The Witch and the Borscht Pearl (11 page)

“I can’t explain it now. It’s too complicated.”

“But the necklace is safe?”

“Oh, yes.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Actually, Bella does have it. She’s keeping it for me.” She looked miserable. “Listen, please don’t tell Zoë, or—or anyone, would you?”

“Why not? Don’t you realize most people still think Bella stole it?” I blurted, then cursed my uncontrollable mouth. I sneaked a glance at Mrs. Risk, but she only continued to watch Pearl with the concentrated serenity of a circling hawk.

Pearl nodded, not meeting my eyes. “I know it looks—”

“Bella has it,” repeated Mrs. Risk.

“Yes. The necklace is valuable, but that’s not why it means so much to me. I kept it nearby, where I could see it or, or wear it if I wanted to, to feel closer to Bernie. Sometimes I need him so badly. I wish more than anything it could’ve been me instead of him that died.” Her eyes again welled with tears.

So then why give it to Bella, I wondered. Emboldened, I asked, “Could I see it sometime? It sounds incredible, and the pictures in the newspapers are always so blurry.”

She flushed as if I’d given her an extravagant compliment. “Of course,” she said, her eyes shining. “In fact, I’ll call Bella to tell her I need it back now.”

Mrs. Risk said, “We’ll be visiting Bella after we leave here. If you don’t mind, could you call and ask her to let us see it? I’m curious about it myself.”

“Sure,” she said and she left the room.

A few minutes later we heard a brief muffled cry. Mrs. Risk bounded from her chair and ran down the hall, with me close behind. We found Pearl in her bedroom, on her knees beside the bed. A rug had been pushed aside, revealing a floor safe, the lid of which was thrown back like a trap door. She was staring aghast at an empty velvet-lined case she held in her hands.

Dresser drawers and closet doors around the room all hung open, clothing hanging out and tossed every which way. A strident beep proclaimed that the phone receiver on her bedside table was off the hook.

“Pearl, what is it?” Mrs. Risk asked sharply.

“It’s not here! I called. Bella said she never got it. So I looked—Oh, Bernie. It’s really gone.” Pearl dropped the empty necklace case back into the hole in the floor, and began to cry. “I don’t understand,” she sobbed.

Mrs. Risk and I helped Pearl up to sit on the side of the bed and I fixed the receiver to stop its racket.

“We have to file a police report, Pearl,” said Mrs. Risk. “You realize that? If it’s actually stolen this time.”

Pearl stared up at Mrs. Risk, her face horrified. “No. I can’t! Everything will be all right. No! No. I remember now, I must have left it at the bank …” She crumpled, sliding from the bed. Mrs. Risk and I caught her just before she would’ve hit the floor.

We helped her back onto the bed and I ran for Zoë. I found her staring sourly at a steeping tea pot on the kitchen counter. I didn’t need to speak. One look at my expression and she raced back down the hall before me, with Ilene close behind.

In a few moments Zoë had removed Pearl’s clothes and dropped a loose flowing gown over her head with the expertise of the costumer she was. Mrs. Risk called Dr. Savoia, then we waited in the living room like unwanted brush salesmen. Far from helping, we’d seemed to worsen Pearl’s condition. The fate of her necklace could only be speculated, but we clearly wouldn’t be allowed to file a report of its theft.

Zoë stalked into the living room. This time I had no heart to resent her belligerence. It was with a newly humbled tone I asked, “How is she?”

She propped her two fists on her billowing hips and glared at me. “You believe me now? Don’t come here again. If she lives through this, it won’t be with your kind of help.”

Mrs. Risk stood. “We’re leaving, but first tell me why Bella isn’t here? Pearl’s clearly very attached to her.”

“Bella’s where Bella wants to be, to hell with anybody else, as always. She’s installed herself like some damned queen at Solly’s mansion in East Hampton, like she’d married him already. Would she lower herself to stay here with her sister who needs her? Hell, no. And now Velma’s got the meshugina idea that all this trouble with the law is her fault.”

“Pearl thinks it’s her fault the police suspect Bella of Solly’s murder?” I asked.

Zoë nodded grimly. “Don’t ask me why. She’s decided that Bella’s staying away because she blames Velma for everything and Velma won’t even argue with her because she blames herself, too. Now you know it all, now leave us alone. Got enough mishegoss to deal with here, don’t need some—” She muttered some Yiddish under her breath I couldn’t quite hear and trundled away to the kitchen.

