The Day the Rabbi Resigned
Page 24
When he finished, the rabbi said, “That business on Gorfinkle is a lot of nonsense. He’s probably taken his wife’s pulse or his own countless times when she or he haven’t been feeling well. There’s no lawyer who’s going to tell him he was mistaken and that when he felt a pulse there was none. The nub of the matter was the Joyce house on Shurtcliffe Circle.”
“Why, what was wrong with the house?”
“It was dark. When he turned into Abbot Road from Pine Grove, he turned right to go to Shurtcliffe instead of left to go to his own house on the Point because it was so much nearer, a couple of blocks instead of the several miles to the Point.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think it was to tell the sad news to his niece, but because he had to go to the toilet—badly. And when he found that it was dark and no one was home, he drove another block or two to the Donut Shop. You remember, as soon as he entered, he headed for the men’s room.”
“Then you think he did kill Joyce?”
The rabbi shook his head. “I don’t know what went through his mind at the time. He may have wanted only to secure the watch, and in taking it off Joyce’s wrist he may have cut the artery accidentally. Or he may have removed it, and then in disgust at Joyce’s drunkenness, have flung it down and cut the artery that way. Or, it may have struck him that here was a ready solution to his problem. I don’t know the man except for what you’ve told me. Here, he’d built up a sizable fortune, to what end? He had no children and neither did his sister. The one hope of the family continuing was if his niece had children. That must have been important to him, else why would so devout a Catholic interfere with his niece becoming a nun? You would think it would be a matter of pride and joy to him that a member of his family had a vocation.
“But she was planning a Church-sponsored separation and a civil divorce. Since she was also devout, she would not remarry, at least not until her husband was dead. And he could bring that about so easily, by just pressing down for a moment.”
Lanigan nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. Well, that’s police business: a lot of work amounting to nothing much of the time.”
“Why do you say amounting to nothing? You cleared several people, Dorfbetter and Jacobs, of suspicion of murder, and maybe that coatroom boy, and maybe even Mrs. Joyce. You wondered about her not being home.”
“Yes, but the probable culprit gets off scot-free.”
“Just because you can’t lock him up? He still has to live with himself, and he knows that his luck has run out. I wonder …”
“What?”
“In all the religions, there are those who disregard the basics while meticulous in observing the rituals, the externals. I met someone in Israel who was most scrupulous in observing every rule and regulation. He used two pairs of phylacteries. There’s a dispute as to how the scrolls in the phylactery box should be placed, and he was taking no chances, he used both kinds. And then something terrible happened: his son was killed. And he stopped attending the daily minyan, and even going to the synagogue on the Sabbath. So I wonder if Merton, in whatever parish he finds himself in Florida, will continue to go to Mass every day.”
45
Some kind of party they simply had to have. After all, the guy had been there twenty-five years. What kind of party? As always, first suggestions were grandiose. “Look, it’s like the twenty-fifth anniversary of the temple, too, isn’t it? All right, so he didn’t come here the very first year the temple was started, but he came here the first year the building was put up. So why don’t we combine the two, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the temple, or of the temple building, and the rabbi leaving after twenty-five years, and have like maybe a formal dinner dance at a ritzy hotel in Boston, and have a crazy door prize, like a Cadillac?”
“So how much would you have to charge for tickets to an affair like that? A hundred bucks apiece, minimum. And at that price, how many would come?”
“Yeah, and speaking personally, I’d have to rent a tux, so that would cost another thirty, forty bucks. And for that type of affair, I’m sure my wife would want to get a new gown.”
“Yeah, but the Sisterhood would have an ad book—”
“Ad-book, shmad-book, even if the wife didn’t want a new gown, what with babysitter and parking, and tips, a couple would still have to shell out three hundred bucks, minimum.”
So sights were lowered. A Cadillac for a door prize was dropped almost immediately. “That’s all we need, to have a Boston newspaper report that a synagogue offered a Cadillac as a door prize at a party they were running.” And formal dress followed. “What’s the point? Everybody’s got a dark suit, but how many of our members actually own a tux?”
The matter of location next came under fire. “It would be on a Saturday night, right? Any of you guys ever drive into town to go to a show on a Saturday night? The traffic will kill you. And what’s the point? Now, you take a place like the country club at Breverton—”
“But it’s got to be kosher.”
“So you get a kosher caterer to take over. They come up with a couple of trucks with all the dishes, and they’ve got the food all cooked, and they’ve got these special like ovens in the trucks to keep it hot.”
“Look, if the idea is to avoid traffic—”
So it was finally decided to hold the party in the vestry of the temple, where there would be no problem with kashruth or traffic or tuxedos.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather, Rabbi. I sort of figured you’d always be here.”
“Like the electricity?” suggested the rabbi.
The other chuckled uneasily. “Well, kind of. You know what I mean.” And moved on.
They came to the rabbi’s table to express their surprise at his resignation, their regrets, their gratitude for things he had done for them, their good wishes. Most of them he barely recognized since they came to the temple, if they came at all, only on the High Holy Days.
Ira Lerner came over. “You’re still a rabbi, aren’t you?”
“I guess so. Why do you ask?”
“Because I want you to marry my daughter Clara. She’s marrying this Mordecai Jacobs, I think I spoke to you about it.”
“And when is the wedding to take place?”
“Oh, sometime at the end of the year, I expect.”
“Then don’t you think you ought to have the new rabbi perform the ceremony?”
“You mean because it will be like in his jurisdiction? Normally, I’d agree. But it’s like this: you married us, Myra and me. I don’t know, it was like the second or third year you were here. Well, it’s been a successful marriage, and we’ll be celebrating our silver anniversary in a couple of years. The point is, with all this divorce and separation going on, I’d like you to do for Clara and her boyfriend what you did for Myra and me.”
Fortunately, the rabbi caught the warning glance Miriam directed at him and managed a smile.
“I’m sure David will be more than happy to,” said Miriam sweetly.
About the Author
Harry Kemelman (1908–1996) was best known for his popular rabbinical mystery series featuring the amateur sleuth Rabbi David Small. Kemelman wrote twelve novels in the series, the first of which, Friday the Rabbi Slept Late, won the Edgar Award for Best First Novel. This book was also adapted as an NBC made-for-TV movie, and the Rabbi Small Mysteries were the inspiration for the NBC television show Lanigan’s Rabbi. Kemelman’s novels garnered praise for their unique combination of mystery and Judaism, and with Rabbi Small, the author created a protagonist who played a part-time detective with wit and charm. Kemelman also wrote a series of short stories about Nicky Welt, a college professor who used logic to solve crimes, which were published in a collection entitled The Nine Mile Walk.
Aside from being an award-winning novelist, Kemelman, originally from Boston, was also an English professor.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any f
orm or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1992 by Harry Kemelman
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-5040-1613-1
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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