That Day the Rabbi Left Town (21 page)

“Nah, just what we got on the preliminary report—cardiac arrest. My guess is that's all we're going to get. And I suspect that's all there is. He was a little shrimp of a guy and he was over seventy. And he goes plowing through the snow during a blizzard, without no rubbers yet. So he gets a heart attack and falls down and the snow covers him.”

Ames nodded. “I'm inclined to agree with you, but we've got to make sure, don't we?”

“Why? What's so important that we got to be sure?”

“Because lots of folks in Barnard's Crossing think maybe the rabbi of the Jewish temple there—what's his name? Selig, Rabbi Selig—think he may have knocked him over with his snowblower.”

Chapter 32

The story had grown from telling to telling; Ada Bronson told her husband, who passed it on to the boys who came in for a beer at the Ship's Cabin. Mrs. Miller told it to a woman she met at the supermarket. Members of the police force may have mentioned it to their wives.

The story grew in all dimensions. The voyeurism became an attempt at entry, which became a forced entry and attempted rape, which became a physical attack ending in actual rape. The finding of the body underneath the ledge was explained by Selig's having caught sight of Kent and chased him, and he had slipped and fallen off. And this gave way to the story that Selig had seen him coming up the right-of-way and had directed the stream from his snowblower at him and knocked him off the ledge that way. And ultimately, that Selig had caught him and picked him up bodily and thrown him off the ledge.

The phone calls began coming in Tuesday morning, shortly after Rabbi Selig had returned from
shachriss
, the morning service. After a while, he stopped answering the phone, knowing that he would not miss anything important since the calls would register on the answering machine. Later in the afternoon, when he had a chance to play the messages back, he decided that he ought to consult with the president, Al Bergson.

First, however, he discussed it with his wife, who said, “You could be in trouble, Dana.”

“You mean the temple might ask me to resign?”

“No, I mean you could be in trouble with the law. You threatened to pick him up and throw him over the hedge, and that's where he was found, over the hedge on the flat.”

“Aw, c'mon. I'm pretty husky and he was a little shrimp of a guy, but no one would believe that I could pick up someone weighing at least a hundred and twenty or twenty-five pounds, and heave him over a four-foot hedge for a distance of about fifteen feet.”

“Well, they could claim that he was on the other side of the hedge and you blew him over with a blast of snow from the snow-blower. I think maybe you ought to see a lawyer.”

“Yeah, and as soon as word got out that I had consulted a lawyer, people would take that as proof that I thought I might be guilty. Even though it was dark when I started to plow, I'm sure I would have seen him if he were coming up the path on the other side of the hedge.”

“How about all those phone calls you got?”

“Well, practically every one of them favored me, thought I did the right thing.”

“Which means they thought you did it.”

“Ye-ah,” he said reluctantly. “So what do I do?”

“Look, Dana, maybe it would be a good idea to talk to Rabbi Small.”

“Why would I want to talk to David Small? What's he got to do with it? He has no position here now.”

“He's lived here for twenty-five years, so he knows the town. Besides, he's supposed to be friendly with the police chief, this whatshisname, Lanigan. He could ask him what gives.”

“I'll think about it.”

As expected, Al Bergson was at the evening minyan. As soon as the service ended, Rabbi Selig approached him. “Got a couple of minutes, Mr. Bergson?”

“Sure, what can I do for you?”

Rabbi Selig waited until the rest had departed and he was alone with Bergson. Then he said, “I got a number of phone calls about this business last Sunday.”

“As a matter of fact, so have I,” said Bergson.

“That so?”

“Uh-huh, and so have some other members of the congregation.”

“What do you think I ought to do?”

Bergson shrugged. Then, “Have the police spoken to you yet? Have you been questioned at all?”

“Well, yeah. See, that Sunday, when I saw the crowd at the foot of my driveway, I went down to see what it was all about. The police chief was in his car and he invited me over. So we sat in his car and talked for a while. He asked me when I'd plowed the driveway, and I told him. And that was all.”

