A Pain in the Tuchis: A Mrs. Kaplan Mystery (13 page)

“I’ll open the garage door,” Moishe said. He went over to the opposite wall and pressed a button. Immediately the big metal garage door began to roll itself up, making a loud clattering sound. “If you ladies will wait over there for a minute,” Moishe shouted over the noise while gesturing to an open space just outside of the door, “I’ll start the engine and bring the bike outside. It can be a bit loud when it starts up in here.”

Mrs. K and I obeyed Moishe’s instructions, although we had no fear that the noise would be too loud, unless you count whatever screams of frustration we might hear from poor Moishe when he was unable to make the machine start.

We watched as Moishe returned to the motorcycle. First he put on his helmet, with the part that goes over his face pushed up, so he could see what he was doing. He climbed on the seat and put his hands on the ends of the handlebars. He looked like a child trying to ride his father’s bicycle, and I admit I felt sorry for him at that moment and a little bit guilty for having put him in such an embarrassing position. But as Mrs. K pointed out, it had to be done for his sake and ours, not to mention Little Moishe’s. We waited for him to put his foot on the kick-starter, wherever that was, and try to start the engine.

But he did not put his foot anywhere special. He just pressed some kind of button on the handlebar and—
Oy Gotenu—
suddenly there was a deafening roar.

The big black motorcycle had come to life!

Mrs. K and I looked at each other in horror. This was not what was supposed to happen. Of course, we were puzzled as to how Moishe had managed to start the motor with only the pressing of a button. Only later did we learn that the previous afternoon, having made the “date” with me and well aware he could not start the motorcycle with the kick-starter, Moishe had had the electric starter fixed. Who knew he was so efficient?

We now were like those people who stand and watch an accident scene. We watched and waited to see whether Moishe, now that he had the motor running, could move the heavy machine off its stand and actually drive it. Needless to say, we were very much hoping he could not, because if he was able to drive it out of the garage…well, it was not something I wished to think about.

It was obvious that before Moishe could get the motorcycle going, like a bicycle it had to be taken off the dingus that holds it up, the kickstand. This is the thing that keeps it from falling over, since it has only the two wheels. And Little Moishe had assured Mrs. K that his father would never be able to do this, as it was much too heavy for him. But then, the same genius had told us that Moishe would never be able to start it in the first place.

Wrong again.

It is true Moishe pushed as hard as he could and the motorcycle did not budge. Oh, it rocked back and forth a little, but that was all. Mrs. K and I were much relieved to see this, and we were about to go inside and thank Moishe for the invitation when he called out to us.

“Would you ladies mind stepping back in here for a moment?”

We looked at each other and Mrs. K shrugged her shoulders, but we walked back to the parking place where Moishe was sitting on the motorcycle, which, after its roar of waking up, was going “burble-burble-burble” very politely.

When we reached Moishe, he said, “I know it’s a lot to ask of you ladies, but I’m having a little trouble getting the bike off its stand. Would you mind giving me a hand?”

Again Mrs. K and I exchanged puzzled looks. “Us? What is it you want us to do?” Mrs. K asked.

“Oh, just get on either side and grab hold of that bar”—indicating a shiny silver tube that looked like a handle of some kind on the back of the seat—“and when I say, lean forward and pull.”

What to do? It was like a condemned prisoner being asked to help build the gallows on which he will be hung. He can refuse, but it will probably only delay the execution. No doubt if we decline to help, Moishe just finds someone else to give him a push. So reluctantly I took hold of the shiny bar and Mrs. K did the same, and when Moishe said “Now,” we pulled.

I suppose the weight of all of us leaning on Mr. Davidson was enough to make him move, because suddenly he was rolling forward with Motorcycle Moishe on his back and driving.

Of course, I was not yet sitting on the machine, but was still safely watching as it took Moishe out the door and into the sunshine.

Zie gezunt,
I am thinking. Go and be well. Just do not come back for me!

I would like to say that Moishe rode off on Mr. Davidson and that was the last of him we saw that day. I would like to, but I cannot, because as soon as he was outside and in the driveway of the Home, Moishe stopped the motorcycle. This created another problem for him. Because the heavy machine was not on its little kickstand, Moishe had to hold it up while remaining on the seat. We could see it start to tip over to the left, then to the right, but finally Moishe got it balanced in between. He then looked back at me and Mrs. K and called out the words I most did not want to hear:

“Okay, Ida. You can get on now.”

I looked at Mrs. K and said to her, “Rose, he expects me to get on that machine. What do I do now? I cannot tell him now that I only agreed to come riding with him because we assumed he would never get the machine started or off its stand, much less out of the garage.”

“No, Ida, I see what you mean. And I feel responsible for putting you in this situation, and for assuming that what Little Moishe said about his father not being able to drive the motorcycle was true. But I’m afraid you have now only two choices: you can tell Moishe the truth, and that includes the fact that it was all my idea and you never intended to ride with him, or you can walk out there and get on the motorcycle. I wish there was a third choice, but I do not see one.”

