Murder in the Melting Pot

by Jane Isenberg

  Carmen stared at the picture and then, intrigued by something she saw, picked it up and held it close to her face for just a few seconds before lowering it to her lap again. “That one.” The tip of her index finger, a sorry digit, its nail bitten to the quick, obliterated Steve Galen’s grinning puss. “I saw him go in a couple of times. He’s one of the Jews, so he went in through the parking lot entrance. Not the front way where my desk is. I remember him because he even looks like a Jew.” She pointed to her own longish nose. “And he always wore one of those little round hats they sometimes wear, so I figured he was meeting with the rabbi or one of the other Jews.”

  “Did he show up on the Sunday Isaac was killed?” Miranda struggled to keep her voice even and her words measured.

  “Yes. Yes. He did. I saw him leave, and that day he was in a big hurry. It was like somebody was chasing him but nobody came out after him. I didn’t even know that boy was dead, so I didn’t think anything about it and nobody asked me. The cops only talked to the men on the plant floor. They’re not thorough like the cops on TV.”

  Miranda silently cursed the cops for their lack of imagination. She saw no point in explaining that Steve Galen wasn’t Jewish. She had a different goal. “Carmen, would you be willing to share with the police the fact that you saw this man at the plant a few times and that just after Isaac Markowitz was killed you saw him rushing from the building?”

  Carmen gaped as if Miranda had just asked her if she’d like to dance naked on the moon. Then she picked up the photo and, holding it gingerly between her thumb and forefinger the way she might hold a live toad, she released it into Miranda’s lap and abruptly changed the subject. “Like I told you, I’m expecting my cousin and I thought you were her. She’s late and she hasn’t called.” The distraught woman stood and began pacing between the sofa and the front door.

  Miranda put the photo back in her purse and kept quiet. When Carmen’s cousin did show up, the jittery Carmen, a reluctant witness and a secret smoker, would be free to leave the house and light up. She tried again. “Would you tell the police what you saw? It would help them put Isaac Markowitz’s killer behind bars.”

  Carmen sat down and, looking straight at Miranda, shook her head. “No. I don’t want cops coming to the house. My mother came to this valley to pick apples over a half century ago without papers. She never left.” She shrugged. “Who knows what else police might want to know? I promised her she would die right here in this house.”

  “I got that.” Miranda knew a lot about promises made to dying moms. “But the officer who came to talk to you would be a detective in street clothes. And your mother wouldn’t even have to meet him. Or you could go to the police station and your cousin could stay here with your mother.”

  “No. I don’t want more trouble. What if this guy I saw finds out I gave him away? Maybe he’s in with the gangs…”

  The doorbell rang and Carmen catapulted off the sofa to welcome her apologetic cousin. Miranda stood and buttoned her parka. “I’ll go now, but please think about what I asked you.” She looked around the comfortable living room, a veritable rose garden. “It looks like this country has been good to you.” Miranda paused and then, thrusting her card into Carmen’s hand and, glancing at the watchful Madonna, added a zinger. “Maybe Jesus is sending you an opportunity to give something back by helping the cops bring a killer to justice, Carmen.”

  In her truck, she brushed away her own guilt over preying on another woman’s guilt by recalling how Mona had always insisted that guilt is a building block of conscience. And then Miranda returned to the moment, and what a Laura Diamond moment it was! She had strung together two dots, neither one of which had been visible to anyone but her, and so found someone who saw Steve Galen rushing out of the plant at approximately the time Isaac Markowitz had been killed! Now the cops would have to refine and widen their investigation. She figured that Detective Ladin would be able to persuade Carmen Esposito that it was in her and her mother’s own best interests to testify to what she’d witnessed.

  Miranda herself was glad she wouldn’t have to endure another tête-à-tête with Detective Ladin. She hated the fact that he knew her secret. Even his desire for her seemed more insult than compliment. But she didn’t dwell on her aversion, because now she could use Crime Stoppers. Home again, she ran with Rusty and then poured herself a glass of wine, popped a frozen mac ‘n’ cheese into the microwave, and checked her bookings. There were three new ones! And on her cell there was a call from Pauline inviting her to share their family’s Thanksgiving dinner.

