Murder in the Melting Pot
Jane Isenberg
Murder in the Melting Pot
Copyright © 2018 by Jane Isenberg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
ISBN 978-0-9984940-2-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Oconee Spirit Press, Waverly, TN www.oconeespirit.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Isenberg, Jane
Murder in the melting pot/ Jane Isenberg
1. Detective and mystery stories—Yakima River Valley (Wash.) 2.Antisemitism—Yakima River Valley (Wash.)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Printed and bound in the United States. The text paper is SFI certified. The Sustainable Forestry Initiative® program promotes sustainable forest management.
Cover design by Dead Center Graphics
For Jordan, Lucas, Levi, Malcolm, Zev, and Joey
“The community wants to be protected by us. They don’t want to be conquered by us.” – Sue Rahr, Director Washington State Criminal Justice Training Commission, former Sheriff, King County, WA.
“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” – Arthur Conan Doyle
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank the following people for their valuable contributions: Jane H. Bock, Forensic Botanist, LLC; John Boule, Director, Yakima Valley Museum; Beth Brooks, artist and former Yakima resident; Linda Brown, retired English teacher, A.C. Davis High School, Yakima; Apanakhi Buckley, retired Professor of Education, Heritage University; Rose Butterfly, former Yakama* Nation Advisor, Heritage University; Karye Cattrell, mystery author; Robert Christensen and Miriam Isenberg, Yakima Valley scenic tour guides; Steve Davis, retired Yakima Police Department officer; Pamela Fabela, former Yakama Nation Museum Program Director; Kate Flora, mystery author; Rabbi Yitzchak Gallor, Rabbinical Field Representative, Orthodox Union; Mary James, Associate Dean, College of Arts and Sciences, Heritage University; David O. Norris, Professor Emeritus, Dept. of Integrative Physiology, University of Colorado; Michael E. Schwab, retired Yakima County Superior Court Judge; Kathryn and Sol Sylvan, Belgian Malinois owners; Brian Stoner, car fan; John Vornbrock, Treasurer Temple Beth Shalom, Yakima; Daniel Zimmerman, Founder, Phoenix Art Restoration, Issaquah and Shoreline, WA.
Deborah Adams, Barbara Extract, Marge Graham, Daniel Isenberg, Jeanne Matthews, Michael Meltzer, Jeannie Moskowitz, Laura Peterson, Michael E. Schwab, Philip Tompkins, and Joyce Yarrow served as readers. Rachel Stoner and Shilyh Warren provided technical assistance.
*Yakama Nation retains the original spelling of their name whereas Yakima refers to the city and surrounding valley.
CHAPTER 1
Johnson Farmhouse Restored
New Budget B & B Opens Soon
Visitors to Yakima Valley have a new overnight option tailored to the business traveler when Breitner’s B & B opens in Sunnyvale this fall. Innkeeper Seattle-born Miranda Breitner is a big fan of our valley. “Here nature and business both thrive. I’m happy to be part of this magical place and to have brought this historic house back to life.”
—YakimaHeraldRepublic.com
Carrying a plate of still-warm pumpkin scones, Miranda hurried out of her B & B to apologize to Oskar Hindgrout. That she’d managed to piss off a guy she’d never even met didn’t surprise her. After two decades with only her grandmother, her mother, and a shrink to talk to, she was aware that at thirty-three, she sometimes behaved like the socially inept middle schooler she’d been when her life went to hell. That was why her mom had encouraged her to open a B & B. “You’ll get to interact with lots of different people one-on-one. You won’t get rich, but it’ll be good for you. And you can do it. It’s time.”
Maybe her mom had been wrong. Even before Breitner’s B & B opened Miranda had offended her nearest neighbor. Oskar Hindgrout owned the fruit processing plant right across the street, and in her rush to ready her place for guests she’d neglected to give him a heads up about the delivery of her appliances the day before. So when she checked her messages, she’d heard this guy barking into her answering machine about how the “damn” Home Depot truck delivering her “damn crap” was blocking access to the driveway that farm trucks use to deliver ripe fruit to his factory. Miranda hoped the scones would serve as a peace offering. Making a go of Breitner’s was her hard-won second chance to live a productive and peaceful life and keep the promise she’d made to her dying mother.
