Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Lord bless you. And what’s this casserole? Why, Nate, I do believe you are in for a treat after all. That there’s cheese grits.” As Jesse served the casserole, she asked, “Do you melt the cheese first, before stirring it into the grits?”

  “Is there any other way? I add a touch of garlic. What do you think?”

  “Mmm, delicious,” Ruth said. Claire nodded in agreement.

  “Nate?”

  Rosen took a bite and chewed it carefully. “Not bad. Actually, it’s pretty good.”

  Again Ruth clapped her hands. “Well, success at last!”

  “One question,” he asked. “These grits are supposed to be Southern cooking?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “Then why aren’t they fried?”

  Laughing, they chatted about food, music, the work of the popular culture center, and Ruth’s growing up in coal mining country. She and Jesse did most of the talking. Occasionally Claire glanced at the tape recorder, as if Hec Perry was sitting a few feet away playing his dulcimer. They finished dinner with a dessert called huckleberry cobbler, made by another one of Jesse’s inexhaustible supply of cousins. Like everything else he’d served, it called for a second helping.

  Afterward Ruth said, “My buttons are popping!”

  “Yes, Jesse, so good,” Claire agreed.

  “I’m glad you all enjoyed it. Now shall we adjourn to the drawing room for a cordial? I have a rather fine selection of liqueurs.”

  As they stood, Rosen said to Jesse, “Really a terrific dinner. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes, I need to make a call. I tried to get Sarah yesterday, but she was out.”

  “Of course. Take all the time you need.”

  He walked upstairs and, sitting at Jesse’s desk by the telephone, noticed he’d carried his wine. For a devout Jew wine could be good when sanctified at the meal. Like sex, when it was between a man and wife in love. Sarah was a sanctification of what had been his love for Bess. Is that why he felt so sick inside when he dialed his ex-wife’s number?

  Sarah answered. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Shana.” That was his pet name for her; it was Yiddish for “dear one.” “Glad I caught you. I’ve just had the best dinner.”

  He spoke for a few minutes about Jesse and Ruth, and a little about the case. Usually Sarah listened eagerly, interrupting him with repeated questions. She was quiet, however, patiently waiting for him to finish his small talk. Finally she did interrupt.

  “Daddy, why did you call, really?”

  “You know. It’s what we started to talk about last time. About your mother getting remarried.”

  “Why bother? There’s nothing I can do about it. And you . . . you won’t do anything.”

  He didn’t expect her hurt to come out so fast. He said softly, “Shana, there’s nothing I can do. Your mother has the right to live her own life.”

  “You can—”

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “You can do something. Mom always said you thrived on lost causes. What else would you call our family?”

  She was damn smart. He’d try another tack. “Shelly, your mother’s friend, how does he treat you?”

  “He touches people’s feet all day long.”

  “Better than being a proctologist.” She didn’t laugh. “You know what a proctologist—”

  “I know. Just like Mom used to say—you and your stupid jokes.”

  Suddenly he saw the three of them together, the way it so often used to be in their small suburban home. His legal work would be spread on the dining room table, while Bess graded papers and Sarah, between them, did her homework. They’d listen to classical recordings, what Bess herself had listened to when first taking up the piano. Every so often Rosen would slip in a Thelonious Monk album, and she would shake her head at his “stupid joke” while he and Sarah laughed. Bess didn’t mean anything by it, not at first; he remembered how, late at night, she’d laugh softly in his arms and whisper her love. How they’d loved each other, but that was before his ambition proved to be as small as their home, and for her as confining.

  He felt the old hurt coming on. It had been four years since the divorce, yet still it happened. Sometimes when he saw a family walking from church, or a schoolteacher carrying a bunch of papers, or a woman pushing up the sleeves of her sweater as Bess always did, or when he awoke suddenly in the middle of the night and reached over to her side of the bed. God, was that it? Was he really afraid, not for Sarah, but for himself?

  “Daddy?”

  “I’m sorry. Tell me about . . . Shelly. Is he a nice man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Be fair.”

  “I guess so. He tries to be nice.”

