Murder in the Melting Pot

by Jane Isenberg

  “Yes. Hashem willing. And we keep checking. If even one grape goes through at the wrong temperature, we start that batch again. We have a sight glass that lets us see if the grapes are going through properly and a divert valve to stop the process if they aren’t. And the koshering inspector, he has to check all these factors and then sign a seismograph printout that records the temperature fluctuations on each of his rounds.”

  “Not such an easy job.”

  “Oh, there’s more.” Rabbi Alinsky pointed to the office Miranda had been about to enter. “In there, he examines the RCK labels for the enzyme additives and counts the seals from RCK that he’s going to affix to the newly-koshered grape juice and to the trucks that carry it away. It’s a big job we do, but it is to fulfill a commandment.” He paused as if he had just remembered something. “Wait right here, if you will, Ms Breitner, please. I have to restart the processing and then I want to ask something of you.” Shaking his head, he entered the cubicle, closed the door behind him, and flicked on the light.

  Even through the window, Miranda could see smudges of deep purple underlining the rabbi’s eyes, his sunken cheeks, and the pallor of his skin. The man opening a laptop in that little room was a shadow of the zesty, self-assured fellow she’d seen from afar the day he arrived with his crew. Miranda’s glance swept the cube, taking in the piles of paper, and the small flat boxes plainly labelled RCK Seals. She watched the rabbi as, without bothering to sit, he typed for a moment or two. The clanging resumed.

  Just then a processing plant worker materialized out of the noise. He, too, looked tired and worn. If he was surprised to find Miranda in his workplace at that hour, he didn’t give any indication, but merely nodded at her and stuck his head in the door of the little office. “Everything okay, Rabbi?”

  “Yes. Not to worry, Peter. Ms Breitner lives across the street and she’s looking for her lost dog. I just reactivated the heat exchanger.” Peter nodded and left, and the rabbi returned to the office doorway, speaking quickly. “Ms Breitner, if I see your dog, I’ll return him to you.” He paused and then, with Peter out of earshot, he talked even faster. “My employers, the executives at Rabbi Certified Kosher, Incorporated, were not happy when they learned that one of our koshering inspectors was murdered on the job here or that the grapes in the processing plant were exposed to a dead body for several days or that goy detectives were in here alone with the fruit and the body. As I said, koshering is about purifying, and there is nothing pure about a murder and a corpse, even a Jewish corpse.” He shook his still-helmeted head and went on. “And the press, even the Jewish press…. they’re like vultures. The other day that miserable man staying at your place asked me if I had another job lined up after RCK fires me. Oy vey!

  “I’ve been working Isaac’s shifts even on this holy night. I’ve also been talking with his heartsick widow and his parents in New York and with his grief-stricken and frightened friends and colleagues here.” It was Miranda’s turn to nod. The rabbi lowered his head before going on. “And the police have kept me busy too. They’re questioning all my kosherers, even those in temple in Seattle at the time of the murder, even those working in other plants.” He paused and whispered, “Even me.”

  “They probably figure some of you might have been close enough to Isaac to shed light on who wanted him dead.”

  The rabbi nodded. “Perhaps they think we Jews know of a person who might do such a thing. But we don’t. Isaac was a mensch, a good man, a brilliant scholar. He just got married. Who would want to kill such a person?” Miranda marveled that his beard did not come off in his hands, so hard did he yank at it. “This is a dark time.” Then, as if obligated, he offered some assurance. “But like I told my wife, ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. Adonai is with me.’” His deep sigh, a groan almost, belied his words.

  And Miranda heard his next words as a plea for help from a man who wanted to cover all bases. “Ms Breitner, you have a front row seat at what goes on in this place.” He gazed around at the tubes and dripping vats. “And I can see that you are bold and sharp-eyed. And surely, like me, you are worried about the effect of Isaac’s murder on your safety and your business. Please, if you noticed anything odd or hear something, tell the police and help them find the killer who took Isaac’s young life. This Valley must once again be a safe place for us all to live and work together. No more lives must be lost to this fiend.”

