Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  Chapter Eight

  tuesday afternoon

  Rosen had always prided himself on his memory; he could still quote sections from the Talmud, not recited since childhood. The passages were often constructed with initial letters forming a pattern, and he continued to use the same mnemonic device for other needs, like directions. “C-L-C-L-C-L”: from Claire’s house go left, past the college, then turn left at the corner with the light. That, Claire had said, would take him to the main highway, from where he could see the factory. She even lent him her new Corvette, which purred along Jackson Street like a kitten licking its paws.

  At breakfast, once Rosen said he would help her, at least for the next few days, Claire calmed down and even smiled while reminiscing about her husband. No, the age difference hadn’t mattered, maybe even made some things easier, “. . . like the way he loved me so unselfish-like.” The smile tightened around her lips when she’d said that.

  Rosen wasn’t sure why he was still on the case. As soon as his office learned the state had dropped its charges against Reverend McCrae, he’d surely be ordered home. “Simple murders are as commonplace as corn in Kansas,” his boss was fond of saying. The purpose of the Committee to Defend the Constitution was for something much more important.

  Maybe he felt sorry for his friend Jesse, who alone wouldn’t be able to handle a criminal case like this. Maybe he thought District Attorney Grimes would use the serpent-handling ceremony against Claire and, therefore, make her case a First Amendment issue. But the real reason, the one he’d been avoiding all along, had nothing to do with Ben Hobbes’s murder. He wanted—needed—to know if Gideon McCrae was merely another Bible-thumping charlatan or if his faith was real. What did he see when he closed his eyes and held the serpent high above his head?

  Rosen grimaced; it wasn’t like him, letting this weakness seep into his soul. Stay with the case—a woman’s life hangs in the balance. If only he understood Claire Hobbes better. Was she so simple and innocent? Because of his upbringing, he couldn’t read women as easily as men. All those years studying with the rabbi and the other boys, knowing no women except his mother. Claire seemed a little like his mother, the way she felt at home in the kitchen, the way she depended upon a man while at the same time dominating him. That must’ve been her relationship with Ben Hobbes, and it was their relationship that ultimately would explain the murder. That was why he was driving to the Hobbes furniture factory.

  Reaching the highway, Rosen saw the factory in the distance. After passing an open field, he slowed the car, then turned and parked on the soft rutted ground next to Jesse’s Porsche. Taking a few steps he called “Jesse!” but received no answer. The Porsche was locked and seemed undisturbed; there were no signs of violence. Rosen shaded his eyes and gazed into the distance. A soft wind combed the tall grass as the land sloped toward a great ridge just below the horizon.

  “Jesse!” he shouted. A few crickets hummed their reply. Probably nothing to worry about; maybe his friend was gathering mint leaves to make the perfect julep. He’d check back later, after finishing his visit.

  Rosen drove another half mile and followed a large company truck inside the work yard, where it backed into a loading dock. He continued up the driveway that wound into a parking lot, pulling between a pickup and an old sports car, its front end as battered as a punch-drunk boxer.

  He walked back through the work yard. The area was bustling with activity—forklifts rearranging piles of wood and transporting crates of furniture; men in hard hats, rough work gloves, and boots carrying lumber inside; a thickset man, holding a clipboard, standing by the trucks and checking through bills of lading. Behind them the factory stood tall and wide, a square city block, its barn-sized double doors yawning open.

  Next to the factory was a small building labeled office, its clapboard walls freshly painted brown. Rosen walked inside to the reception area. Along the room’s perimeter were pieces of Hobbes furniture—cabinets, chests of drawers, tables, folding screens, and, of course, the famous rocking chair. The back wall contained three doors to inner offices. In the center of the room, a secretary sat behind a magnificent antique desk of dark oak. She looked about the same age as the desk. Her nameplate read: Mrs. Vera Atwater.

  Adjusting her glasses, which were clipped to a turquoise cord hanging around her neck, she smiled. “And how may we help you?”

  “I’d like to see Simon Hobbes.”

