Murder in the Melting Pot

by Jane Isenberg

  Miranda and Harry remained seated and Miranda spoke. “But, Sheriff, you were going to tell us about the murder weapon? It wasn’t the fish club, so what was it?”

  This time when he answered the sheriff sounded tired. “It was some kind of Jewish musical instrument made out of the horn of some animal. It belonged to the deceased who had it on ‘im at the time. The instrument had no DNA, but its size, shape, and striations match the wound as described in the autopsy report. And some of the prints on it are Gloria Derrinsman’s.” Sheriff Carson sat down of his own accord. “The press can wait a few more minutes. What else do you two want to know?”

  Miranda forced herself to keep quiet about the provenance of the shofar and its monetary value. After Steve Galen was convicted, she’d try to get it back to the Markowitz family if, considering what it had been used for, they wanted it. If they didn’t, they could sell it. It belonged to them. All she said was, “That instrument is called a shofar.” Sheriff Carson grabbed a yellow pencil from a Seahawks mug and scribbled the word on a small notepad pad on his desk. To Miranda the note pad and pencil looked like artifacts extracted from a time capsule.

  “In view of what she endured today, how her business has suffered, and how she was sexually assaulted by the previous investigating officer, Miranda deserves to know whatever else the FBI found out about this case.” Harry spoke in what Miranda thought of as his “Julia voice.” It usually masked impatience.

  “They gave some samples of this Galen’s handwritin’ to their handwritin’ analyst to compare with the taggin’ on the Toppenish Murals, and her report indicates that Galen tagged those murals himself! Can you believe that? It’s as if I rode into town, robbed a bank, and then applied for the job of sheriff in that same town!”

  “Right.” Again Miranda and Harry spoke in unison. Miranda remembered the pride Steve Galen took in his ability to restore the murals. How he must have been laughing at her gullibility. At everybody’s gullibility. He was smart. Who was he, really?

  “What did the FBI’s background check of Steve Galen reveal about his past? Has he committed other hate crimes?”

  “He grew up poor in West Virginia and had an abusive and usually unemployed father who did time for domestic violence and theft.” Carson stroked the strings of an imaginary violin with an imaginary bow as he spoke. “In prison his dad joined the Aryan Brotherhood. His son liked to draw and made posters and designed tee shirts and tats for them and before long he joined too. They encouraged him to go to college so he could find a good job and contribute to their cause. He got a scholarship to the University of Delaware and majored in art. But he got arrested for forgin’ copies of paintin’s and sellin’ them as originals. That was the end of his formal education. He had a reunion with the Brotherhood when he went to prison. Once he got out, he learned about art restoration on a job he had workin’ for an older restorer, one Max Feldenstein. One day Feldenstein ‘happened’”─ the sheriff formed air quotes with the fingers of both hands─ “to fall from a ladder and die. Galen took over his regular clients and set up for himself. Galen still kept up with the Brotherhood, though. He’d go to a town on a job, usually a small rural place, and, would you believe, everywhere he worked, while he was in town, bad things happened to minorities and immigrants? The feds are still compilin’ data on that. And they’re givin’ Feldenstein’s death another look too.”

  “So as far as we know for sure, Galen is being charged with homicide, conspiring to commit mass murder, defacing public property, and fraud.” Harry was ticking off the crimes on his fingers as he spoke.

  “And he stole my handyman’s fish club too.” Miranda remembered well the anxiety Steve Galen’s greedy grab had caused the Wright family.

  Sheriff Carson threw up his hands. “Yeah. I guess now that you mention it, he did.”

  Miranda wasn’t done. “Since that fish club wasn’t the murder weapon, and since it is stolen property, would you return it to my handyman, Michael Wright? It’s a family heirloom.”

  “I’ll see. It was stolen and then used by Galen to mask his involvement, so it’s still part of the homicide investigation.” Miranda gave him a look. “But, I’ll see what I can do. It’ll be awhile before all this dies down, but maybe then.”

  As soon as Miranda got home, she read a text from Harry. “Work 4 me part time as an investigator? Seriously. Think about it.” She was too tired to think about it. There was also a text from Michael, who’d agreed to stay until the guest came when she’d called from the sheriff’s office. “Sarah Marcus checked in about seven thirty.” Miranda took Rusty out for a final pee, fed him, and gave him a huge treat. When she crawled into her sleeping bag and he stretched out on his cushion beside her, she hugged him. In case her hug didn’t say it all, she whispered into his ear, “You saved my life today, Rusty. Thank you.”

  She was up early the next morning, eager to catch the local news online. It was gratifying to see videos of both Steve Galen and Spa Lady in handcuffs. She herself was alive and pretty sure that now she could keep her promise to Mona. She’d come to this valley for a new start in life, for a second chance, and those hate-fueled criminals’ murderous doings had threatened her efforts. But then both she and her B & B had been given a rare gift, a second second chance. A wider-than-usual smile animated her face as she served breakfast while kibitzing about the big news with her guests.