  At these words, Miranda found herself shivering. “From your mouth to God’s ears.” This expression, a standard of Mona’s, flew from her lips like the prayer it is.

  “I don’t understand it. My team has never had a problem before in this Valley. People here are good. We must have faith. Adonai will come through for us.”

  Miranda replied tartly, “God may need a little help on this one, so I’ll keep my eyes open and my ear to the ground, Rabbi. Let’s keep in touch.”

  In her new guise as the Lord’s helper and with her brain brimming with all that she had seen and heard, Miranda left the factory both exhilarated and scared. She wanted to help solve Isaac’s murder if she could; in fact, had already decided to do so, but she didn’t want to do anything that would raise her profile in the Valley. So for the benefit of whoever might notice, she continued to shout Rusty’s name into the night when, for the second time that evening, a man’s voice boomed out of nowhere. “Quit that yelling, Ms Breitner. You know damn well your dog’s at home right where you left him. He hasn’t stopped yapping since you walked out that door. You and I need to talk again, but I’m not being relieved for another hour. I’ll stop by then. Don’t just stand there. Get a move on before I arrest you for trespassing and disturbing the peace.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Jewish Forward Blogger: “Checking in from Sunnyvale, Washington where most of the grapes in grape juice you and your kids blessed and drank tonight are koshered by twelve Yeshiva students imported for the occasion and their mentor, an Orthodox rebbe from RCK… But something’s definitely not kosher here. I left my Upper West Side rent-controlled apt. and great neighborhood deli because one of those twelve kosherers has been murdered….”

  Any satisfaction Miranda felt after her supposedly clandestine foray to the off-limits crime scene evaporated when she neared the door to her B & B and heard yet another male voice shouting inside. No wonder Rusty was barking. Breit-ner’s was fully booked by the two reporters and four members of Spokane’s Red Hat Society touring Valley wineries. Maybe Darlene let in some drunk without a reservation and he was badgering her for a vacancy she didn’t have. Miranda unlocked the door, prepared to graciously refer the loudmouthed intruder to a motel, maybe even call ahead for him, and so peacefully eject him.

  Instead, she froze on the threshold. A brawny young guy holding a gun stood over Darlene yelling at her in Spanish. His shaved head was partly obscured by a blue bandana spanning his forehead and leaving his thick tattooed neck exposed. The diminutive receptionist’s right hand was outstretched and her left hand gripped Rusty’s collar. Her purse lay open on the floor, its contents strewn across the counter. Rusty, the first to notice Miranda, barked louder. She prayed all the noise would attract the attention of the detective just across the street.

  At the sight of Miranda in the doorway, the gunman turned, pointed the revolver straight at her chest, and rushed towards her. Holding the gun with one hand, he shoved her hard to the floor with the other and then vaulted over her. Reanimated by her painful landing, Miranda reached up with both hands, grasped one of his feet and pulled, bringing her assailant to his knees just outside the door. Still clutching the gun, he kicked his foot free, jumped up, and raced cursing into the night. A car door slammed and an engine roared.

  Relieved to be alive, Miranda hoisted herself up. Flexing her hands and rubbing her chin, she turned to Darlene. “Are you okay?”

  Darlene nodded and let go of Rusty’s collar. When she spoke her voice was doleful, defeated. “I’m
okay. But are you alright, Ms Breitner? He knocked you down and kicked you.”

  “I’m okay.” Shaken more than she cared to disclose, Miranda locked the front door. What had possessed her to tackle a gangbanger pointing a gun at her? She could still feel the heel of his high-top mashing her fingers, hitting her chin. Had she been grappling with the same brute who killed Isaac Markowitz?

  Chilled at this possibility, she glanced at the tell-tale mezuzah she’d tacked on the door jamb and more possibilities filled her head. Perhaps that thug been sent there to murder another Jew and had mistaken Darlene for the Jewish B & B owner. Maybe Darlene had been begging him not to shoot her. Or maybe he’d come simply to hold up a clerk and steal the B & B’s meager stash of petty cash and Darlene had been begging him to return her wallet.

  “Did you let that criminal in at gunpoint? Did he get your wallet?”