  She glanced at her calendar. “Do you have an appointment, Mr. . . . uh?”

  “Rosen.” He handed her his card. “No, I don’t, but I was hoping Mr. Hobbes would see me.” He bent closer, people tended to cooperate when they believed they were taken into his confidence. “You see, it’s about his brother’s death. I’m working on the case, and there are some rather important questions I need to ask Mr. Hobbes, questions I’m sure he’d rather answer in the privacy of his office. You do understand, Mrs. Atwater.”

  The old woman examined his business card as carefully as if she were playing bingo. “Yes, I do understand, Mr. Rosen. However, it is most unusual for Mr. Hobbes to see anyone without an appointment.”

  “Mr. Hobbes is in, then?”

  “One moment please.”

  She walked to the middle office, knocked, and went in, leaving the door slightly ajar. Rosen smelled the heavy aroma of a good cigar.

  As Mrs. Atwater reappeared, her boss shouted, “And keep him outta here! Keep him away from me, you understand!”

  Closing the door, the secretary returned to her desk. She lowered her glasses and tried to smile. “Mr. Hobbes . . . uh . . . I’m afraid, Mr. Rosen, that he . . . uh . . .”

  “That’s all right. I couldn’t help but overhear. By any chance, is Mrs. Hobbes available?”

  “She’s not in her office. I believe she might be in the factory, but I don’t think it would be wise—”

  “Thanks very much. You’ve been a great help.”

  Leaving the office, Rosen walked to the factory entrance and stepped through the open doors. It was not at all what he’d expected. There were no great conveyor belts or assembly lines manned by sallow workers with curved spines. No swirls of dust, deafening noise, or pervasive odor of oil mixed with metal.

  He stood in an area the size of a small warehouse with a fifteen-foot-high ceiling from which a series of fluorescent lights cast a warm glow through the roomy interior. Attached to every piece of heavy machinery, piping carried sawdust up to exhaust fans, while propellers high up on the wall circulated a cool breeze. Each workman had his own station—a large wooden worktable with clamps, vises, and a power saw; a complete set of tools hung on the wall behind each man. Every set shone as if freshly polished.

  Beside each workman lay several pallets, some stacked with lumber, others with pieces of smaller unfinished furniture. In one corner an old man was planing a drawer for a magnificent dresser resting beside him. Several younger workers stood in silence around him, watching his skillful hands speak a language they understood intuitively.

  Watching the old man, Rosen grew at ease, smelling old parchment among the wood shavings, and for a moment the old man became a rabbi, the younger ones his students and the factory a yeshiva. No . . . he shook his head, forcing himself to see the scene before him as it really was. He would not reconcile so easily with the Great Prosecutor. All this talk of God’s love and the miracle of the serpents had made him soft. What did these people know . . . really know about God’s “love”? If he told them what he knew, would they dare touch a cross, much less a rattlesnake?

  Rosen turned as someone shouted, “Hey, mister!”

  The stocky man who had been outside with a clipboard walked toward him. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m looking for Mrs. Ruth Hobbes.”

  “If you’ll check in the office . . .”

  “Already have. Mrs. Atwater said Mrs. Hobbes was probably somewhere in here.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “It’s getting on lunchtime. She u
sually meets her boy in the cafeteria. Let’s check over by the loading dock first. You a salesman?”

  As they began walking, Rosen shook his head. “Do I look like one?”

  The other man laughed. “Nah, your cologne ain’t strong enough. Most of them fellers make you want to put on a gas mask. Let’s take a look in here. Why, you’re in luck. See her?”

  “Yes, thanks very much.”

  Rosen walked into the loading dock. Straight ahead a half-dozen workers rolled heavy wooden crates into a truck. To his left, an open area about the size of a classroom contained four long tables. Sitting on the end of each table, legs opened like scissors, one young woman faced another. Each was handweaving bark strips of oak or darker cherry into a wastebasket frame. Moving closer, he saw that the women wore cutoffs and Central Tennessee College T-shirts.

