6 - The Eye of the Virgin: Ike Schwartz Mystery 6 (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-five

Ike arrived at Ruth’s party as presentable as possible. Clothing, sartorial acumen, he would say, was not his long suit. He managed to own one—a suit, that is—and could, if given enough time, manage a decent four-in-hand knot on his necktie. Left to his own devices, however, his preference went to golf shirts, slacks, and his scuffed walking shoes. But Ruth wanted to show him off at his best and, then, there was her mother, whether to impress, dazzle, or contain, he couldn’t be sure. The party seemed in full swing. A string quartet rubbed well-rosined bow over cat gut, and the room rattled with chatter. On his way in he scooped up a martini from the bar set up by the front door, downed it and helped himself to a second. He spotted Ruth in the corner listening to an older faculty member, probably one of the retirees in whose honor the party had been mounted, and worked his way over to her.

“Excuse me,” she said to her companion. He smiled, nodded a greeting to Ike and drifted away. “What are you drinking?”

“Martini. I haven’t eaten since this morning, I don’t think, and I thought, given your apparent panic, a small buzz might be helpful.”

“Oh, that’s great. As you predicted, my mother is flirting with the junior faculty, the older ones are giving me the fish-eye over my engagement ring, and you’re on your way to getting shit-faced.”

“Tsk, how you talk. Your mother never taught you to say shit-faced. Shall I tell on you?”

“Shut up. That’s her over there with those two assistant professors. They’re new and single. What am I going to do?”

“Ah, you are in a panic. I will limit myself to two of these concoctions—maybe three, but no more fear not.”

“Listen to me, Sheriff. Two is your limit or there will be no joy in the morning.”

Ike swung his gaze across the room in the direction Ruth had indicated. “That’s your mother? Wow, you’re right. She certainly has reinvented herself, enhancements and all. I can still see a resemblance. So, that’s what you’d look like as a blond. Worth a try.”

“Forget it. Can you imagine what my faculty would say if I showed up blond?”

“I was thinking of variety. Maybe a wig, in private. What do you think?”

“Men! Forget it. Where’s your father?”

“My father said, and I quote, ‘I’ll be along directly soon’s Dolly has her beauty rest and then puts on her face.’ I assume it’s the same face she had on the other night, but with women of a certain age, you never know.”

“Okay, enough already. It’s time to meet Momma.” They made their way across the room and stopped in front of Ruth’s mother. “Ike, this is my mother. Mother, Ike.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” Ike wracked his brain for a name. He should know it from the old days. Ah-ha…“Paula.”

“It’s not Paula anymore, but how did you know?”

“I visited your house, the dean’s residence. It was years ago.”

“Oh, my, you were one of John’s ‘young men.’ That explains a few things. Not why you’re here playing at sheriff but…Well, isn’t that ironic.”

“Yes, you could say so. You say you’ve changed your name? Retaken your maiden name or…”

“Maiden name, how quaint. No, as I am now an author, I have a
nom de plume
. I am Eden, Eden Saint Claire.”

“I see. So you’re a writer? Ruth didn’t tell me. What are you writing?”

“An exposé. The dark side of academe. I’m calling it
Ivy League
Peyton Place.
What do you think?”

“Very catchy, but I’m not sure many potential readers will get the reference. The TV series ended nearly forty years ago and more years than that since the movie and book.”

“Ike knows all this stuff because he watches old movies, don’t you, Ike?”

“That’s what I’ve been telling your daughter, but the truth is, you caught me. I’m an eighty-year-old man. I happened to have lived an exemplary and sheltered life as an ovo-lacto-vegetarian, which accounts for my youthful good looks and stamina.”

“He also fancies himself a comedian, but nobody believes that either.”

Ruth’s mother watched the exchange between the two of them and grinned. Ike thought she must have had plastic dentistry; was there such a thing? Implants, caps, or veneers to finish the rest of her makeover.

“So, what shall we do with the weekend?” Eden Saint Claire asked.

Ruth and Ike exchanged looks.

Abe and Dolly made an entrance and bee-lined to them.

“Well, well, there you are Miz Harris, excuse me the Misses Harris.” Abe scooped Paula/Eden in a bear hug. “This here is a real pleasure.” He released her. Eden recovered and turned her amazing white and straight teeth in a huge smile on Abe. “And I want you to meet Dolly. Dolly Frankenfeld, this here is Ruth’s momma.”