  Darlene shook her lowered head as she reunited her tote with its scattered contents. She held up her wallet.

  “Did he get the petty cash in the bottom drawer under the dish towels?”

  “No. He didn’t take any money from you. Just what I gave him.” Darlene looked up, enabling Miranda to see her grim tear-streaked face. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” She inhaled. “It’s because of me he was here.”

  “What do you mean?” While Miranda waited for Darlene to answer, a new scenario formed in her head. The prim semi-retired receptionist Rosemarie thought so highly of was a closet drug addict. She’d returned to the work force to pay for her expensive habit and the gangbanger was her dealer who’d followed her to the B & B to collect payment. Darlene’s sweater prevented Miranda from scanning the woman’s forearms for needle marks, so she checked her eyes for dilated pupils, and, when Darlene finally spoke, Miranda scoped out her teeth for the discoloration that crime show coroners cite as a sign of meth addiction.

  “He’s my grandson. Javier Baez.” Darlene blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Oh, my God!” Miranda was first astounded and then horrified. Which was worse? Buying drugs from your grandson or selling them to your grandmother? But this time when she listened to her inner voice, she realized that it was the voice of a crazy person jumping to crazy conclusions. She of all people knew where that road led. Instead, she listened to Darlene.

  “I have to call my son, Javi’s father.” Her voice weary, Darlene continued to explain while digging in her purse for her cell phone. “I thought Javi came looking for me to give him a little money like he sometimes does, so, of course, I let him in. But when I opened my purse to get a few dollars, he grabbed it and took my gun.” Darlene’s mouth quivered. “That damn gun is what he really came for. I promised my husband I’d get a holster for it.” She paused, nearly choking on a sob. “I begged Javi to give it back. I’m afraid he’ll hurt himself with it.”

  “What?” Miranda was stunned anew by Darlene’s latest revelation. Every word she uttered confounded Miranda’s earlier versions of what had happened. “How would he ‘hurt himself’? You mean shoot himself?”

  Darlene reached for the silver cross suspended from a chain around her neck. Her mouth trembled, and before she spoke again she bit her lower lip as if to anchor it. “The police questioned Javi about tagging the Toppenish Murals.” Her voice quavered, making her sound like a very old woman. “He says he didn’t, but the cops say they got word on their tip line that he did. But they don’t have any proof, so they couldn’t hold him. They’re desperate to solve these crimes though, so they’ll get proof. And they say they also heard Javi killed the Jew or knows who did. They’re trying to get him to confess to that murder or give them a name as part of a deal.” Miranda kept still, hoping Darlene would continue. “I swear Ms Breitner, Javi is a good kid. He has a good heart.”

  Having just been shoved to the floor at gunpoint and then kicked in the face by this cherub, Miranda bit her tongue.

  “But he’s being pulled by the cops and by the gang.” Darlene shook her head and reached for another Kleenex. “You have to understand, Ms Breitner, the gangbangers are killers. They already killed his brother, Geraldo. And if the police find the banger who really killed the Jew, those thugs will think Javi gave him up. If Javi goes to jail for it, the Norteños’ll get him there. If he’s on the street…” She shrugged and pulled her sweater closer while her tears continued to fall. “The Norteños shot his brother Geraldo in the daylight on a street corner. I don’t blame Javi for being scared.” Darlene’s exhalation was as full of hopelessness as a last breath. “Geraldo practically raised Javi while his mom and dad worked. Javi wants to join the Sureños only to get revenge.”

  Darlene squared her shoulders as if to face up to and assume the burden of all that she had said. “May I please use your phone? He must have taken my cell, and my car keys are gone too. I guess he took my car. I know he’ll drop it off later. Meanwhile, my son will come for me.” She shrugged and spoke again. “Are you going to call the police?”

  Before Miranda could even begin to answer what, to her, would always be a loaded question, three mildly-inebriated red-hatted women and their designated driver streamed in chatting and laughing and oblivious to the two pale and shaken women who greeted them. Miranda was relieved to see that these guests had not interrupted the R-rated drama that had just occurred. She was even more relieved when Darlene told her that the two reporters had not yet returned. Reassured that word of an armed gangbanger’s invasion of Breitner’s B & B, assault on the innkeeper, and robbery of his own grandmother just might not go any further, Miranda considered Darlene’s question and turned it back to her. “Are you going to report him to the police? He stole your gun.”