  Walking among the tables, Ruth Hobbes looked as young as the others, her figure firm and lithe. She wore a sleeveless top and jeans, but what set her apart was her thick black hair falling to her waist.

  From a far corner, a paint-spattered radio blared country music. All the women were laughing and chattering across tables. Mrs. Hobbes moved easily among them, putting her hand on one woman’s shoulder while pointing to the spacing of bark on a basket, nodding when another asked a question.

  Seeing Rosen, Ruth Hobbes held out her hand. It felt rough, and her grip was strong as a man’s. “You’re that lawyer feller. Friend of Jesse Compton’s we saw yesterday at Ben’s house.”

  “You have a good memory. My name’s Nate Rosen.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Nice of you to offer. I’ve just been to see your husband—or, should I say, tried to see your husband. I couldn’t get past Mrs. Atwater.”

  She laughed, and Rosen liked the sound of it—strong and unashamed. “That’s Simon, all right. Like folks say around here, he’d rather peck shit with the chickens than talk to a lawyer. No offense, Mr. Rosen.”

  “None taken. I feel the same way about most lawyers. The district attorney, for example.”

  “Old Paul giving you a hard time, is he? Well, he’s just one to look after himself. Not half as ornery as the man before him, but you ain’t here for that. This is all about Ben’s widow, Claire, ain’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “Poor Claire. She didn’t kill Ben. Ain’t in her to hurt anybody. She’s more a child herself, poor little lamb.”

  “You’re quite fond of her.”

  “With my own daughter living so far away, guess I do take kind of a mother’s interest. Best I can tell, Claire don’t have no family of her own. She’s a gentle creature—spends hours reading poetry.”

  “Writes it, too.”

  “There, see what I mean? Anything I can do to help her, you let me know. As for Simon . . .” She shrugged.

  Rosen said, “I can understand your husband being upset by his brother’s death and not wanting to talk about it. However, I do need to ask him, as well as you and your son, some questions. Mr. Hobbes will have to answer them in court. It’d be better for everyone if he spoke up now.”

  Mrs. Hobbes glanced back at the young women, then said to Rosen, “Let’s walk a little. Already enough stories being told around this here place.”

  They walked toward the loading dock, where the workmen were putting away their dollies. Rosen checked his watch—five minutes to noon and lunch. Passing the young women, the workers didn’t even turn their heads.

  “Amazing,” Rosen said, “not even a wolf whistle.”

  “Won’t allow it,” she replied. “Any feller bothering one of my girls can best collect his things and head downtown to the unemployment office.”

  “Your girls?”

  “While they’re here under my roof. They’re college girls working part-time to help pay their expenses.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  She boosted herself onto the back end of a truck and slapped its fender. “This here was my education. My daddy was a fix-it man—could do anything with his hands. We were from Kentucky, mining country, but he didn’t want to work underground, sucking in that black dust like his brothers. So we all packed into an old pickup truck—Mama and five young ’uns—and did a fair amount of traveling. Nobody had much time for schooling, never was in one place long enough. I promised myself two things when I growed up—to get some learning and have a piece of land to sink some roots into.”

  Rosen leaned against the truck and looked from her callused hands to her soft brown eyes. “You wanted what’s been the dream of the Jewish people for centuries. I bet you got it.”

  “It wasn’t easy, but I surely did. We come here to Earlyville when I was eighteen. Hobbes Factory needed a skilled furniture maker. Daddy figured what he didn’t already know, he could learn right quick. I worked weaving baskets, just like those girls back there.”

  “That’s where you met Simon Hobbes?”

  She nodded. “We hit it right off. Oh, the two of us ain’t much alike, but maybe that’s what makes it work so well. Simon loves to holler and have his own way, but that’s just the Hobbes in him. He’s really sweet as molasses. Right after we was married, he let me finish high school. I practiced my talking so’s he wouldn’t be ashamed to take me places—not that he ever let me think he would be. Then I took some courses in accounting. Up until we got those newfangled computers, I did a pretty fair job with the books. Too much for me now, but he let me do what I wanted. Now I spend most of my time with my garden. You’re gonna have to see it.”