  To her astonishment, there was also an e-mail message from Harry Ornstein. “Miranda, I’ve got some explaining to do, and I want to do it over dinner. Tomorrow night? Wednesday night? Thursday night? I’ll drive down to your place, and we can go somewhere in the Lower Valley. Please.” Hearing from Harry, like the new bookings and the dinner invitation, was a decidedly pleasant surprise. But of all the mail in her in-box, it was the Google Alert notice that excited her most. Her fingers flew as she clicked her way to the web-site of a ram’s horn dealer known only as TheShofarDude.com.

  CHAPTER 19

  Guest book: “This place has the best rates in the Valley and the best location. I’m in sales, so location matters. After the murder across the street, I stayed someplace else, but my boss went ballistic over the hike in room rate and mileage, so I’m back. When I told Miranda her blueberry scones are to die for, I meant it!” Road Warrior

  ShofarDude.com

  Moroccan ram’s horn measures just over 30 inches around the double twists! Biggest ram’s horn that the SD has ever seen! Many shades of lush brown. Natural rugged finish. Has a big mouthpiece so it’s easy to play and big mellow sound to match like a tuba! To hear this one-of-a-kind, collector’s shofar call (718) 783-4464 Only $3,7000!

  The ram’s horn in the photos on the shofar dude’s website looked identical to the one in the appraisal photo that Eva Markowitz sent. Miranda crossed her fingers. Aware that it was nearly midnight in Brooklyn, where the shofar dude’s area code indicated that he lived, she didn’t call him right away. If he kept his stock in trade in his home and worked from there, she didn’t want to risk waking him or his family. She was tempted to buy the ram’s horn without hearing it so no one else would get to it first, but she hoped that by talking to the vendor about the horn’s previous owner she could learn something of the seller or at least get a physical description of him. So she e-mailed the shofar dude, saying that she wanted to hear the horn, and that, if she liked its sound and what she could learn of its provenance, she would buy it at once at the listed price and have it overnighted to her. She left her number and asked him to call her the next morning on PST.

  Because she’d learned early on not to expect much from the world, Miranda could keep her hopes in check overnight. It was harder to justify spending thousands of her dwindling dollars on a shofar. With that money she could easily have the B & B’s chimney made operable and maybe even buy herself a real bed. But why do either if Breitner’s was soon to close? Finally she told herself that what she was doing was investing in the future of her own business, in her own future. If she didn’t, who would?

  Miranda’s three guests were finishing breakfast early the next morning when Pauline materialized for coffee. She arrived eggless because her chickens were “on strike,’ which was how she referred to their seasonal “off-time.” Miranda sat down with her friend, hoping their chat would distract her from the fact that she hadn’t heard from the shofar dude yet, even though in Brooklyn it was already almost noon. She placed her cell phone on the counter next to her coffee cup. “I’m expecting a call. But I have to tell you, I’m really looking forward to Thanksgiving with you and Nelson and your kids and the grandkids too.” She hesitated before adding, “This is my first Thanksgiving without my mom, and your invitation means a lot. What can I bring?”

  Pauline, who had helped herself to a gingerbread scone, looked around at the used c
ups and plates piled on the counter and sipped her coffee. “You have to feed guests every day, so why not take a day off? Bring a couple of bottles of local wine, or a six-pack of beer even. The young people always want to try the latest vino, and Nelson and I enjoy a little local brew now and then, too.”

  “Are you sure? I can make something besides breakfast, you know.”

  “I’m sure. My daughter-in-law likes to bring the sides and my son in Spokane likes to make the pies. I do the turkey, gravy, and stuffing. The guys do the dishes, would you believe? So we’re good.”

  “I really appreciate your including me.” Miranda paused again. “You know, Pauline, I almost called to ask if I could sleep on your sofa the other night. I had no guests and, for the first time, I got spooked here all by myself.”