Obviously we were to see ourselves out, and the sooner the better, in her opinion.

I found our coats where Zoë had dropped them in a soggy heap on the floor by the door.

“We’ll leave now,” Mrs. Risk called out to Zoë, but her tone admitted no defeat. “If you discover later that you’d like to talk, you can find me easily. Just ask around. I’m down the road.” She flipped her cloak around her shoulders and wrenched the door open again.

The wind nearly knocked me down as I pulled the door shut behind us.

“Nice exit. One little thing you forgot,” I said sourly, shivering.

“No I haven’t. Just wait. I don’t think I could mistake the signs.” And at that instant the door opened behind us. Ilene joined us on the unsheltered steps, bending away from the rain to button her coat.

“Zoë can handle things in there,” she shouted at us over the wind. “I have to get back to Manhattan. I have two sets to do tonight, rain or shine.” She glanced at Pearl’s empty driveway and then at us with a wry intelligence. “Waiting for a ride?”

“We were dropped here by a friend,” said Mrs. Risk, her voice somehow audible, even when facing into the wind.

“Yes, the police. I heard.” Ilene turned as if about to step off the porch.

In desperation I blurted, “Is, uh, Zoë spending the night with Pearl?”

Ilene stopped and stared at me over her shoulder. “Of course. Pearl shouldn’t be left alone, and Zoë expected to stay here anyway.” Again she moved to leave.

I glanced in urgent appeal to Mrs. Risk. Her eyes twinkled and she loudly declared, “Maybe we should stay, Rachel. Pearl may need more help than even the gentle Zoë can supply.”

By now Ilene was on the bottom step. She turned, examined Mrs. Risk’s serene face with annoyance. After a pause, she asked dryly, “Need a ride?”

“How kind,” said Mrs. Risk.

“It’s the least I can do for Zoë,” she replied. Soon we were traveling down the road towards the village in her late model black Acura, with me in the back seat. Ilene was forced to drive hunched over the wheel to peer through the blanket of rain. She dodged flying branches and inched through gulches of water that swamped dips in the road.

“Where would you like me to drop you?” shouted Ilene over the racket.

“I’ll let you know,” came Mrs. Risk’s calm answer.

Minutes later, we approached and passed Mrs. Risk’s graveled, but unmarked, lane. Mrs. Risk cleared her throat at great length, drowning out my effort to point out the error. I subsided, mystified.

After a few minutes, Ilene said, plainly exasperated, “I thought you lived near Pearl.”

“Would you like to join us for tea before you start out?” Mrs. Risk asked. “The traffic on the Expressway will be a horror in this storm. A small restorative meal is just what you need after a long stressful day. And you still have a full night’s work ahead, as I believe you mentioned.”

Ilene sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but I have no intention of giving you a chance to pump me for information.”

“Food sounds good to me,” I said hopefully. “Maybe the storm will pass by then.”

Mrs. Risk flicked a glance at the horizon. “No, it won’t,” she said dismissively. She pointed at a large white building we were approaching. “There’s the Wyndham Bay Inn. Their restaurant, Harrington’s, is quite good. It’s right on your way. You can leave us there after you have something.”

Ilene frowned, but after a last second of hesitation, she jerked the wheel to the right and trundled into the Inn’s parking lot. Harrington’s food is what’s known as ‘American.’ The tourists would make it a popular spot if the locals would leave them enough table space. Mrs. Risk advises the restaurant’s manager (and co-owner of the Inn), Black Dan Harrington, on his wine selections. He always keeps a table free for her, regardless of the crowd.

Ilene killed the engine. For a moment, the three of us sat watching the grey roiling water barely beyond the car’s bumper. The incoming tide had already engulfed the sandy strip that separates the parking lot from the normal water line. Flooding is a serious problem here where the terrain dips down to meet the water’s edge in the center of the village. I hoped I wouldn’t be conducting business ankle-deep in water tomorrow morning.

Ilene turned to face Mrs. Risk with a defiant smile. “I’m a singer, not a talker.” Her eyes looked as if they’d seen too many sad things and remembered them all.

Mrs. Risk smiled back. “Let’s go in.”