  “I’d love to. Your husband sounds like a generous man.”

  “He sure is, and not just with me and the children. He helped set up a new hospital wing, filled the church pantry at Christmas, and . . . well, he wouldn’t want me braggin’ on him too much.”

  Rosen looked away but watched her from the corner of his eye. “All that takes quite a bit of money. The business must be doing very well. That right, Mrs. Hobbes?”

  “Call me Ruth. I gotta be getting to the kitchen.”

  Hopping off the truck, she stumbled into Rosen.

  He held her wrists gently. “We were talking about the company finances.” When she hesitated, he said, “It’ll all come out in the probate of your brother-in-law’s will.”

  Ruth sighed, almost a shiver. “I know. There’s something else, too.”

  “The rumors about selling the company?”

  She stared at him. “You already heard about that? Guess I might as well tell you—papersll be getting hold of it real soon. An offer’s been made for the company.” She lowered her voice, as if ashamed. “A real good offer.”

  “Those things happen all the time. There’re constantly mergers and buy-outs. . . .”

  “Not for Hobbes Furniture, a family business that’s been right here in Earlyville for a hundred and nine years. The offer’s been made by one of them big Japanese outfits.”

  “What did your husband and brother-in-law decide to do?”

  “They didn’t. That is, they decided two different things. Simon was for selling. Ain’t no one left to carry on with the business. Our oldest, Skip, died some years ago. Betty’s in California, and Danny, well, he just ain’t the type to handle something this big. He’d ruin it, and it’d ruin him.”

  “What about Ben?”

  “The pair of them, stubborn as mules. Ben wouldn’t hear any talk of selling. Said that for the first time he had to think of his own family—that him and Claire might even have a baby one day. There’d be someone to carry on the name and the business.”

  Rosen said, “I suppose the two of them, being so strongwilled, had some serious arguments.”

  “Ooh, did they.”

  “Maybe even violent.”

  “Why, one time—” She stopped suddenly and glared at Rosen. “That was a cheap lawyer trick you just pulled. I ain’t saying no more about nothing.”

  He felt ashamed. She was right; it was one of his “cheap lawyer tricks,” putting someone at ease, then s
uddenly grabbing for the jugular. He had always defended the practice as being in the best interests of his client, the prosecution having most of the advantages anyway. Someone like Grimes, the D.A., probably used the tactic often enough himself, which only made Rosen more ashamed. Ruth Hobbes wasn’t Grimes. She had been honest with Rosen, and he had treated her honesty as a weakness.

  She pulled her hands from his grasp, but her eyes softened a little. “Guess you’re just doing your job—helping Claire and all. I best get my boy’s lunch ready.”

  “Do you mind if I walk a little with you?”

  She hesitated. “Please yourself.”

  They returned to the large area that Rosen had first entered. All the workers had left for lunch. Ruth stopped where the old man had been working on the chest of drawers.

  She ran her hand lovingly along the contours of the unfinished wood. “Sure is something, ain’t it?”

  Rosen said, “You don’t see craftsmanship like that anymore.”

  “That’s what the name Hobbes means. My daddy never did like working anyplace so much as this here factory. Said it made him think of his granddaddy building things the old-timey way. He sure loved this place. Worked over in that corner right until he died.”

  Rosen touched the chest of drawers. For some reason it reminded him of the worm-eaten steamer chest in his parents’ room, the chest that had carried the Torah from his grandfather’s village in Russia.

  “Your father was lucky. Not many of us get to live our lives without compromising belief of principle.”

  She laid her hand over his. “Somehow it’d be a shame to sell out. Them Japanese sure is clever, but they’d be putting in robots and computers and take the soul right out of the wood.”

  Rosen had always been afraid to open the chest. From all the old stories about Russia, he had expected that, if given the opportunity, demons would’ve leaped from the wooden box and stolen his soul. How was a young boy to know it would happen so differently?