  When Sarah Marcus emerged from her room, Miranda thought perhaps they’d met before. The young dark-haired woman with her straight features and piercing hazel eyes looked so familiar. Miranda was annoyed with herself for not being able to place her. “Good morning. I’m Miranda Breitner. Welcome!” Hoping for a hint as to where they’d met, she asked, “What brings you to the Valley, Sarah?”

  When the girl answered, her voice was low, her smile puckish. Miranda figured she couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty. “I’m here for a family reunion.”

  That was no help at all. While Sarah ate a hardboiled egg and buttered a scone, Miranda wondered where she’d seen that impish smile before. After the other guests left, she tried a more direct approach. “Sarah, you look familiar. Have we met?”

  Sarah giggled. “Just once. Briefly.” Then, more serious if not more helpful, she added, “It was a long time ago and we both looked different then.”

  Miranda tried to keep her voice from betraying her pique. “I give up.”

  “My real name is Casey Weintraub. I’m your half-sister.”

  “What?” Miranda sank onto the nearest stool, bent over, and put her head between her knees to prevent herself from losing consciousness.

  “I read in The Seattle Times about how you escaped from that rapist and I saw your picture. I showed it to Dad, and he recognized you. I Googled you and your B & B and found out more. You’re my sister.”

  When Miranda looked up, Casey moved towards her, arms outstretched, clearly expecting a sisterly embrace, a hug. “I have no sister. My mother had only one child.”

  She could tell from the way Casey’s chin stiffened that this hybrid twig on the twisted Weintraub family tree wasn’t going to just break off and disappear.

  “But your father had two. You and me. And now he’s got emphysema and is under Hospice care. He wants to see you before he dies, wants to ask your forgiveness.”

  “I don’t know if I can ever forgive him. His damn cigarettes killed my mom and he actually thinks I killed a child. He wouldn’t leave me alone with you or even let me hold you.”

  Casey blanched at this version of family history. But she recovered and her words came fast. “Maybe you haven’t forgiven him, but I’ve never done anything to you, and I’d like to know you, to have you in my life.” When Miranda didn’t reply, Casey slowed down and embellished her pitch. “Things have changed. My mother left us both back in 2008 when Boeing cut dad loose. I was 13.” She hesitated again, still hoping for a response. When none came, she shrugged and reached into her jeans pocket. “Okay. Here’
s my contact info. Think about getting in touch with me when you’ve had a chance to recover from all that you’ve gone through recently. By then it may be too late for you and dad, but you and I still have time to get to know one another. We’re both a little short on family.” She turned and then turned back. “Please. I want my sister in my life.”

  Desperate for someone to share the latest episode in the soap opera that was her own life, Miranda headed on foot for Pauline’s. On the way, a familiar white Subaru stopped alongside her and Rabbi Alinsky rolled down the window on the passenger side. She stuck her head in to greet him. “Thank Hashem you are alive and well. He was listening to my prayers and those of my crew. We and the Markowitz family too are grateful to you for how you got rid of that incompetent and immoral detective. How you made them see that hate was at the bottom of Isaac’s death. Isaac’s life has new meaning because, thanks to you, we know he prevented another terrible crime.” The rabbi paused. “That sheriff says he got his leads from Crime Stoppers.” He paused. “Stoppers, Schmoppers…” Miranda thought she saw a smile behind his beard. “What do they know from shofars?”

  Miranda ignored his attempt to out her as a contributor to Crime Stoppers. “I remember you telling me about white supremacists. Who knew from haters? Anyway, I’m relieved for all of our sakes that these criminals will be brought to justice and that we can go about our business normally again.” She wrapped her arms around herself against the cold. “I take it that RCK, Inc., will continue to kosher juice grapes here and that you’ll continue to supervise their kosherers.”

  “Yes. In fact, I’m in the Valley today to make agreements with the processing plants we’ll serve next fall.” Her self-embrace and hopping from foot to foot did not escape his attention. “You go along. I see that you’re cold.”

  “Good to see you, Rabbi. Check in with me when you get back in the fall.”

  When Miranda and Rusty arrived at Pauline’s, Darlene was just leaving with a basket of eggs. “What’s the rush? Where’re you off to?”

  “Thanks to you, I’m on my way to Spokane to get Javi and bring him home.” The woman looked ten years younger.

  “That’s great news! I suspected you’d hidden him away somewhere safe. Where the hell was he?”