T
HE PLACE WAS EMPTY,
a rare event, no doubt because of the weather. Since we had the room to choose from, I led the way to my favorite table, against a back window with the best view of the water. The walls, ceiling, and the long curved bar were paneled in a warm reddish wood that blended well with the hunter-green upholstery and linens. Plants thrived in every direction, with so many windows, and the effect was an attractive blend of nature. A small dais took up one corner of the room. Black Dan Harrington brought in live music most evenings, usually jazz, sometimes blues. A lone guitarist strummed softly tonight, ignoring everyone as if he were entertaining himself.

Ilene sank into her chair with a sigh, stretching out her elegant legs as if her feet ached. After we’d given our orders, I asked, “Do you use a stage name?”

“No. I was born Ilene Fox, and I sing as Ilene Fox.” She smiled. “When people ask that it’s because they’ve never heard of me.” She gave a short laugh at my chagrined expression. “I’m a lounge singer, or as they say now, ‘club singer.’ Don’t feel bad about not knowing me. I have a steady enough following to keep me booked in the best rooms in the city. I’ve been in the Calistoga Room in the Rawlins Hotel for four months.” She leaned back in her chair complacently.

“Do you ever play the Catskills hotels, like the Concord or Krasner’s?” Mrs. Risk asked.

“Krasner’s, on special weekends. Like Pearl, that’s where my career started. I’ll be there Thanksgiving weekend, to open Pearl’s big show.”

“Will Pearl be able to perform by then?” I asked doubtfully. “That’s only three weeks away.”

Ilene glanced coolly at me. “Pearl’s a professional.”

Our food arrived. I bit into a sandwich and realized how hungry I was.

Mrs. Risk studied our guest in silence. She seemed to be deciding something.

Ilene kept her legs tightly crossed, even while extended, and held her elbows in close to her body. Secretive lids hooded large watchful eyes. Not an easy person from whom to pry information, I thought. Even for a witch.

“When’s Solly’s funeral?” Mrs. Risk asked her.

“Five, tomorrow afternoon. Bella made the arrangements.”

“He had no family to do it?”

Ilene shook her head before she sipped her tea. “But he’d left instructions, so the decisions were already made.”

“Where will the shivah be held, Solly’s house?” asked Mrs. Risk.

Ilene nodded. “What shivah there’ll be,” she commented wryly. “He wasn’t exactly religious and Bella doesn’t impress me as being observant.”

I wondered what a shivah was and turned my attention to the weather. Mrs. Risk would explain later, I was sure. Outside, the sky had turned black from its former aluminum grey. The rain driving hard against the broad window fragmented our reflections like a shattered mirror. Only the water immediately surrounding Harrington’s Pier was visible, now, and that only in illuminated spots beneath floodlamps. I wondered how the parking lot was faring, for the tide had continued to rush in. We might be stranded here if we stayed too late.

I knew I shouldn’t worry. Barton Peacock, Dan Harrington’s partner and the manager of the Wyndham Bay Inn half of the establishment, would leap to accommodate his adored Mrs. Risk with a good room. And my home above my flower shop across the street would be only a short swim. I checked my watch. It would be five in half an hour. I suddenly remembered Daniel. Nobody would be fording floodwaters for bouquets, he should get home while he still could.

“Excuse me,” I said as I rose. I walked through the wide doorway into the lobby of the Wyndham Bay Inn and made my call.

When I returned, Ilene and Mrs. Risk abruptly halted their conversation, which from the last few tense words, hinted to me that I’d missed something interesting. I looked curiously from one to the other, but they both avoided my gaze.

“Who’s going to be Pearl’s personal manager now?” I asked after a while, when the silence became boring.

Ilene looked as if the thought startled her. “That’s right. She’ll need someone. She hasn’t managed her own affairs since … well, since Solly took over.” She thought for a few moments. “There’s Simon Lutz, I guess.” She shook her head. “I don’t like to speculate.”

“First things first, I suppose,” I added. When Ilene looked at me, I explained, “We have to find out who killed Solly.”

Ilene’s face went rigid with anger. “Zoë told me how the police are using you to gather information. Just because you know Pearl gives you no right to intrude on her private—”

I snapped irritably. “Pearl needs our help.”

“Your
help?”

Mrs. Risk shrugged and said bluntly, “I have skill in this area, and much experience. Rachel assists me. Damaging circumstantial evidence points to Bella already, and possibly soon to Pearl. And the investigation shows no sign of quick resolution. Would you rather we withdrew from the case, let events drag and take their toll on Pearl’s health and career?”

Ilene began twisting her empty cup in its saucer, making it clink. “Pearl needs nothing from a person like you.”