Murder At The Mikvah (34 page)

“No. But you…”

“But I
what
?” she asked.

He burst into tears. “I… I…”

“What is it, David?” she pushed.

“I thought you were Mommy.”

“What’s going on here?” Judith boomed from the doorway. At the sight of her, Rosie gave a little screech and ran out.

Lauren gulped as she held David in her arms, trying to comfort him. David looked up at her with a “please don’t tell my Nana” plea in his eyes. Even though Judith had apologized about the shoe-tying comment, he still worried about her opinion of him.

Given the circumstances, Lauren was more than happy to accommodate him. “Oh, klutzy me!” she said dramatically. “I accidentally whacked David in the arm when I was fitting his costume.” Lauren stared straight into his eyes as she said this. David was a smart kid; surely he would understand what she was doing. She rubbed his arm. “All right now, sweetie?”

Momentarily confused, David forced a small smile and nodded.

Judith studied the scene suspiciously, but then said, “You really should be more careful, Lauren.” She opened her arms and smiled broadly at David. “Come, David. Come give Nana a kiss!”

David obeyed and trotted over to her like a puppy. Judith glared at Lauren, even as she embraced her grandson.

“I have to practice my lines now,” David said, wriggling himself from Judith’s arms.

“Lines?” Judith looked around, seemingly just noticing the costumes and string in a heap on the kitchen floor.

“David’s a Chanukah candle in the school play,” Lauren said.

“But not the Shamash,” David added, looking forlorn.

“Oh!” Judith said dramatically. “Well, that’s okay. A regular candle is just as exciting as the…”

“Shamash” David said.

“Right. The
Shamash
,” Judith repeated as David scurried out. Lauren tried to stifle her laughter. It was obvious that Judith Orenstein, the mother of a rabbi, had no idea what a Shamash was. Lauren expected the question to come any second, but Judith had something else on her mind, wagging her finger at Lauren’s legs like she was pointing out a urine stain on the carpet. “That outfit… I’ve seen it before.” Her eyes passed slowly up Lauren’s body until she locked her gaze directly into Lauren’s eyes. “But not on you.”

Lauren’s face flushed. Whirring sounds from the spin cycle only reminded her how foolish she had been putting on Hannah’s old clothes.

“I…” Lauren began, but was interrupted by a boy’s voice calling from the living room.

“Nana, Abba needs your car key!”

Judith gave Lauren a look of warning before turning on her heel and marching out of the kitchen.

Lauren waited until she heard the front door close before bolting upstairs to change.

 Forty-five

Early Monday morning, twenty-nine year old Lydia Richter walked into the police station wearing a pair of jeans and a white cable-knit sweater. About 5’4”, she had light brown hair, which she wore pulled back neatly in a low ponytail. She was a plain, bottom heavy girl, probably a good candidate for liposuction, Ron thought for some unknown reason.
There I go with more stupid, irrelevant nonsense
Ron thought.
One more thing to add to the list for the neurologist
. In the meantime, he would double up on his Ginkgo Biloba intake this week.

Lydia accepted Ron’s offer of a hot beverage and he took his time pouring it, hoping she would calm down a bit. It was obvious she was nervous from the way she kept shifting in her seat and biting her nails. The calmer she was, the faster they could get through this.
Just tell me Peter's real name
,
thought Ron,
and be done with it
.

John joined them a minute later, introduced himself to Lydia, and took a seat off in the corner, the way he and Ron had agreed.

After asking Lydia to state her full name, address and occupation, Ron got right to the point, asking if she knew Peter Stem.

“
Peter
?” Lydia stopped nibbling her nails and crossed her arms tightly against her chest.

“Do you know him?” Ron repeated the question.

She nodded.

“Well then, I'd like to ask you a few questions if that's all right.”

Lydia considered this for a minute, eyeing both men suspiciously. “I guess that would be okay.”

“How do you know Peter?”

“He used to come into Riley’s.”

“To see you?”

“No. Mostly for Snickers bars. King size.”

“I see.”

“Sometimes for chips. Salt and vinegar.”

“Thank you.” Ron forced a polite smile. “How would you describe Peter?”

Lydia thought for a moment. “Nice but too serious.”

“
Serious
? In what way?”

Lydia shrugged. “I don't know; he worries a lot.”

Ron caught John's eye. “Any idea what he worries about?”

She shook her head. “About the priest mostly. He fell once.”

“What happened?”

“Peter had to take him to the hospital.”

“Senecca?”

“I guess.”

Ron made a note to check into that later. “Was Peter ever aggressive?” he continued.

Lydia puckered her lips like she had a bad taste in her mouth. “Aggressive?” She seemed not to understand the word.

“Did he ever raise his voice, for instance?”

Lydia held up two fingers in a “V” position. “Twice”

Ron raised his eyebrows. “What happened?”

“The first time I almost got run over crossing the street and he yelled at me to be more careful and look both ways.” She giggled and tapped the top of her head. “Sometimes I forget.”

“And the second time?”

