Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death (10 page)

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.

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 understand
able.

“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 entertainm
ent.”

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 intellectu
al—and physical—c
hallenge; 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.”