  Without hesitation, Darlene shook her head. “No. The boy is my grandson. La familia.”

  Miranda flinched. Darlene’s insistence on Javier’s inherent innocence, her loyalty to him, to her family, even if, perhaps, misplaced, reminded Miranda of how her own father had believed the worst of her, believed she was a baby killer.

  “So, Ms Breitner, are you going to call the cops? He assaulted you. You’ll have bruises tomorrow.”

  “I honestly don’t know, Darlene. I’ll probably see a lawyer before I decide.” She was silent for a moment. “I’d like to avoid any more negative publicity for the B & B and the neighborhood. If neither of us presses charges, maybe your grandson’s visit here won’t make the papers.” She paused. “On the other hand, if he’s a danger to others or, for that matter, to himself….” She sighed and, with hands trembling, handed Darlene the phone.

  A few minutes later Darlene’s son called back to say he was out front. As she stood to leave, Darlene patted Rusty and addressed Miranda. “Good night, Ms Breitner. I’m so sorry for everything that happened.” She paused and lowered her head. “Of course, you don’t want me to come back tomorrow.”

  Miranda had completely forgotten her intention to attend Yom Kippur services the next day. She looked at Darlene and said, “But I do, Darlene. What happened tonight wasn’t your fault.” Then, hoping she was right, she repeated one of Mona’s maxims. “We don’t get to choose our relatives.”

  Sorrowful and shaken, Miranda was loading the next day’s breakfast offerings into the tiny fridge when the two reporters returned bickering. “You got this all wrong, Lynn. The Indian’s got no motive.”

  “Who says? Isaac went to Toppenish the day before he died. Maybe he looked at this Indian kid the wrong way. Or maybe the Indian’s meshuganah like his grandfather.” Miranda nodded and smiled cordially at the two but did not encourage them to linger. She was relieved when they went to their rooms. Still reliving her own traumatic return and reviewing Darlene’s sad story, she didn’t want her trembling hands to evoke more negative publicity for the area.

  When she left to take Rusty out for his late night pee, she nearly collided with Detective Ladin running up the few front steps. Standing on the same threshold where Javi had pushed her down and kicked her not an hour before, Miranda found hers
elf face to face with another adversary, a detective who knew who she really was. And he’d seen her leaving the crime scene only an hour ago.

  At that moment and in that spot it occurred to her for the first time that she was as viable a murder suspect as any of the rogues’ gallery currently under consideration. She was a stranger with plenty of opportunity to enter the processing plant, with no alibi for the time of death, and with a previous arrest for infanticide on record. The probable murder weapon had been stored in a truck frequently parked on her property. But what possible motive could she have? She ran her finger along the thin scar under her chin. She was a long-term mental case, just like Joseph Wright. Such a person needed no plausible motive.

  When her shiver became a shudder, she hugged herself and followed Rusty and the detective down the steps. “Better late than never,” she remarked before realizing that she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to share with this cop the scenario he’d missed.

  “Sorry, but the guy who relieved me was running late.”

  Fortunately he had misunderstood her jibe, so her options were still open. She didn’t have to tell him about Javier Baez’s visit until she “lawyered up,” as they said on TV. They began to walk. “I guess you’re patrolling this particular processing plant because it’s where the murder took place, right?”

  “We’re patrolling all of the plants koshering juice grapes for the duration of the grape harvest. Meanwhile, I can use the overtime, and I get to keep an eye on you, Miranda Breitner aka Meryl Weintraub.”

  There it was again. And this time he’d said it to her face, not as a threatening aside as he left. Miranda stood stone still in her tracks for the second time that evening. Only the reassuring presence of Rusty, who’d assumed his sentinel position at her side, kept her from running back into the B & B and slamming the door. But even Rusty’s vigilance did not still her trembling.