  “I don’t blame you, given what happened across the street. Why didn’t you call? Or just come over? You now have a standing invitation. Our spare room is your spare room. I’m sorry you had no guests, though. That’s probably not what spooked you, but it’s a worry, isn’t it?”

  “Yes…” Just as Miranda was considering sharing with Pauline her discovery about the pumpkin house people and Carmen Esposito’s revelation, her cell phone sounded. She glanced at the name of the caller, put the phone to her ear and shrugged. “Sorry. I have to take this.”

  Pauline chugged down her coffee, wrapped her cape around her, and waved goodbye, still munching the scone in her one ungloved hand.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello. This is The Shofar Dude otherwise known as Louie Blitzer. Are you MBreitner@ gmail.com?”

  “Yes. Thanks for getting back to me. Is it still for sale? I’m buying it for my father’s fiftieth birthday. He always blows the shofar at our temple. May I hear it?”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course. Listen, I’ll play it now on speakerphone. “

  Miranda listened recalling how powerful the familiar bleats had been when she heard them coming from the processing plant and how, even on speakerphone from Brooklyn, they resonated with her. “It sounds very good. Can you tell me anything about who owned it last?”

  “Goyim.”

  “Really? What would a non-Jew want with a shofar?”

  “Not to worry. She only had it a few weeks. Before that it belonged to a rebbe. A woman called me and said she just bought a house that had once been owned by a rabbi and this ram’s horn turned up in a box in the attic. The box was labelled shofar. So the new owner, she Googled shofar and, of course, she found me.” Miranda recognized Louie Blitzer’s pride in his website’s reach. “Right away she e-mailed me pictures, and I was glad to take it off her hands. It’s a beauty, isn’t it? And it’s in perfect condition, too.”

  Miranda pictured Steve Galen researching shofars, fabricating this story to explain how he came into possession of the distinctive horn, and then getting some perhaps-unwitting accomplice to agree to e-mail the pictures and then arrange the transaction. “It looks great in the photos. Did she ship it or bring it in herself?”

  “She mailed it. From California yet. But not to worry. Remember, it came all the way to this country from Morocco undamaged. Then it went to California without so much as a scratch. And I told her how to wrap it, and it still doesn’t have a mark on it. I’ll get it to you in mint condition. You have my word.”

  “I believe you. But I have one more question, Mr. Blitzer. What does natural finish mean?”

  “It wasn’t polished. Lots of shofars are polished by machine. This horn is just like it was when it was on the ram, a little rough and ridged. The ridges add interest and texture to the surface.”

  Ridges, especially thin, narrow ridges, might be hard to wipe completely clean, even for an art restorer with a toothpick fetish. Miranda grinned into the phone as she pictured TV’s Temperance Brennan shining her luminal light on the shofar and turning a miniscule crevice in the curve of the instrument the telltale blue indicative of blood. “It sounds perfect. I’d like you to overnight it to me. But before I give you my credit card information and address, promise me something. I don’t want anyone to know you sold it, let alone sold it to me.”

  When he responded, he sounded a little miffed. “Of course. I bought this beauty from the woman and paid her via PayPal. We have no further business together.”

  “Okay. But also, can you keep it on your website for a few more days, a week maybe?”

  “Sure. Why not? Like I said, it’s a beauty. It makes people want to buy something nice, something classy.”

  Miranda gave him her credit card information and address. When she finished the call, she allowed herself a few moments of pure satisfaction. She was certain that by the next day she’d have the real murder weapon in her possession. Surely that and her photos would convince the cops to expand their unsuccessful investigation into Isaac’s murder, to treat it as a hate crime, to look into Steve Galen’s past. This purchase was a good investment.

