Murder in the Melting Pot

by Jane Isenberg

  Miranda was struck again by how old this boy sounded, old and tired. Keeping tabs on a geriatric alcoholic suffering from PTSD out in the middle of nowhere while going to college and working had to be at least as challenging as taking care of a dying mom in Seattle. Miranda pictured the smelly old man babbling to the river. “What was your grandfather like before he served?”

  “They say he was a real warrior and our storyteller. Like Sherman Alexie, only he didn’t write anything down.” When Michael beamed at the thought of the celebrated Indian writer, Miranda realized she’d never seen him really smile before. “He knew the old ways and tried to teach young ones our religion, our Sahaptin language, our history, and, you know, the culture of our people. But when he came back from Vietnam, they say he’d turned into a ghost.”

  “Why didn’t your sister take you with her when she moved?” Miranda didn’t stop to consider that the answers to all her questions were none of her business.

  Michael apparently felt he’d revealed more than enough about his personal life to explain his dereliction of duty, so his next answer was oblique. He bent down to pat Rusty who chafed at his leash. “I don’t like the city. Out here I can fish.”

  Miranda was distracted by Rusty who’d stopped walking not to pee or poop, but to vomit. Miranda stood over the little puddle of glop and stroked his fur and in a moment the big animal resumed his search for a spot deserving of his perfectly normal-looking poop. Miranda was relieved that he felt better and that, because they were outside, there was no need to clean up his puke. She used her plastic bag for its intended purpose. Rusty was scheduled to have his teeth cleaned at the clinic the next day anyway, so to be sure he was okay, she’d take this stool sample and save herself the trouble of making a second trip.

  She glanced at Michael who had seemed oblivious to Rusty’s disgorgement. When the boy spoke, his expression had hardened. “The sheriff’s deputy, he’s trying to pin the Jew’s murder on my grandfather.”

  “What? Why on earth would he think your grandfather would kill a Jewish rabbinical student from New York who’s here for just a few weeks to kosher grapes?”

  Michael sighed at her ignorance and naiveté. “They need to pin it on somebody fast and he’s Indian. And it doesn’t help that the only time he’s in town, he’s drunk or stoned and talking crazy.” Michael hesitated before blurting, “Besides, the detective told the tribal police they found his fish club near the body at the factory. The thing is, Ms Breitner, my grandfather gave me that fish club years ago at my First Fish Ceremony. It’s mine, but the cops, they don’t know that yet. Somebody lifted it from my truck. It’s worth something, you know? But I would never sell it. Whoever took it left my nets and rods.” Michael’s chin jutted forward and his shoulders straightened, so that his walk began to look like marching. “I gotta tell the detective it’s mine. I can’t let him take my grandfather in.”

  The thought of this bright and hardworking boy being falsely accused of murder and going to jail to protect his equally innocent grandfather evoked empathy in Miranda. She knew what it was to be falsely accused so a sensational murder case could be closed quickly. And she also knew that at this point she had little to lose, so she was in a good position to try to help Michael. If only the police would stop wasting time questioning convenient scapegoats, they could focus on finding the bastard really guilty of murdering that poor young man. Even on TV, it disturbed her when the police focused on the usual suspects and ignored other possibilities. And if the Seattle cops hadn’t been so certain she’d hurt Timmy, they might have figured out who actually did. For a moment, her thoughts vied for expression with her bitter memories.

  Her thoughts won, and she shared them in her own anger-fueled rush of pronouncements. “Well, Michael, you didn’t do it and neither did your grandfather. You need a lawyer.” Without waiting for him to reply, Miranda added a promise. “I’ll lend you the money to hire one. You can work off the debt.” In her eagerness to help, she forgot that soon she might have no work for herself, let alone for him.

  Michael’s shoulders went back even further, threatening his balance, and Miranda feared that she might have hurt his feelings by offering to fund his legal bills. After so many lonely years she had a lot to learn about how to talk to friends, how to be a friend. She knew she was right when he replied curtly, “Thanks, Ms Breitner. I got this.”