Maybe if we had had more time we could have come up with another plan. Like I suddenly have a fainting spell and have to be carried back inside. But neither I nor Mrs. K, who as I have said thinks much more quickly than I do, thought of that at the time. We saw only the two choices: confess or ride.

Well, somehow I could not tell Moishe, who is a
mensch,
though a
meshuggeneh
one, the truth, even if it was not my idea. I had to get on the motorcycle.

Mrs. K squeezed my hand, and I walked toward the open garage door, Moishe still looking back as he held up the motorcycle. You remember what I said about the condemned prisoner building his own gallows? Well, now I felt like I was about to put my head into the noose, walking the “last mile,” as they say. And in this ridiculous leather costume, yet, complete with space helmet.

I was angry with myself for having put myself in such a terrible situation. I was even angry, quite unreasonably I know, at Mrs. K for having advised me to do it. But fortunately I had forgotten one very important thing: when it comes to anything that requires what you would call athletic ability, I am a real
klutz.
A little awkward. Even in school as a child, I was never very good at sports. Because I now play games like bridge or canasta instead of hopscotch or basketball, being a
klutz
has been only a mild nuisance to me. But I never thought it would actually become a benefit!

Nevertheless, that is exactly what happened. I gathered my courage and walked up to the motorcycle, which Moishe was holding upright with obvious difficulty as it burbled and chugged, no doubt wanting to be unleashed and allowed to run.

“What should I do?” I asked Moishe, never having gotten onto such a beast before.

“Just grab the chrome bar behind my seat, put your right foot on the little step there, and swing your left leg over.” Then he added reassuringly with a smile, “It’s easy, just take your time.”

Nu,
time was not my problem. With the grabbing and the putting I had no difficulty. But with the swinging, that was another story altogether. I do not know whether I could have made a successful sitting on the seat if I had not been wearing that heavy leather jacket and chaps, not to mention the big space helmet with the orange stripe. Maybe yes, maybe no. What I do know is that, combined with my bursitis and my being a
klutz,
instead of my left foot swinging over to the other side of the motorcycle, it instead struck the big animal in the
tuchis,
if you know what I mean. Apparently that tipped it sideways just enough so that it began to fall and Moishe, who was only barely keeping it upright in the first place, was unable to stop it falling completely over. It was a little like you see in those movie scenes where everything slows down like it is happening underwater, and maybe two lovers are floating across a meadow toward each other.

I had no idea Moishe, at his age, could jump that far that fast! But jump he did, and just in time, because had he not, Mr. Harley Davidson would surely have fallen right on top of him. As it was, he missed Moishe by a good six inches as the big machine went crashing to the ground. And there it lay, like a wounded animal, still burbling and growling, but—more like an upside-down turtle—unable to get up on its own. I of course lost my balance and ended up
kop
over
tuchis—
head over behind—on the other side of the machine.
Oy gevalt,
what a mess!

Mrs. K, who had watched the entire scene unfold, came running over to see if we were hurt. I seemed to be only a little shaken up, saved from any real damage by being completely covered from head to foot in armor that would have made proud a knight by King Arthur. Now I know why they wear the black leather and the shiny helmet.

But I still cannot understand about the zippers.

Now, you might think that this that I have described to you was a real
brokh,
a total disaster. But in fact, as I said, it turned out to be a stroke of good fortune, thanks to Mrs. K. My first thought, after checking to see that I was still in one piece, was to blame Moishe for the silly idea, in addition to Mrs. K for talking me into going along with it. But it was she who saw the possibility for making lemon pudding from lemons.

Seeing that I was unhurt, Mrs. K then rushed over to Moishe, who fortunately was hurt only in his pride, and apologized profusely on my behalf, as if the entire mess was my fault! I began to protest, as best I could from where I was sitting, but then I heard Moishe reply, and I understood.

“Oh, that’s all right, Rose,” says Moishe. “Riding a motorcycle is not for everyone, and of course Ida did not mean to knock the bike over. I am sure we would have had a wonderful ride together, but as it is, there does not seem to be any harm done,
Got tsu danken.
”

He then stood up, brushed himself off, and checked for any injuries. Finding none, he came around to where I was sitting on the ground and helped me to stand up. I too apologized for being such a
klutz
and knocking over his machine. “All my fault,” I told him.

“Do not worry, Ida. I’m just glad you are all right,” he said. “I never should have insisted you come for a ride.” He then lowered his voice and continued, “To tell you the truth, Ida, I probably should not have been riding either. It is a long time since I was trying to handle such a large bike by myself, and, well, I think it is time I let my son do all the driving, and I shall continue to ride in back. I enjoy it very much, and he is strong like I used to be.”

So somehow my pushing over Mr. Davidson convinced Moishe he should not try to drive motorcycles anymore, and my taking the blame for it let him save face.

