Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death (6 page)

“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.

“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 affectiona
tely, 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.

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 possibilit
ies.”

“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?”