Lydia was about to say something, but clamped down on her lip instead. “I made a mistake. It was just the one time. He yelled at me one time.”

Ron had his doubts. “Did Peter ever hit you?” he asked gently.

“You mean on purpose?”

Again, Ron eyed John out of the corner of his eye. Like a good detective, John's expression remained neutral. “On purpose or by accident… either way.”

“Umm… No.”

Ron leaned back in exasperation. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled it toward the ceiling.

“Peter's one of the nicest people I know!” Lydia announced with a sudden burst of energy. “He told me how once he was fishing in chocolate milk and didn’t throw a fish back in time and it floated to the top and it was dead and he felt so bad he cried!”

Huh?

Lydia puckered her lips “What was it?” She tapped her chin. “It was called a vanilla sucky or something.”

Okay.

Ron had to pick his jaw off the ground. “So, you’re saying Peter fishes a lot?”

Lydia shook her head. “Uh uh. Nope.”

Ron decided to drop the subject, especially since he hadn't seen any fishing poles or supplies at the rectory anyway.

Lydia opened her purse. “Do you want some gum?” she asked Ron. She rifled through the contents, which Ron could see were mostly candy—M&M's, Tootsie Rolls, and a few Pez dispensers. “Peter loves Fruit Stripe gum!” she announced.

Ron shook his head and smiled politely.
Red dye # 4, No thanks, I'll pass.
Lydia turned to John and extended the pack, but he too declined. She shrugged and folded a piece into her mouth.

“How would you describe your relationship with Peter?” Ron continued.

She carefully unwrapped a second piece. “Our
relationship
?”

Ron nodded.

“We were friends. Once in a while he liked to get an ice cream sandwich from the freezer at the store. At Riley's we have the old fashioned kind—you know, the big box that sits on the floor. It's so fun! Cold air blasts you every time you open it. Did you know, I get a 10% discount on all my icecream! I saved Peter soooo much money!”

Ron realized this was going to be more difficult than it needed to be. In fact the entire conversation might just be a complete waste of time.

“Did you ever visit Peter at the rectory?”

She furrowed her brow. “I hate animals and there's a dog at the rectory.”

“That's right.
Samson
.”

“Samson hates me. He tried to bite me.”

“Really?” Ron asked, surprised. The dog seemed fairly laid back the couple of times he had seen her.

She nodded and clenched her jaw. “I hate animals,” she said again, “including
dogs.”

“Fair enough,” Ron said. “Tell me, when was the last time you saw Peter?”

She stopped chewing and considered the question. “I can't remember…”

“Could you give me an estimate?”

She glanced over at John, as if he could help.

“I don't know. A long time ago.”

“Did you ever have a relationship with Peter Stem that could be considered ‘more than friends’?”

Lydia sat up, her eyes wide. “
Who
told you that?” she demanded.

“Do you know a man named Vince Mancotti?”

She relaxed and settled back down. “Oh, Mannie? Yeah, he works at Giovonni’s, next door to Riley's. He doesn’t like ice-cream.”

“Is that so? Well, Vince Mancotti thought you might have been Peter’s girlfriend at one time.”

Lydia tugged on her ponytail. “Really? Is that what Mannie told you?” She seemed pleased, even while wiping away two small tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “No,” she said shaking her head, “I
wanted
Peter to make me his girlfriend. I gave him my discount and everything! But he just wouldn’t!” She blew her nose. “I'm just not pretty enough for him… Oh, wait!” she said, her mood suddenly lifting, “I just remembered something!”

Ron sat at attention, anticipating some important revelation.

“Peter likes Klondike bars the best.”

First he thought it was nerves or immaturity, but now Ron considered that Lydia might have a slight to moderate mental impairment. He decided the best course of action would be to ignore her last remark about ice cream and forge ahead with the interview. “Peter actually
said
you weren't pretty enough?”

She sniffled. “Well,
no
. But I could just tell… Besides, he likes the girls at St. Agassi better.”

Ron's heart sped up. “Which girls?”

“The girls that come at night—to the spa.”

Ron glanced over at John. They were both thinking the same thing.

“What did Peter tell you about them exactly?”

“I don't remember,” she said, scratching her head. “Oh wait… I think he said one of them was going to be his girlfriend.”

“One of them was going to be his girlfriend?” Ron repeated, bracing himself. “Did he happen to say which
one
?”

“No,” Lydia said, then shrugged, like it was all old news anyway. “Is it true what I've heard?”

“What have you heard?” Ron asked.

“That it closed?”

“Yes, that's true.”

“I got a facial once,” she said, “not there. It was at a place on Walnut Street. But I didn’t like when they put the hot washcloth over my face.” She fished around her purse for a tissue and spit her gum out.

“Getting back to Peter,” Ron said, “did you ever call him by a different name?”

“No. He didn’t like me to call him
Pete
, even though he didn’t care if
Mannie
did!”

“Anything completely different, another name entirely?”

Lydia just stared at him, scratching her nose.

Ron rephrased the question. “Did he tell you he had another name besides
Peter Stem?
”

She furrowed her brow. “That's crazy. Why would Peter have two names?”