Dolly and Ruth’s mother made a startling contrast. Dolly trim and statuesque, but decidedly her age, platinum, and Eden Saint Claire, gold but decidedly neither one of those other things.

“Mother has come for a visit,” Ruth said.

“Her name is—” Ike began.

“Eden Saint Claire.” Ruth’s mother extended her hand. Dolly took it without batting an eye. Old school, Ike thought. You’ve got to love it. She’d shake hands with the devil if he was introduced properly.

“I am thinking about settling here,” Eden declared. Ruth rolled her eyes at Ike.

“Why that’s plain super. Here in Picketsville? Say, why don’t you come out to the farm, and me and Dolly can spend the weekend showing you around. You’ll love it here. I can show you some places in the valley you’ll love and Ike, here, has a friend in the real estate business who could fix you up in a jiffy.”

“What a wonderful idea. Mother, you’ll love Abe’s place. Country, fresh air…What a great idea, Abe.” Ruth sounded a little desperate, Ike thought and glanced at her mother to see if she noticed. Eden Saint Clair looked quizzical but did not lose her smile.

Abe Schwartz winked. Dolly inspected Eden Saint Claire the way a mongoose surveys a cobra. It promised to be an exciting weekend.

Chapter Thirty-six

“Saved by the bell. The cow bell, I guess it would be. Did you put your father up to inviting my mother to his farm for the weekend?”

Ike and Ruth had made it to the A-frame alone after all, as it turned out, and had settled on the deck bundled against the March night chill with down jackets. They were drinking excessively rich mochas in lieu of more alcohol.

“If I had, would there be a reward in it for me?”

“That depends on what you had in mind. Is there anything you lack that I can offer? Well, that I can offer, and not break the laws of the Commonwealth of Virginia?”

“What laws would that be?”

“Well, we have a state law prohibiting ‘the corrupt practice of bribery by any person other than candidates’ for one, and it is also against the law in Virginia to tickle women. That means you’re dead meat, Schwartz. You start anything with me and I call the cops.”

“I am the cops. And in my view, tickling you comes under the heading of a carnal bribe, which in my role as potential candidate for public office buys me a pass, so there.”

“Politicians, you’re all alike. Anyway, I have a more interesting idea along those lines, but you’ll have to wait until I finish my chocolate.”

Ike smiled in the darkness and stretched his legs. “How about we just admire the view before it pales and so on. No, I’m afraid Pop’s invitation was his idea and spontaneous. I think he saw your eye-roll and figured out what he needed to do. He’s very fond of you, you know.”

“And I of him. He figured it out from an eye-roll?”

“You have a particularly expressive eye-roll, Madam.”

“So now I know where you inherited your intuitive genius. How’s your investigation going, or don’t I want to know?”

“It’s gotten complicated. I’m not sure I want to drag you into it. It could be dangerous.”

“You’re kidding. I could be in danger if you talked to me? How does that work? You’re not going to go back and play in Charlie’s sand box again are you?”

“No…well, not exactly. As I said, it’s complicated and there could be repercussions to the department if it became known you were in possession of certain information.”

“Ike, I hate to sound crude for the second time tonight, but bullshit. What are you not saying?”

“Okay. What do you know about the
USS Liberty
?”

“Nothing. What should I know? Oh, wait is it the name of Captain Kirk’s starship?”

“No, that’s the
Enterprise
, I think. I don’t know. Anyway, during the Six-Day War, that would be back in 1967 and you were a mere slip of a girl,”

“Thank you for that. Slip, I like it. Don’t know about the mere part, though. Sorry, continue.”

“As I was about to say, an American intelligence gathering vessel, the
USS Liberty,
was in international waters off the coast of Egypt.”

“It was a spy ship?”

“Probably. No, definitely. The Liberty was a World War II freighter and had been converted into an intelligence vessel by the National Security Agency. It had been given the task of monitoring electronic communications in the area. Very sophisticated for its day. It bristled with antennae and listening devices of one sort or another and was sent to track the Israelis in their conflict with the Arab coalition.”

“Are you sure you want to go on? This doesn’t sound like murder and mayhem in Picketsville. This is spook stuff.”