  Eager to change the subject, she queried, “So do you have any idea where your grandfather is?”

  “I have some ideas, a few places I haven’t tried. But now…”

  “Aren’t you worried about him? The nights are getting cold. And those gangs… ” She remembered Vanessa Vargas and again hoped the girl was warm and safe.

  Michael’s answer relieved her. “My people have always known where and how to camp in winter. And the gangbangers are afraid of him. The way he, you know, appears and disappears they think he’s a zombie and that bullets don’t hurt him. Besides, they have their own problems now.”

  “And what might those problems be?” Miranda was delighted to learn that the gangs, had problems. She’d spent most of several nearly sleepless nights researching gangs online, and she was not above hoping these problems were serious enough to put an end to their murderous lifestyle. She shared her fantasy with this young man who had just shared some of his reality with her. “Did all the addicts in the Valley who buy drugs from them suddenly go into rehab? Did all the gang affiliates who smuggle drugs into Canada surrender to the Border Patrol? Is the legalization of pot in Washington going to destroy the market for the weed grown in the woods north of here that the cartels control and get the gangs to sell for them? So now the drug business in the Valley is so bad the gangs have no one to distribute to but each other?”

  “Sorry, no.” There was a grim twitch of one corner of Michael’s mouth that might have been a smile. “But I heard they’re questioning a Sureño in connection with tagging our murals.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Guest book: “Because of the murder in the fruit processing plant across the street from this B&B, I couldn’t do the interviewing and filming I came to do there, so I only stayed one night. But the innkeeper was very understanding, and I’ll be back as soon as they lock up the killer.” Faith-based Food blogger Sally Slade

  Whenever she drove north out of the flat Lower Valley with its fields, farms, and factories, Miranda felt she was leaving semi-rural America and entering another universe, a city with a few high-rise buildings, a convention center, a museum, and a theater. Located in the hillier Upper Valley and with a population of over ninety thousand, Yakima is large enough to boast a synagogue. During her illness, Mona, with Meryl at her side, had found comfort in the rituals of her religious roots. Although Meryl had never regained her own faith, she attended synagogue willingly, grateful for the peace her mom experienced. In the months since Mona died, Miranda had not been to a single temple service.

  But she interpreted the last blast of Isaac’s shofar as a private and personal call back to prayer that she couldn’t, didn’t want to, ignore. She would pray and also fast as the holiday required. Most nights she nuked frozen pizza or a chicken pot pie and washed it down with a few glasses of wine in front of her laptop. But late that afternoon she poached a chicken breast and some mushrooms in white wine, roasted tiny new potatoes, and made a salad. It seemed odd to go to so much trouble for only herself, but she did. After enjoying her meal, she showered and put on her good pair of black pants, a black silk blouse, and the purple jacket Mona had always liked on her.

  She’d made other preparations as well. The week before, Miranda had asked Pauline and Rosemarie to suggest a part-time worker to help out at the B & B when she had to be away for more than an hour or two. Rosemarie’s referral, Darlene Baez, seemed perfect. “She’s helped out in my office. She’s a people person with office skills, experience, and a great work ethic.” Rosemarie was right. A trim, graying Sunnyvale widow in her mid-sixties, Pauline had worked as a
receptionist for a local dentist until he retired. According to the letter of reference he provided, as well as the one from her pastor, Darlene was reliable, bilingual in English and Spanish, personable, and at home with computers.

  While interviewing her, Miranda learned that Darlene also loved dogs. She was working because she liked to give her grandkids a few dollars every now and then without dipping into her “old age fund” or her “church money.” She even seemed unfazed by the murder just across the street. “I live alone now, so I know how to take care of myself,” she said, patting her purse. Miranda envied her confidence and didn’t mention that just the day before she’d had a locksmith put a deadbolt on the door to her own apartment. Leaving Darlene and Rusty in charge, Miranda had felt comfortable setting off for synagogue.