  “What about the big question? He’s not a . . . you know.”

  She finally laughed, and a little of his pain went away. “No, he’s not a White Sox fan. At least he won’t admit it. He’s going to take Mom and me with his sons to see the Cubs play the Mets.”

  “Great. Sit in the bleachers, and if he doesn’t throw back the New York home runs, you have my permission to beat him with my autographed Ron Santo bat.”

  “Oh, Daddy, I wish I could stay with you. Then maybe Mom getting married wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Would you . . . like to visit for a while? Maybe when your mom and Shelly go on their honeymoon—it’s supposed to be in November, right? We’ll spend Thanksgiving together.”

  “A lot we’d have to be thankful for.”

  “We’d have each other.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean . . . Can I come? Mom was going to have me spend the time with Grandma and Grandpa. You know how much fun a week with them can be.”

  “What do you mean? You’re probably the only fourteen-year-old girl in the world who’s an A-rated player in mah-jongg.”

  Again she laughed. “Oh, Daddy. I can stay with you, can’t I?”

  “Sure. I’ll talk to your mother.”

  “She’s out with Shelly tonight. You know, you and I haven’t really settled anything.”

  “Yes, Miss Freud, I know. But it’s a start.”

  “Just a second. I think Becky and Tina are at the door.” She came back a minute later. “We’re going to pig out on pizza and watch this video All That Jazz. You ever hear of it?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s great.”

  “The title reminded me of you.”

  “You always have the right comeback. You sure you want to be a concert pianist and not a lawyer? Have fun, honey. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  “Love you too, Shana. ’Bye.”

  Putting down the receiver, Rosen stared at his glass, then finished the wine in one swallow. He was sweating and took out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. Glancing at his watch, he saw he’d been talking for almost twenty minutes. They’d be wondering what happened to him. He stood quickly and left the room but, at the head of the stairs, suddenly felt light-headed. Almost stumbling on the first step, he grabbed the handrail and sat down heavily.

  His face lay against the cool wall while he listened as the blood pounding in his ears gradually subsided and his heartbeat slowed to normal.

  “Nate? Lord, are you all right?”

  Ruth hurried up the steps and sat beside him, putting her hand over his. “Are you all right?” she repeated.

  He nodded. “Is this what cheese grits does to you?”

  “What happened?”

  He hesitated but, looking into her face, saw the same soft brown eyes as of his old rabbi. Her hand holding his was as gentle, and she waited patiently, as the old man had always done, while he gathered the courage to speak.

  “I’m not exactly sure. Something that’s been buried deep inside finally crawled out.”

  “Something back home? Jesse said you were calling your daughter. I got a mite worried when you didn’t come downstairs. Sure you’re all right?”

  Loosening his tie, Rosen inhaled deeply and no
dded. “My wife’s getting remarried. It’s upset Sarah, my daughter, quite a bit. Part of me’s always felt bad about never being there for her.”

  “I bet you try.”

  “I do—doesn’t make it hurt less.”

  Ruth shifted to give him more breathing space but still held his hand. “I bet you do better than you think. I told you about my oldest boy, Skip, dying overseas. You talk about hurt. At least your girl’s alive. You’ll see her grow up, get married, have a family of her own. Ain’t a day goes by that I don’t cry a little inside for my boy. It’s an awful ache—like a man whose leg’s been cut off but he’s still got the feeling it’s there.”

  “I never would’ve brought this up if I’d thought you’d be hurt. . . .”

  “It’s all right.” She squeezed his hand. “Good for me to have somebody to talk to ’bout this. Simon, he don’t want to hear Skip’s name no more. Hurts too much, and Danny ain’t exactly been his pride and joy. You all right to go back now?”

  “Sure.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what’s funny, Ruth? Part of me’s sad for how my ex-wife’s remarriage is affecting Sarah. The other part—it’s what you just talked about. Our marriage has been dead for years, yet I keep feeling it.”

  “Do you think you still love her?”