“You said you wanted to know about my work, and I need a pair of ears that happen to be attached to a better than average brain, so I talk to you. I’m not supposed to.”

“Says who, or is it whom? You know for a university president, I should know that—who, whom—shouldn’t I?”

“In this case, the ‘says who’ are the authorities, both federal and state. Police investigations are supposed to be confidential, not shared higglety-pigglety with civilians. I could get the department in trouble.”

“I’m not sure I like the higglety-pigglety allusion. You think I’m fat? And it’s a little late in the game to worry about that now, Sheriff. You’ve been doing it for over a year.”

“Right, but I’m covered. Never mind how, you wouldn’t like it.”

“Okay, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on. The boat was in the Mediterranean, and the war raged ashore. Have I got it?”

“Right. So, the story goes that on the fourth day of the war, the ship was steaming along in international waters while Israeli armored forces were roaring into Sinai in pursuit of the retreating Egyptian army.”

“That was a long time ago. Ike. What’s that to do with your murder? I’m missing something, aren’t I?” Ruth hitched her cocktail dress closer and retreated deeper into her jacket.

“A long time ago, yes it was, but it won’t go away, it seems. At eight in the morning, it is alleged—I have to be careful here, there are rumors and accusations, and then there is the official version. What I am telling you is decidedly not the official version. At eight in the
AM,
Israeli recon planes flew over the ship, which was flying a large American flag, by the way. Then, at two in the afternoon, Israeli Mystère and Mirage-III fighter-bombers—French manufactured aircraft— repeatedly attacked the American vessel with rockets, napalm, and machine guns. The attacks were quick and over in twenty minutes or so, and were aimed at the ship’s electronic antennas and dishes. The Liberty caught fire. Eight of the crew were killed, a hundred or more were wounded, including the captain. Then, as if that were not enough, twenty-five minutes or so later three Israeli torpedo boats attacked it. They banged away at the already burning ship with 20-mm and 40-mm guns. Five minutes into the second attack an Israeli torpedo hit the Liberty amidships, where the intelligence paraphernalia were located. Twenty-five more Americans died and the ship was effectively out of commission and unable to communicate.”

“No. This is true?”

“True, false, partially so; you’re the historian, you tell me. Some of it, yes. I don’t know how much. It’s one side of a complex story. In any event, it does not matter. If you are intent on creating division in the country, it is enough that you have the means, true or not. People lap up conspiracies like cats lap milk.”

“But not Schrödinger’s cat, because he may or may not be dead.”

“Are you listening to me? Okay, so the gunboats circled the ship, which was listing and possibly sinking, and fired at the crewmen trying to put out the fires. The captain ordered the crew to abandon ship. The Israeli warships were said to have closed in and machine gunned the life rafts. While all this was going on, a rescue mission by US Sixth Fleet carrier aircraft was apparently aborted. Allegedly on an order from the White House itself.”

“That’s it? Didn’t anybody do anything?”

“They say that some former U.S. government officials, including then-CIA Director Richard Helms, Secretary of State Dean Rusk, and the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, did not accept the incident as innocent, or a consequence of friendly fire. The administration, however, decided not to dispute Israel’s claim that the attack had been nothing more than a terrible mistake. White House documents someone obtained from the Johnson Presidential Library seem to indicate that the Israelis’ explanation of how the attack had occurred was not generally believed at the time.”

“Nothing happened? They let it go?”

“You have to remember, this happened in the late sixties. A lot of very heavy stuff hit the fan about then—the Vietnam war, an election coming up, Haight-Ashbury, White and Grissom killed in a testing exercise, race riots in many of the major cities…it was a crazy time in our history. The country had enough problems to deal with and we didn’t need another, particularly one that would put us at odds with an ally. So, it went away.”

“Men were killed needlessly in the Liberty attack, you said. And now, what? Add two more? Doesn’t it strike you as odd that if a clean breast had been made, the truth told back then, no equivocating and so on, those two would not be racked up to the incident. Maybe even more—who knows? Ah, well, that’s the mess we create when we yield to pride, I suppose.”

“
Hubris,
I think. That and institutionalized stupidity, the hallmark of a smoothly running political system.”

“Cynical, Ike, very cynical. What has become of my Boy Scout? I think you need another vacation.”

“No, This business takes me back to a previous life and some unpleasant memories.”