  As she neared Yakima, she felt a little like a homing pigeon and a lot like a prodigal daughter. But Yakima’s Temple Shalom was not her mother’s imposing Seattle temple. Rather, it was a modest two-story house fronted in gray stone. It didn’t stand out from the other dwellings on the quiet residential street except for a simple white wooden sign over the front steps on which Temple Shalom was printed in letters painted gold. The living room and dining room that served as the small sanctuary of the only synagogue within sixty miles was filling rapidly. Miranda assumed that, like her, on that night, the people sitting in the folding chairs sought forgiveness and redemption.

  There was no cantor, so a mellow-voiced male congregant rose and opened the service singing the familiar mournful Kol Nidre prayer in which Jews request forgiveness for any promises they make to God but may not be able to keep in the year to come. Aware that Breitner’s B & B could go under very soon, Miranda asked forgiveness for being unable to keep her promise to her dying mother to move, open a B & B, support herself, and finally be “at home in the world.” To Mona Weintraub’s still-grieving daughter, this promise had been a sacred vow. By the time the singer sat down, Miranda was teary-eyed and groping in her purse for a Kleenex. When the fellow sitting next to her pushed a whole packet of tissues into her hand, she took it and murmured her thanks.

  She was relieved when Harriet Golden, a young visiting rabbi sent by the Union for Reform Judaism, began to lead the service. Rabbi Golden’s flaming red Jewfro threatened to unseat her bobby-pinned skull cap, and her white robe stopped short of her white leather cowgirl boots. She introduced herself in a voice that spiced solemnity with confidence and excitement. Rabbi Golden made the Jews’ annual fasting and anguished search for forgiveness and repentance sound doable, natural, and, even exhilarating. “After all,” she explained, “during the days before Yom Kippur we have presumably sought and obtained forgiveness from the people we’ve wronged, so on Yom Kippur, we’re free to seek forgiveness for our sins against God. What an opportunity!” Eyes agleam during her sermon, Rabbi Golden proclaimed that the holiday is not so much an orgy of breast-beating as a win-win occasion.

  Listening to this exciting, young, red-haired woman, Miranda flashed back on the red-haired girl she herself had once been, a girl with her own share of chutzpah and spirit. Twenty years later in Temple Shalom, surrounded by total strangers who were also the closest relatives she had left in the world, this memory caused something heavy in her chest to shift. She actually felt this weight slide over a little, making room for a bit of the can-do spirit that had characterized her before her youth was stolen.

  Even this fleeting channeling of her younger self inspired a surge of determination. This time around, Miranda wasn’t going to sit by and let Detective Alex Ladin or anybody else define her. She wasn’t going to let Breitner’s B & B go down without a fight either. And if she fought hard and well, she might still keep her promise to God and to her mother. Driving home that evening, Miranda grinned at the realization that, after twenty years, she’d finally gotten some of her groove back. And it felt good.

  On her return to the B & B, Miranda asked Darlene to stay a few minutes longer because she had an errand to run. While she changed her clothes upstairs, she rationalized what she was about to do. She needed to help get that murder solved or all her new resolutions would be meaningless. The county cops who were thinking at all seemed to be thinking inside their own familiar box where they kept the usual suspects. To help them find the killer, she needed to see the crime scene. TV’s Laura Diamond always saw things the other detectives and crime scene investigators missed. She just might spot something. But Sally, the food blogger, had been denied access to the processing plant, even though they’d promised her she could tour it with the rabbi. Since the murder, they weren’t accepting visitors, so Miranda would have to get in there on her own. She squatted beside Rusty, grabbed his ears, and spoke directly to his nose. “Sorry, Rusty. But I’m going solo. Tonight. Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

  She hurried downstairs and waved goodbye to Darlene and the crestfallen Rusty. She trotted across the street and squeezed into a small recess formed by three tall stacks of wooden fruit cartons among the many stacks filling part of the parking lot. She knew this niche was there, because from her upstairs window she’d often spotted a female worker disappear into it and then noted puffs of smoke rising and dissolving into the clear sun-bright air. Miranda’s dad had been a smoker too, and for a moment she shuddered at the memory of his dirty-ashtray aura and her mother’s and her own useless attempts to persuade him to quit.