At the edge of the road, she paused for a few seconds to contemplate her freshly painted mailbox. Slathering barn-red paint over the gang tags and then emblazoning her new name, Miranda Breitner, in white on the clean bright surface was the first thing Miranda did after taking ownership of the old farmhouse. Seeing that mailbox buoyed her confidence and she crossed the street. The gate to the plant’s deserted parking lot was open, and beyond it was the oversized entrance for trucks. She figured the office was probably near the front door on the other side of the big building, so she followed the plant’s chain link fence around the block. Miranda reached the heavy front door and managed to open it with one hand while balancing the all-important plate of scones in the other. Just inside, she nearly collided with a stocky gray-haired man charging at the door. “Oh! I’m sorry. I’m looking for Mr. Hindgrout. Can you direct me to his office?”
“Damn. I thought you were my temp. My girl’s out again today.” The drooping ends of the man’s snow-white moustache formed parentheses around the thin lips through which he spit out his words.
“I’m Miranda Breitner. I own the new B & B across the street.”
“Breitner? I’m Hindgrout, and I left you a message yesterday. You never got back to me.”
To Miranda’s dismay, he eyed not the plate of scones, but her paint-splattered blue tee shirt, khaki Capri pants, and lavender Crocs. She should have changed.
“I didn’t check messages until late last night, but I’m getting back to you now. I should have called ahead to let you know I expected a delivery.” She hesitated. “And here’s my apology.” She held out the plate of scones, more shield than offering.
He scowled at the pastry. “Sugarless?”
She shook her head and put the underappreciated scones on an empty desk just a step away in what appeared to be the reception area. “I’ll leave these for your workers. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know about that delivery yesterday.” Defeated, she turned to go.
“Miss Breitner, wait. I’m even more disagreeable than usual this morning. Apology accepted.”
She turned back to face him and saw the corners of Hindgrout’s mouth twitching into just the hint of a smile. He was shaking his head. “But see, this is a big day here and I have no girl, no temp, and no patience.” His starter smile faded when he looked at his phone. “And now I’m running late. The damn grapes are ripening even as we stand here yakking and tomorrow they’ll start pouring in and they’ll keep on pouring in.” He scowled. “You’re not having anything else delivered in the next two months, are you?”
Hindgrout’s question was absurd, so Miranda ignored it. But she was relieved that he’d become relatively civil.
“See, Miss Breitne
r, for the next two months ripe grapes will be delivered here 24/7. You and I will have to work something out about keeping my driveway clear. Meanwhile, Rabbi Alinsky and his koshering crew are due any minute. I always greet them in the parking lot. So walk with me. We’ll go around outside.” He grabbed her elbow and she let him maneuver her out the door, locking it behind them. He released her arm and together they walked briskly back around the chain-link fence.
Miranda wanted to keep their dialogue going. “I heard about this grape-koshering crew from the clerk at the post office. It sounds like a pretty big deal.”
“Yup. Big deal and big bucks. Rabbi Alinsky works for Rabbi Certified Kosher, Inc., and every fall he imports a dozen rabbinical students mostly from New York and flies them to Seattle. They drive here straight from the airport at the beginning of the juice grape harvest. And they stay in a motel until the end, could be as long as eight weeks. So koshering grapes costs. But you can’t sell juice grapes without doing it.” His sigh bordered on a groan. “These days, it’s not only Jews who want kosher food and beverages. Christians, Muslims, foodies, health nuts, ecologists, and, would you believe, even prisoners, want food with a kosher seal on it like the RCK from Rabbi Certified Kosher, Inc. That’s why five Yakima Valley fruit processing plants put out big bucks to have our Concords koshered by Rabbi Alinsky’s crew.”
“Who knew? I’m Jewish, but my family’s never kept kosher.”