  Holding the railing, Rosen pulled himself up. “In love with Bess? God help us both if I am.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  sunday morning

  Rosen stared into the open casket beside the pulpit. Dressed in a cheap blue suit, Lemuel Banks lay on the cushion like a scrawny fighting cock. The young black man’s soul had long since fled its body to rest in heaven; that was as it should be. Yet, Rosen wished he could pull it back for one minute. Once he wouldn’ve dared asked the unaskable—“What was the Face of God?” Now, his unregenerate self thought only of the case and wondered, “Who murdered you?”

  Upon Banks’s chest lay an open Bible, a passage underlined from Mark: “They will pick up serpents.” As if that answered all questions.

  Rosen turned to join Jesse in the front row, along with Claire, Reverend McCrae, his daughter, and the old man named Tucker. Their church was filled to capacity, about seventy people, men wearing old suits shiny at the knees and women in long print dresses. It wasn’t much of a church, just the old house Ben Hobbes had willed to McCrae’s congregation. Several interior walls had been knocked down to create one big room for worship with rows of folding chairs to serve as pews, cracked windows instead of stained glass, and an old wooden podium. But the building didn’t matter; it never mattered to those who truly loved God. Like Rosen’s ancient ancestors, forced to wander the earth, whose synagogue was never really a place but a people.

  In a corner past the pulpit, a man played the guitar, while the congregants clapped in time to the music. Four policemen mixed with the crowd, while near the front door Chief Whitcomb held a shotgun in his huge hands.

  A few minutes later, Tucker stepped behind the pulpit, and the guitarist stopped his playing. As the old man began speaking, the loose skin under his neck jiggled, and he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “I knowed Lemuel Banks ’bout as good as anybody here. Sure knowed what he loved best—the Lord, his brethren sittin’ right here, and the sweet music his guitar played. Brother Clay pickin’ on Lem’s guitar a minute ago—that was right nice. We’re lookin’ t’hear more of it soon enough. You all . . . you all know Lem had a hard life. Found the Lord in jail, but that’s all right. Like it says in Acts, ‘Repent and be baptized every one of you in Jesus’ name, and you’ll receive the g-gift of the Holy G-ghost.’” He stopped to wipe his eyes again. “Brother Lemuel got that gift, praise Jesus!”

  “Amen!” the congregation shouted.

  Taking out a handkerchief, the old man blew his nose and coughed hard. “Brother Clay . . . why don’tcha play some more a’ Lem’s favorites. Let’s all join in the spirit. Hallelujah!”

  The guitarist resumed playing, and the congregation clapped louder, swaying to the rhythm and singing. Even Jesse sang, glancing at Bathsheba, who stood beside him. The song had something to do with Jesus’ everlasting arms, and no one needed a hymnal to know the words. No one except Rosen.

  He edged along the wall past a policeman until he reached the front entrance. Cradling his shotgun, Whitcomb stood against the door frame. Rosen jerked his head, and the two men stepped onto the front porch, closing the screen door behind them.

  “Expecting trouble, Chief?”

  Whitcomb smiled. “Maybe a little more target practice, that’s all. District attorney ain’t taking any chances about another disturbance by these people. Don’t want no snakes popping out of the casket, like it was some trick can of peanut brittle.”

  “Maybe your guns should be pointed out there, not inside the church.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Maybe Lemuel Banks was murdered by some fanatic who hated Reverend McCrae’s ‘snake-cult.’ At least that’s what some people say.”

  Whitcomb screwed his face tight. “What people?”

  “The congregation inside. Friday afternoon I ran into Popper Johnston, Reverend McCrae’s cousin. He’s of the same mind. He was on his way to the newspaper office and said the church wasn’t going to take this lying down.”

  “Don’t like him. He’s on the make—him and his Nashville ideas. Wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t try to make McCrae into a cross between Jesus and Elvis. Know what I’m saying?”

  Rosen laughed. “You may be right. Have you learned anything new regarding Banks’s death?”

  “Not much. The bullet that killed him matches the rifle we found near the body, but we guessed as much. Like I said before, probably just a hunting accident.”