  But that night the secret smoker’s retreat was a perfect stake-out spot from which Miranda could see without being seen. She scanned the parking lot and as much of the interior of the plant as she could glimpse through the open entry. She hoped to avoid any factory employees or koshering inspectors who worked through the nights during the grape harvest. But if she did meet someone, she had a ready excuse for being on the premises. She rumpled her hair and pinched her cheeks to redden them.

  Then, seeing no one about and undeterred by the NO TRESPASSING sign, she turned on her phone’s flashlight and walked across the parking lot. She waved her flare to and fro and called Rusty’s name every few steps. Ostensibly looking for her missing dog, she strode past a dumpster-like cart heaped with fragrant grapes and into the dimly-lit and seemingly empty processing plant. The noise of the machinery assaulted her ears and made her voice inaudible, but, sticking to her script, she kept hollering the two syllables of Rusty’s name into the cavernous space while her eyes adjusted to the faint light and her ears to the racket.

  The vats looming above her cast shadows on the walls and the concrete floor, making the sweet-smelling space really eerie. These same shadows made it hard to see the serpentine coils of tubes just overhead, so she kept her eyes low glancing up only occasionally to be sure the current kosherer or a plant worker was not about to accost her. She felt drawn to another smaller room, perhaps the storage room referred to in the newspaper as the place where Nelson had found Isaac’s body. There was a doorway but no door, and once inside Miranda scoped out the large square room. Three walls were lined with round metal tanks that reached nearly to the ceiling. The wall broken by the doorway was lined with shoulder-high blue cylindrical jugs. She walked around the room, peering into the space in each corner.

  She forced herself to look at the floor. If any of Isaac’s blood still stained the cement, that stain was obscured by the shadows cast by the looming vats. Nonetheless, this cold, hard, concrete slab was where poor Isaac had prayed, played his final solo, and later died. Saddened by this image, she let her eyes flit from tank to tank and then to the blue jugs before leaving what was left of the crime scene.

  Next she walked over to what she took for the kosherer’s makeshift cubicle. Aware that the current kosherer might well be inside, she continued to holler Rusty’s name into the well-lit din. Miranda peered through the glass window pane that was the top half of the cubicle door. The office appeared empty. She was about to try the door knob when abruptly the clanging ceased. The welcome silence was broken by the deep voice of God thundering from on high. “Stop where you a
re! Don’t touch that dawr!” The startled Miranda reminded herself that God did not have a New Jersey accent. In fact, the voice belonged to Rabbi Alinsky, and she followed it to where the rabbi was scrambling down the ladder leading to the brim of one of the vats of boiling water. Without removing any of his protective gear, he sprinted over to her.

  “Hello, Rabbi Alinsky. Sorry to alarm you. I’m Miranda Breitner, remember? I own the B & B just across the street. My dog’s missing, and I think he might have wandered in here. He’s done that before. I guess he can’t read that No Trespassing sign.” When the rabbi appeared oblivious to her joke, she called to Rusty again before saying, “Rabbi, I’m surprised to find you here at this hour on this night of all nights. Are you keeping an eye on your team after what happened?”

  “I’m joining my team by substituting for Isaac Markowitz, may he rest in peace. I cannot ask my kosherers to work in this Valley if I don’t set an example, show that Isaac’s death was an aberration, that we’re safe here.”

  “It doesn’t look all that safe. What do you do up on that ladder? It’s so high.”

  “I check the temperature of the water.”

  “I guess it’s pretty hot. I’ve been trying to steer clear of it, but it overflows and splashes down.”

  “Koshering is all about purifying. So we have to purify even the exteriors of the vats. That’s why we make them overflow.”

  “Wow! Even the outsides?” Miranda’s awe was not feigned. “So that hot water pushes the grapes through the tubes and purifies them?”