort of way but with a nice smile, “You know, Mrs. Kaplan, personally I think you did a hell of a job figuring this out. Anytime you want to come down and play Sherlock Holmes on any of my other tough cases, you’re more than welcome.”

She thanked him warmly and gave his hand a squeeze as he was leaving. And even though we all knew that the detective was not serious about the invitation, it was clear he was serious about his admiration for Mrs. K.

As for Mrs. K, to be compared by a real police detective to her hero Mr. Sherlock Holmes, well, she had every right to kvell—to be proud of herself.

And me? I was kvelling also, because that made me her Doctor Watson!

Elementary it was, my dear reader.

To Analee and Eliana, the “two girls” in my life—and in memory of my parents, Jacques and Esther Reutlinger, and my grandmother Leah Lurie, whose voices I can hear when I write Yiddish phrases like those in this book.

Acknowledgments

My thanks to all my friends who read manuscripts of this story at various stages of its creation and gave me valuable advice and suggestions, and of course to my wife, Analee, for her continued patience and encouragement. If Analee, the first reader of all my manuscripts, doesn’t laugh at the funny parts, I know it’s time to rewrite.

My sincere thanks as well to senior editor Dana Isaacson for making Mrs. Kaplan feel welcome from the moment she arrived at Random House and for his excellent suggestions that greatly improved her story. Thanks also to Katie Rice, Kimberly Cowser, and all those at Random House who are orchestrating Mrs. Kaplan’s debut.

PHOTO: © ANALEE REUTLINGER

Born in San Francisco, MARK REUTLINGER graduated from UC Berkeley and now lives with his wife, Analee, in University Place, Washington. Professor of law emeritus at Seattle University School of Law, Reutlinger is the author of the novel Made in China. He also plays the clarinet and collects automobiles.

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