So all is well that ends well; and all would have been too, if Moishe had just not added one last sentence:

“I shall ask him to take you for a ride instead.”

I seem to have gotten a
bissel
far from Vera’s murder, so let me bring you back to the evening before I had the encounter with Mr. Harley Davidson. After dinner, Mrs. K and I were watching a movie on her television. I think it was one of those they call “chick flicks,” or something like that. The girl is going to marry some
shlemiel
until along comes this
mensch,
and she almost marries the
shlemiel
but at the last minute she goes for the nice boy instead, as we all knew she would. Anyway, we are watching this movie when there is a knocking on the door.

It was Fannie.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Fannie said, “but I was wondering whether you had heard anything further about, you know, about my sister’s death.”

“I assume you know about Daniel being arrested,” Mrs. K said. By now I think everyone in the Home knew that.

“Yes, of course, and I have heard that Vera was poisoned in some way or other.”

“In fact, she was given a medicine that when combined with what she was already taking—something starting with a ‘Z,’ I think—made her heart fail.”

“I see. That’s interesting. But that can’t be the end of the matter. I mean, surely you don’t think her own son…”

“No, of course not. Ida and I have talked with the police and we are doing what we can to find the real person responsible.”

“And have you made any…any progress?”

Mrs. K looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders a bit. How much, if anything, should we tell Fannie? The police said we should not discuss details with others. But after all, it was Fannie who first raised the alarm, and who asked Mrs. K to help. We should at least give her some idea of where things stand.

While I was thinking these things, so was Mrs. K. She obviously came to about the same conclusion as I did.

“Fannie, dear, the police still think that Daniel seemed to have a motive and opportunity to…to do it. But they are still nosing around, and we are trying to help them find someone else who is a more likely suspect.”

“So do they have any other suspects?” Fannie asked.

“Yes and no. There were a few other people who entered Vera’s room that day, such as the nurse who usually gives her a pill with lunch, and two people they have not identified who entered in the late afternoon.”

“Two people.”

“Yes, at least two.” Obviously Mrs. K did not want to tell Fannie, or anyone else, that we had already guessed it was Rena and talked with her.

“Why would these people be going into my sister’s room in the afternoon? Were they cleaners or something?”

“Possibly. Have you any idea who they might have been?”

Fannie appeared to think about this for a moment.

“No, other than the cleaning staff, and maybe a nurse, I can’t think of anyone. But if my sister was indeed poisoned, I don’t see why it matters. She would not have taken any medicine anyway.”

Again we looked at each other with surprise.

“She would not? How do you know this?”

“Because it was
Yom Kippur,
of course. All of her medicines were to be taken with food, and of course we fasted all day. She wouldn’t take her medicines that morning from me, so I’m reasonably sure she wouldn’t have taken them from anyone else until after sundown, after
Yom Kippur
was over.”

This was something neither I nor Mrs. K had considered, and it was a big shock to us both.

“But Fannie,” Mrs. K said, “you know that one is permitted to take medicine, even to eat, on
Yom Kippur
if it is necessary for one’s health. Surely your sister knew that and didn’t refuse her medicine.”

“Yes, I know that, and I argued with her about it briefly, but she said she was feeling better and missing one day wouldn’t matter. She was quite adamant about it. I even went to find Dr. Menschyk to ask him if it really was okay for her to miss a day of medicine, but I couldn’t find him, so I left it at that and went to services. So you see, until sundown, no one could have given Vera any medicine, unless they somehow forced it on her.”

“But of course then she would have told someone, certainly Daniel, what had happened,” Mrs. K said. She sounded quite miserable, because of course if no one could have given Vera the wrong medicine until sundown when
Yom Kippur
ended, then the only person who could have given her the bad medicine was the one who came to her room after the Day of Atonement was over.

Only Daniel.

After Fannie left the room, Mrs. K and I sat and talked for a while about what we had learned from her. It was not a happy talk.

“First of all, I am surprised that Vera would refuse to take her medicine on purely religious grounds,” Mrs. K said. “She never struck me as that orthodox to begin with, and in any event, we know that anyone needing to take medicine is excused from fasting on
Yom Kippur.
Surely she knew that too.”

“Maybe not. And besides, is it not true that people sometimes become much more religious when they have a life-threatening illness? But if she was being so strict about it, do you then think she also refused to take her pills from Daniel the evening before, on
erev Yom Kippur
? The Day of Atonement would have officially started then.”

“We could ask Daniel, I suppose. But remember that he had to be at services himself by sundown, so he would likely have given her the medicine earlier that evening, before the beginning of the fast. And of course we all ate early so we could be finished before sundown.”

“Hmm. That is true. So all we really know is that Vera refused to take her morning medicines. If someone tried to give her something later in the day, she may have refused, or maybe she was persuaded that it was in her best interest.”

“
Gotteniu!
One way or the other, Ida, this makes it even harder to find a more likely suspect than Daniel.”

So maybe we were on the wrong team after all?