Ron let it drop. “Did Peter ever mention his family, or say where he was from originally?”

She shook her head and looked down. Suddenly, she started trembling. Mustering all her strength, she leaped out of her chair. “Why are you asking me these questions anyway? Peter doesn’t want me! He told me to stop calling and leave him alone!” She shook her head. “So why should I answer any questions about him? Why should I care what happens to him!”

 Forty-six

Lewis tapped gently on the door to Ron's office before slowly turning the knob. “Oh, pardon me. I was looking for Detective Smith.”

“Well don’t just stand there! C’mon in!”

The gruff words were spoken by an elderly, white haired man. He sat, hunched over Ron’s desk, a blue sweatshirt hanging loosely on his bony frame. There was something familiar about him, though Lewis couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

The man cocked his head and peered suspiciously at Lewis. “What are you deaf or something? Come in already! I’ve been waiting for you.” The man had an unusual complexion—it was the same grayish white hue of a winter sky moments before it snowed—and his eyes were dark and cavernous, hollow like empty shells.

Intrigued, Lewis closed the door behind him and sat down in one of the old leather chairs.

“So have you got them for me?” The man asked impatiently thrumming his fingers on the desk.

Lewis played along. “What was it you were looking for exactly?”

The man drew a shaking fist up to chin level and then slammed it down. “Dab nab it! They told me you were a hard nut to crack. Let's stop playing games! We both know it's there!”

He was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. A weary looking Ron entered. Quickly taking in the scene in front of him, he glanced apologetically at Lewis before addressing the old man behind his desk. “Dad! What's going on? Where’s Violet?”

The older man straightened up and swiped the air. “That girl? I fired her! She doesn’t know where the rest of my files are for plum’s sake! All I have is this one!” He shook his head. “I tell ya, every week it’s something else with that girl.”

Ron scratched his head, seemingly weighing the situation and considering the best way to proceed. He turned to Lewis. “I apologize Dr. Danzig; I was conducting an interview in the conference room…”

“Conference room!” the older man bellowed. “I didn’t get any memo about there being a conference! See what I told you about that girl! Unreliable is what she is!”

“Excuse me a second,” Ron mouthed to Lewis. He moved toward the desk where several papers were strewn about.

“What do you think you're doing there young fella? I was working on that case!”

“Well, this case is closed,” Ron said, obviously losing patience.

The old man stared down Lewis while Ron gathered the papers and shoved them into an empty accordion folder. “This file is useless anyhow without the blueprints!” he said. “I want to see those blueprints! I know you have them!”

Ron sighed and unclipped his cell phone before stepping out into the hallway. A minute later a middle aged black woman came trotting down the hall, panting. “I’m… sorry… Mr.… Smith… I ran out for a… quick cigarette.” She spoke loudly enough to be overheard through the crack in the door. “I wasn’t… gone more than… five minutes.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Your dad… he was fast asleep. Honest.”

She sounded genuinely remorseful, though Lewis knew for a fact she had been gone for longer than five minutes.

“What are you doing back here?” The old man yelled as Violet walked in. “I told you you’re fired!”

“Dad… Violet didn’t lose the files, I did.”

The old man's eyes popped and he looked like he was going to burst a vein in his forehead.

“But, good news! I found them,” Ron added quickly. He pulled out a stack of empty folders from his briefcase. “I’m sorry, Dad. It wasn’t Violet’s fault.”

The old man eyed Violet suspiciously. “Well, all right then. Be more careful son.”

Ron lit up at the word
son
. “I will Dad.”

The old man turned to Lewis and extended his arm as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Detective Ronald Smith.”

Lewis shook his arm gently. He was afraid he would break it, the man was so frail.

“It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

Ron Smith Sr. looked blankly at his son. “And who are you? What are you doing in my office?”

Ron's face dropped.

“Dad, it’s me…”

“Who?”

He lowered a voice to nearly a whisper. “Your son—
Ronnie
.” He glanced at Lewis out of the corner of his eye.

The older man squinted at him suspiciously. “Ronnie? I don’t know any Ronnie! What do you take me for, some kind of fool?”

Violet stood up. “I think now’s a good time to get you back home,” she said.

He looked at her dazed. “Ella?”

“No honey, I'm Violet.”

He spun around, panicked like a lost child. “What is all this? Where am I?”

“Visiting. You were visiting some friends,” Violet said gently. “But now it's time to go.” She helped him with his jacket. “I parked in the lot across the street,” she said to Ron. “It might be slick because of the snow.”

“Right… I’ll give you a hand.”

Ron wrapped his arm around his dad’s waist, and guided him toward the door. He looked over his shoulder at Lewis. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“The second half I’ll show them coach!” the old man boomed as he was led out. He had a glazed but determined look in his eyes. “Once I ice this leg and get back in the game, they won’t know what hit ‘em!” Suddenly he began limping as though he had a sprained ankle. He sniffed the air and crinkled his nose. “You smell like an ashtray Ella! I'll tell you what; that sure is one nasty habit!… Nasty!”