“You’re Jewish?” She nodded as he turned to look at her. “Not many Jews here, so what brings you to this side of the mountains? We got so much land and so few people out here that folks who show up usually want to lose themselves, find themselves, or start over.”
Miranda felt his eyes linger on her face. Her stomach lurched at how close he’d come to her truth. “But now more and more people are coming here to open wineries and other small businesses. I’m opening a B & B. Besides, I’m sick of the rain in Seattle and here it’s so bright….”
The opening bars of “Amazing Grace” sounded from Hindgrout’s pocket, and he pulled out his phone.
While he talked, Miranda continued their conversation in her head, recalling her first sight of the verdant Yakima Valley, a unique combination of oasis and industrial park, reservation and barrio, Promised Land and Welfare State, hunting ground and wildlife sanctuary. The road she had taken spiraled down from the massive and ever-green Cascades through farmed plains and led finally to beige sagebrush-strewn hills. These gentle rises seemed to border a brown-bottomed bowl striped by rivers and canals irrigating fields laid out like crossword squares. Once she’d made the descent into this sunlit basin, Miranda felt protected from her own difficult past by its womblike contours and encircling rim. It seemed a promising place to incubate and nurture her new beginning. The bright arid terrain reminded her of Israel, and she, who thought she’d lost all faith, could almost imagine God’s presence in its familiar high desert beauty.
Hindgrout pocketed his phone and quickened his pace. “The rabbi and his crew just pulled in. They’ll hit the restroom and meet us in the parking lot. But before they join us, Miss Breitner, I gotta ask, what made you decide to buy that decrepit eyesore of a house?
Miranda laughed. “My realtor tried to discourage me. Said the place was a ‘money pit’.”
“That’d be Rosemarie Arnold. Rosemarie’s one plainspoken woman.”
Miranda marveled anew at how everybody in this small town knew everybody else. “Yes, and she was right. But the simple truth is I just fell in love with that old falling-down farmhouse. And it’s not falling down any more. You should stop in after we open.” Miranda was not about to explain that she’d made the old house over just as she’d made herself over or that she’d also been smitten by Sunnyvale, a tiny farming town where no one knew her and where her traitorous father would never think to look for her.
Once in the parking lot, Miranda watched as a bearded middle-aged man wearing black jeans, a black shirt, and a beige cowboy hat led his distinctively dressed and considerably younger crew out of the building. The sight of the formally attired men made her stiffen and rise to the tips of her toes. Since she was thirteen, the year everything changed, Miranda sometimes took to her toes as if she feared the ground beneath her was mined. It was her memory that was mined though, and the arrival of these other Jews threatened to detonate her explosive recollections.
But it took her only a few seconds to stave off the urge to revisit the past. She lowered her heels, and smiled as Oskar Hindgrout introduced her to Rabbi Alinsky. “Miss Breitner. She’s opening a bed and breakfast place across the street, and she’s curious about your operation.”
Miranda knew enough about Orthodox protocols governing physical contact between men and women to nod, smile, and refrain from extending her hand. Returning her smile with one of his own, the rabbi was cordial. “Good to meet you. I noticed a change for the better over there.” He tilted his head in the direction of the B & B. “Feel free to stick around and listen to my spiel.”
Hindgrout lost no time before addressing the group himself. “Welcome! Welcome! For those of you who’ve never been here before, I’m Oskar Hindgrout, owner of Hindgrout’s, Inc., and my workers and I welcome you. For those of you who are returning, we feel blessed to have you back. Not all of you will be working at my plant, but I speak on behalf of all the Lower Valley fruit processing plant owners when I thank you for coming such a long way to kosher our Concords. We all welcome you to our Valley. Rabbi Alinsky, my friend, hello again. It’s always a privilege to work with you. Please contact me if there’s anything my workers and I can do to help you and your assistants with your important task. God bless.” The two men shook hands. His duty done, Hindgrout rushed off in a dither to find his temp.