“Gottcha. So, I ask again, what has this got to do with Picketsville?”

“You remember Charlie’s anomaly?”

“The icon thing?”

“Exactly. As nearly as I can figure, the ‘anomaly’ was a small memory chip onto which various documents authenticating the story, as I’ve told it, had been embedded.”

“I thought you were substituting one with phony information on it. How do you know what the real one said?”

“I didn’t see the first one, but Sam fixed it so I could read the contents of the substitute. The Agency reproduced most of the documents, as nearly as I can figure, at least enough to satisfy the recipients that they had the goods, but they fiddled with them.”

“Fiddled? How fiddled? I would think they’d put crap on the substitute. A recipe for chicken soup, you know, Jewish penicillin, or something. Why give them what they want?”

“Chicken soup…a happy thought, but not a practical one. No, they had to make it look like the delivery was made. The forgeries, however, all had to have mistakes in them. If they were ever released to the public, they could easily be discredited as such, and the work of fanatics.”

“You mean like Dan Rather’s documents of Bush’s National Guard time?”

“Like that, yes.”

“That’s very devious. Did you figure that out by yourself or did Charlie give you hints?”

“Charlie doesn’t know that I know.”

“Wow, this is deep. You were right, I’m not sure I want to know, not that I can help it now. You said I was covered for receiving secrets. How?”

“In the past I said you were a deputy.”

“I’m a deputy? I don’t remember being sworn.”

“Consider it done. Anyway, the Liberty—”

“Where’s my badge?”

“Your what?”

“Badge. If I’m a duly sworn deputy sheriff, I want a badge and a piece. I need a piece.”

“A piece of what? What are you going on about?”

“A gat, a roscoe, a cannon, a sheep’s leg, you know. Isn’t that cop talk for a gun?”

“Not even close. You want a gun? You hate guns.”

“You’re right, I hate guns. They should all be collected and melted down. Make the world a better place. Well, not all of them. You can keep yours. I need you to protect me from the nuts out there who carry—or is it pack?”

“The latent hypocrisy in that statement is monumental, but typical.”

“I don’t care. So what about your ship, the Liberty. What happens now?”

Ike shrugged. “It’s an issue, as I said, that won’t go away. It’s like your mother’s book title. The median age, as of the last census, is something like thirty-six. Over half the people in the country were not even born when the incident happened, and well over that number have no remembrance of it whatsoever, or even the Six-Day War. Vietnam is taught as history to young people who put it in the same category as the Civil War, the Spanish-American War and so on. So, even if the documentation is authentic, it’s hard to conceive how it would carry any weight now, but—”

“But, as you keep telling me, we live in a litigious, uncivil world characterized by angry polarized debate where people think it’s okay to scream at the President during his speech to Congress. This
Liberty
thing, if placed with the wrong people, could have embarrassing political, or at the very least, foreign policy consequences even now.”

“More than that, I think. We have created a small but not insubstantial segment of our society that loves to hate, and the means to feed them what they want to hear. People are obsessed with the secrets of the past and presumed conspiracies. Did Thomas Jefferson sire children by Sally Hemings? What did Roosevelt know before Pearl Harbor? Did the CIA blow up the World Trade Center and fake the airplane crash? Is this another cover-up? And then there is the potential problem this story creates by providing support to the anti-Semitic wing-nuts that always lurk in society’s sewers.

So, there you have it. Something like this
Liberty
business in the hands of rabble rousers, whether individuals or media wonks, could very well prove volatile in the society that you said yourself prefers absolutes. It’s a small thing, after all. A trifle, in fact. Not something we should be exercised about, but people are dead because of that icon. The anger level in the country does not need any more provocation. It’s one more thing. For me, it’s about a dead guy in the urgent care center.”

They sat in silence waiting for the moon to clear the roof’s peak.

“I want a hat.”

“What? A hat?”

“As your deputy, I should be issued one of those cute Smokey the Bear hats. I want one.”

“No gun, but a badge and a hat. I might have one of each around here somewhere. Come to think of it, I like it.”

“You do?”

“Yes, because I realize what I want as a reward for setting up my father.”

“You said you didn’t.”

“I could have.”

“As your reward you want me to wear a badge, the hat, and…oh, I see. You
are
a dirty old man, Sheriff, but no blond wig. I have my limits.”