  But before she presented the fruits of her own research personally to Sheriff Carson himself, she decided to talk to her lawyer. In spite of the immediate wave of pleasure and relief she’d felt when she read Harry Ornstein’s e-mail the night before, Miranda reminded herself that he’d disappointed her in the boyfriend department. She’d not asked him or even expected him to call, but then he’d said he would and he didn’t. Clearly he didn’t care for her. She got that. But, she told herself, he was still her lawyer and she needed one. Colestah was too volatile for her and not as close by. So she e-mailed Harry that she’d have dinner with him that evening but only to discuss “an urgent legal matter of great concern to me.” She told him she couldn’t leave the B & B until the night’s guests showed up.

  She made a dinner reservation for two at Annette’s. It was close by and quiet and the food was good. It was also not too expensive and, since she planned to pay for her own meal out of her very much depleted funds, cost mattered to her.

  Miranda rushed through her chores and errands. She wanted to get to her laptop and buttress her case against Steve Galen by digging beneath the first layer of his website. She knew that an in-depth examination of her own online persona would eventually lead an insightful and persistent researcher to either a dead end or, worse yet, to Meryl Weintraub. Steve Galen’s on-line presence was probably equally permeable. She began by calling a few of the people who’d authored the glowing references that lent the art restorer’s site its considerable credibility. She claimed to be considering hiring him to restore some sand-and sun-scarred murals on the barn of her ranch in Arizona.

  The mayor of Robertsville, a small town in rural Ohio, took her call and said, “Oh, yeah. Galen did a good job. That statue of our founder Jed Roberts was weather-beaten and had some graffiti on it, and he prettied it up in time for our centennial Fourth of July festivities. We were real pleased.” The city official who praised Steve’s work on a mural on the wall of a police station in a farming town in Iowa was at a meeting, but his administrative assistant, said, “I’ll have him call you if you want. But we all thought Steve did a fine job. I saw the paperwork. He came in under budget and finished early too. You can’t go wrong with him.” Miranda made a few more calls with similar results from the references she was able to reach. She was disappointed to find that everyone she contacted appreciated the art restorer and his work. She was certain that getting information from the man’s alleged alma mater, the University of Delaware, would be impossible without police or alumna credentials.

  Miranda was cheered by the fact that Tom Buler, the last of her guests to arrive that evening, was returning for his third stay at Breitner’s. Apparently the killing across the street hadn’t soured him on the place. “Good to see you’re hangin’ in, Miranda. I’m not giving up either.” Tom was determined to continue his search for the ideal spot to build his dream vacation home. “Our realtor has three promising sites to show me this time. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  When she next opened the door with Rusty at her side, Harry Ornste
in was standing there, his face mostly hidden behind a clay pot of yellow chrysanthemums. “Hi, Miranda. These are a peace offering. They’ll do well outside during the day and indoors at night. Where should I put them?” His eyes glommed onto her bandaged hand. “Sorry you’re hurt. How’d that happen?”

  She ignored his reference to a peace offering and to her hand. After all, she was more client than friend. She didn’t inquire after Julia either. “The fireplace doesn’t work, so I usually put flowers in there. I’ll move these outside in the morning. Thank you.” She heard the primness in her voice.

  “You’re welcome. Do you want me to take off my shoes?” He hesitated just inside the door.

  Miranda saw Harry’s barrage of logistical questions as his attempt to dispel the awkwardness between them. “No. We’re leaving right away. My guests all arrived, and I made us a reservation at a place nearby for 7:30.”

  Once he’d deposited the mums in the fireplace she could see Harry’s face. A grayish pallor replaced his tan, and blue-black semi-circles beneath his eyes were visible behind his glasses. He needed a haircut and a good night’s sleep. The man must’ve been working extra hard. He’d always looked and acted totally at home in the world, as Mona would have put it. But that night his misery was palpable. Was he sick? She couldn’t control the pangs of concern she felt.

  “I was hoping for a tour. Maybe after dinner?” His words were casual, but his tone was tense.

  She made herself stick to business. “I want to show you that building across the street, especially the parking lot, and the side of the B & B facing it. Let’s walk over to the gate there and then head for the restaurant. That way I can take Rusty out before we leave. It won’t take long.” She noted that Rusty had no misgivings about Harry, and lobbied him for a head scratch.