“Well, that might be the end of it, but I doubt it. You know, if Rabbi Small were in town, I'd go and see him, if I were you. He and Lanigan, the police chief, are thick as thieves. The Lanigans have eaten at the Small house on occasion, and David and Miriam have had tea at the Lanigans'. What's more, David Small has been helpful to Lanigan on more than one occasion.”

“I could go into Boston and see him, couldn't I?”

“Sure you could, and I think you should. Here, I'll give you the phone number of the apartment where he's staying.” He took a pencil and notebook from an inner pocket and wrote down the phone number. “Call him in the evening and make an appointment to see him either at his office in the college or at home.”

“Thanks. And by the way, I don't think I'll come to the Board meeting this Sunday.”

“No? Any particular reason?”

“Well, you got phone calls and you said some of the other members did, too. So I figure you'll be wanting to talk about it, and you'll be able to talk more freely if I'm not there.”

Bergson nodded. “Okay.”

“You drove in?” asked Rabbi Small, as he motioned his visitor to a chair and closed the door of his office so that they would not be disturbed. “Where did you park?”

“No, I came in by bus,” said Rabbi Selig. “One of the reasons for my taking the house was that the bus stopped right at our driveway and if I had occasion to go into Boston, I wouldn't have to worry about finding a place to park.”

“Good thinking,” said Rabbi Small. “When I first came here, the dean said he'd try to arrange for my own parking space. He was unable to, though. Since moving to Brookline, I come in by streetcar. Very convenient.”

“In the light of what happened, I'm not so sure that having the bus stop at my driveway is such an advantage. You know what happened?”

Rabbi Small nodded. “Chief Lanigan had business in Boston Monday and was kind enough to drive us in. He told me all about it on the way. It was not that he was making conversation; he felt that I was concerned because of the effect it might have on the congregation and on you.”

“He thought I was involved?”

“He also wanted me to find out what I could about Professor Kent since I was in a position to inquire and he wasn't.”

“But what did he think about me?” demanded Selig.

“As matters stand now, there are several possibilities that have to be considered; one, that he slipped off, perhaps as a result of a sudden heart attack; two, that you forced him off with a blast from your snowblower, either accidentally because you didn't see him, or intentionally because you wanted to pay him off for the, er—affront to your wife; and three, that you picked him up bodily and threw him off.”

“But that's ridiculous—”

“Number three certainly; you'd have to be a giant to do it. But the possibility that you aimed your snowblower at him has to be seriously considered.”

“And how are they going to prove that?”

“Unfortunately, they don't have to prove it. They would, to send you to jail, but they don't have to prove it to wreck your career and to inflict damage on the congregation. There are three elements that they look for: weapon—in this case, the snowblower; opportunity—he was coming along while you were plowing the snow; and motive. And you gave them that when you spoke to the Millers.”

“So I'm sunk; my career is wrecked even if I don't go to jail.”

“Oh no. Those are the possibilities that appear at the moment. The police have only just begun investigating the case. There is the possibility that he was actually killed elsewhere and then brought to Barnard's Crossing where his body was dumped. There is pretty good evidence that that's what happened, which is why Suffolk County has taken over the case.”

“So what do I do now?”

“Nothing. Do nothing.”

“Should I talk to a lawyer?”

“Only your wife. She's a lawyer, isn't she? I wouldn't engage a lawyer unless you are charged.”

Chapter 33

When Lanigan called his friend Bill Mulcahey, chief of police of the city of Lynn, he was surprised at the chortle his request elicited. “They sent you an invitation, too? Those dagos! I'll bet they sent one to the governor, too.”

“What in hell are you talking about, Bill?”

“You asked if I had anything on Donofrio. Well, Vittorio Donofrio is retiring after forty years of service in the Highway Department. He got to be a foreman or something. And so the Italianos are giving him a banquet, on which, believe me, they won't lose any money.”

“Vittorio Donofrio? No, this is Antonio Donofrio.”