  “You know that Danny Hobbes is lying.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Jesse said, after he heard the gunshot, no one ran past him across the open field. The only other way of escape was through the corn. If Danny didn’t shoot Banks, he must’ve seen who did.”

  Whitcomb rubbed his jaw. “Maybe not. Lot of land under the plow, and corn’s pretty tall. The killer could’ve got past the boy.” When Rosen shook his head, the police chief said, “Damn it, it could’ve happened that way! I’ve known Danny all his life. He couldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Did you test Danny’s father for gunpowder residue or ask if he had an alibi at the time of the murder?”

  “You crazy? Why should I suspect him?”

  “Who in this town hates McCrae’s church more than Simon Hobbes? At his brother’s funeral service, he practically accused McCrae of murdering Ben. He was pretty open with his threats and, after all, Lemuel Banks was killed on Hobbes’s property.”

  “The boy was trespassing. Hunting for rattlesnakes, of all things!”

  “Is murdering a poacher legal in this county?”

  Whitcomb gripped the shotgun so hard his knuckles whitened. “You get smart with me, I’ll find an excuse to kick your ass back to wherever you come from. I can’t suspect someone like Simon Hobbes of murder without no evidence. Let’s leave it as a real bad joke.”

  “But you haven’t answered—”

  “I said, best let it be. I’m going to check the service. Do yourself a favor, and just keep out of my way.” Walking inside, he snickered, “Simon Hobbes—the very idea.”

  As the screen door banged shut, Rosen sat on the front steps. The day was sunny and warm. Unbuttoning his jacket, he noticed the torn lapel where that detective Aadams had grabbed his coat before throwing him out of Hec Perry’s room. He had stood outside Perry’s door for a few minutes, then left, intending to return the next day. That was before this second murder. Here he was again outside the door, always the outsider looking in, like the wandering Jew of old. Listening to old Tucker preach and the congregation shout their “Hallelujahs,” Rosen remembered that the anniversary of his grandfather’s death would be in a few days. He would have to light the yahrzeit candle of reme
mbrance; the one thing he still did, no matter where he was. Bowing his head, he whispered the Kaddish, both for his grandfather and Lemuel Banks.

  He felt tired and a little dizzy. Of course he was dizzy; he’d been running blindly through a maze whose paths didn’t lead home but, rather, in convolutions from the house of Ben Hobbes, whose murder had started the investigation. The paths seemed to lead nowhere, like the one to the furniture factory where Simon Hobbes refused to talk, the cheap apartment where Hec Perry played his mournful songs, or the field’s tall grass where Lemuel Banks had been murdered. Rosen considered the path that had led him to this church and the people inside. Claire and the McCraes, Gideon and Bathsheba. Did Claire really commit the murder; if so, was she acting alone or merely as a servant of her preacher’s will? Was McCrae for real, or was the D.A. right in portraying him as another Charles Manson?

  Shaking his head, Rosen heard the congregation’s hymn. He stood on the porch steps and stretched stiffly. Wherever he was in the maze that had begun with Ben Hobbes’s death, he was certain the correct path lay somewhere through those church doors. And so he returned to the service.

  He stood against the back wall, next to Whitcomb, who shifted his shotgun while scanning the congregation. He nodded to his deputies on either side of the room. One policeman rested a hand on his holster. Looking at the shotgun, Rosen remembered why Whitcomb was at the service. He felt a chill in his spine—would the snakes come out? His gaze followed Whitcomb’s toward the pulpit.

  Tucker was no longer conducting the service. Reverend McCrae stood behind the pulpit, arms outstretched and eyes closed in prayer.

  “Matthew nineteen: ‘Oh, Lord, we’ve forsaken all to follow you. What shall we then have?’ And Jesus, in His sweet mercy, answered, ‘You shall sit in the throne a’ his glory, and you all shall inherit everlastin’ life.’ That’s what He said, praise Jesus, ‘everlastin’ life’!”

  “Amen!” the congregants shouted.

  “Not only that, but He also said, ‘He who’s first shall be last, and he who’s last’ll be first’! Ain’t that somethin’!”

  “Sure is, praise Jesus!”