Curious about how Rabbi Alinsky was going to transform bookish urban nerds who spent their days and nights studying the Talmud and the Torah into experts on turning grapes into kosher grape juice, Miranda stayed put. For sure these men knew what foods were kosher, but not how they got that way in the twenty-first century. And how would these city guys adjust to living in a remote rural valley where it would be far easier to get tortillas than challah? She figured Rabbi Alinsky had his work cut out for him. The black-suited rabbinical students gathered closer to the rabbi like crows roosting in a hospitable tree, leaving her just outside their circle. They didn’t even glance at her black curls, green eyes, or ample chest.
Miranda was less circumspect. Once the presence of these guys no longer upset her, she looked them over. Some struck her as quite handsome, and their proximity reminded her of her own loneliness. She considered inviting them all over for a glass of cold fresh apple cider. Their dark suits must be magnets for the still-strong autumn sun. But this vision faded when she remembered that they would eat or drink nothing from her decidedly unkosher kitchen.
The rabbi began what she assumed was an orientation with a question. “Let’s review. Ephraim, why do we kosher grapes but not apples or pears?”
A lanky fellow with a full dark beard cleared his throat. For just a moment, Miranda allowed herself to imagine that beard against her skin. “In the Torah grapes are special. Grapes make wine, so they’re sacramental. Once they might have been used by idol worshippers in their ceremonies. That’s why the grapes’ journey from vine to juice must be carefully overseen by observant Jews for those grapes to be considered kosher.”
This was another “Who knew?” moment for Miranda whose long ago aborted bat mitzvah studies had not included the Torah’s take on grapes. She continued to listen attentively as Rabbi Alinsky spoke. “Thank you Ephraim. So, as you know, Rabbi Certified Kosher, Inc., sends out a mashgiach, a kosher supervisor. That’s me. I’m the Kashrut Cowboy!” He poked his thumb into the graying red beard covering his chest and adjusted the brim of his Stetson. “And to help me obey the Almighty’s commandment to process newly harvested Concord grapes according to his two thousand year-old dicta, Rabbi Certified Kosher, Inc., also sends a
handpicked crew. That’s you.” This time it was a rabbinical index finger that he jabbed at the young men circling him.
“So we schlep all the way out here to central Washington right where the grapes grow, acres of them. You’ll see. This valley is like an oasis, like Eden. Not for nothing they call it ‘The Nation’s Fruit Bowl.’ But it’s different from what you’re used to, so I want to prepare you for your important and exacting work, for the factories, and for the Valley itself.
The rabbi didn’t sugarcoat what lay ahead there for his crew. “As I told you during your interviews and in the e-mails I sent you, this valley is where you’ll spend six to eight weeks, including our High Holidays. It’s here in little farm towns thousands of miles from your families that you’ll spend twelve-hour shifts in trailers and improvised factory offices. When you’re not on duty, you’ll sleep in a motel. On our holidays you’ll fast in this valley, too, and pray here, and some of you will fast alone, pray alone, and blow your rams’ horns alone in this processing plant or one like it.” He waved an arm in the direction of the gray concrete building hulking behind them. “You’ll warm make-do kosher meals on hot plates and trade your fedoras, suits, and wingtips for hard hats, jeans, and work boots. You’ll wear hair and beard nets too. Safety first!” The rabbi glanced around the circle, locking eyes with each listener. “And as I’ve told you, you’ll supervise folks who don’t take Jesus jokes lightly.” Miranda stifled her laugh.
She was unprepared for his next question. “Any of you ever meet an American Indian?” The men shook their heads. “Right in the same fertile valley and for miles all around is the second-largest Indian reservation in the U.S. It belongs to The Yakama Nation.” This time the arm he swung to indicate the scope of the Nation’s U.S. government-allotted territory nearly knocked the black fedora off the head of one of his listeners. “And this valley is also home to many, many evangelical Christians and many Mexicans too. There are even a few Filipinos and Japanese. And you know what?” He paused. “They’ve all been very helpful to us, especially on our holidays. They’re friendly, kind, and curious. That’s the good news.
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