  “Where he belonged. In a suicide watch group’s safe house.” Miranda figured her puzzlement showed because Darlene rushed to explain. “It’s a group of people who try to prevent others who speak of suicide or who appear to be thinking about it from ending their lives” Darlene couldn’t have sounded prouder than if her grandson had been at Harvard. “My priest told me about them. They saved Javi’s life.” She winced. “Javi was filled with despair, afraid that no matter what he did, a gangbanger would kill him. And he was also filled with grief over what they did to his brother. So Father Lonagan and me, we took him to members of this group that Father knows in Spokane. A man and his wife took him into their home. The woman, she runs the after-school program at their church and Javi helped out. She also home-schooled him a little in math and psychology. And he had to keep a diary. And now he loves to write!” Darlene’s grin only expanded when she added, “And he is over that bitch who used to boss him around and who gave him up.”

  Miranda hugged her friend. “Good job, Grandma! Who knew there were such groups?”

  “Who knew how to almost get herself raped and shot without even trying? I’m so glad you’re okay. And this big lover boy saved you!” She gave Rusty a head scratch. “I always knew he was special. I’ll be home tonight. Come by for tea.”

  Pauline welcomed Miranda with a hug. The chickens were in the barn, so Rusty settled down at Miranda’s feet. “Hot cocoa? Or coffee?”

  “Cocoa, please. And I brought some gingerbread. Just nuke it a minute.”

  “Well, you sure don’t look like the heroic woman I’ve been reading about. What happened? What’s wrong? What can we do?”

  Miranda peeled off her parka, sat down, and burst into tears. On cue, Rusty thrust his head into her lap. “My half-sister whom I don’t know at all showed up and told me that my father’s dying and wants me to forgive him, which I don’t. And I’m getting really serious with a guy I hardly know. He wants me to work part-time for him and meet his family! I don’t even know my own family!” Miranda hadn’t expected to mention her growing concern that she and Harry were moving too quickly, that she still had so much to learn about him. She felt guilty for telling Pauline this before saying anything to Harry.

  Pauline talked while she served them cocoa and nuked the gingerbread muffins. “Pearl is my half-sister…

  It was Pauline’s revelations about the ancestry of her beloved older sister and about the daughter born to Nelson’s first girlfriend and whom Pauline raised as her own that Miranda was recalling when she entered Temple Shalom that evening. By the time she left Pauline’s, she’d decided that the next day when she visited Seattle with Harry and Julia she would stop by the hospital to see her own father and sister before meeting Harry’s dad and sister. Pauline was all about faith and family. But, unlike the Thurston’s faith which seemed simple and straightforward, the Thurston family was complex and tangled, just like Miranda’s, and, come to think of it, just like those families in the Torah.

  The sight of the children clustering around Rabbi Golden distracted her. The rabbi stood poised to light the candles and bless the wine and the grape juice. But when she spotted Miranda, she asked her to light the Sabbath candles. Touched by this honor, Miranda approached the table and smiled at the healthy, happy youngsters circling her and at the adults, including Harry, a bit farther back. Little Julia grinned up at her. She struck the match and put it to the wick which obligingly flamed. While the rabbi said the blessing, those assembled joined in and then they all sang the lovely prayer. Miranda remembered her grandmother saying that Jews all over the world would be welcoming the Sabbath similarly and, for the first time in many years, Miranda felt at home in that world.

  Selected Resources

  Books: American Swastika: Inside the White Power Movement’s Hidden Spaces of Hate by Pete Simi and Robert Futrell; Back to the Blanket: A Native Narrative of Discovery by James A. Starkey, Jr.; Everything You Wanted to Know about Indians But Were Afraid to Ask by Anton Treuer; Images of America: Yakima Washington by Elizabeth Gibson; Kosher Nation by Sue Fishkoff; Ruby Ridge: The Truth and Tragedy of the Randy Weaver Family by Jess Walter; Skinheads: A Guide to an American Subculture by Tiffini A. Travis and Perry Hardy; Strangers on the Land (A Historiette - of a Longer Story of the Yakima Indian Nation's Efforts to Survive Against Great Odds); The Land of Yakimas by Robert E. Pace; The Toppenish Murals by The Toppenish Mural Society.

  Periodicals: Intelligence Report from The Southern Poverty Law Center; The Jewish Transcript; The New Yorker; River Journal: Yakima River; The Seattle Times; Yakima-Herald Republic.

  About the Author

  Jane Isenberg wrote the prize-winning memoir Going by the Book (Bergin & Garvey), The Bel Barrett Mystery Series (Avon/HarperCollins), and the WILLA Award winning historical mystery The Bones and the Book (Oconee Spirit Press). She earned degrees from Vassar College, Southern Connecticut State College, and New York University and taught English for nearly forty years, first in high school and later in community college. Now retired from teaching, she writes in Issaquah, Washington where she lives with her husband Phil Tompkins.

  Visit her website www.janeisenberg.com and her blog www.notestomymuses.wordpress.com.