“Oh, Antonio, that's his son. He's a barber or hairdresser. Got a place near the railroad station. Let's see, it's—it's Bixby Hair Salon. He owns it, or he's married to the lady who owns it. What do you want him for?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

Inasmuch as the city of Lynn was only about ten or fifteen minutes' drive from the town of Barnard's Crossing, the townspeople were apt to do as much of their shopping in Lynn as they were apt to do locally. And they knew the city almost as well. Chief Lanigan knew where Bixby's Hair Salon was; he had a faint recollection of Amy having gone there once or twice in the past when her regular hairdresser had gone on vacation and her shop had been closed.

Having found out that Donofrio worked there, Lanigan, even though not in uniform, had no hesitation in driving up to the front of the shop and parking in front of the No Parking sign. He entered, and in response to the questioning look of Mrs. Bixby at the little manicurist table, he said, “I am Hugh Lanigan of the Barnard's Crossing Police Department,” and he showed her his badge, which he drew from his jacket pocket.

“Yeah, I think I seen your picture in the
Examiner
a coupla times. You're the chief, aren't you? What can I do for you, Chief?”

“I wanted to talk to Antonio Donofrio.”

“That's him.” She nodded. “He'll be another ten, fifteen minutes, I'd say. Look, Chief, why'nt you sit down and let me do your nails.”

“You figure he'll be free in ten or fifteen minutes? I'll come back—”

“I don't mean a regular manicure. I'll just clip them a little. No charge. It's just it'll look better than if you stand there leaning over and talking to me. From the outside, I mean; someone passing by who might know you. It's all right, you know. I have plenty men customers.”

“All right.” Lanigan sat down and extended a hand to the woman. They had been talking in low tones, a little above a whisper. Now she said in normal tones, “Why'nt you take your hat and coat off. You can hang them there on the rack.”

“All right,” he said good-naturedly, and got up and hung up his coat and deposited his hat on the shelf above it. When he sat down again, she said, “I'll bet it's about Professor Kent, isn't it?”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, you're from Barnard's Crossing and his body was found in Barnard's Crossing, and they're not sure how he died. Mrs. Thorpe was saying—you know her? She's from Barnard's Crossing, or maybe Swampscott—well, she was saying that it was this young minister, or priest, or something—no, it wouldn't be a priest, not a Roman Catholic one—who knocked him off the ledge on account he caught him peeping in the window while his wife was undressing. It could be a Greek priest; they're allowed to marry. Well, it wouldn't surprise me, him peeping, I mean. He was always, you know, interested in the ladies. I mean he was always looking and you know—”

“You mean he was horny?”

She giggled. “I wouldn't have said it, but he was, sort of, especially when he got older.”

“Oh, you knew him.”

“Yes, I knew him, all right.”

“He used to come here for a manicure?”

“Not here, but when I was a manicurist in this barbershop in Boston where he used to go for a haircut. That was a good twenty years ago. We got real friendly, and he told me he loved me. He wanted to marry me. He couldn't, of course, on account he was already married—to this sick old woman, He said she was going to die soon, and he wanted me to wait until then. But a girl has to think of her future, and as time goes on, she doesn't get younger. So when Tony asked me to marry him, I said yes.”

“And how did Kent take it?”

“I guess he understood. He even lent us the money to buy this place. And from time to time, he's lent us money when we needed it. I guess he felt we were the only family he had. When my Josephine was born, he took out an insurance policy naming me as the beneficiary. She calls him Uncle Malcolm.”

“And Tony?”

“He thinks he's like some kind of cousin of mine. And that's what I want him to think,” she added severely.

“I'm not likely to tell him different,” said Lanigan, “but I've got to talk to him.”

“Oh, Tony is almost through with Mrs. Wilson and he'll be free for an hour. Look, why don't you go down to the café a couple of stores down the block, and I'll send Tony to meet you there when he gets through.”

“I went to see him, but I didn't get to see him,” announced Donofrio as he made for Lanigan's table.

“Why don't you get yourself a cup of coffee,” suggested Lanigan, “and we can talk about it.”