Mortal Sins

by Anna Porter

  “If you change your mind, send him over so I can teach him market smarts,” Stevie suggested. “Stuff he had is stale, third-rate Mexican. He’s been taken, if you know what I mean. G’night.” Stevie swung her long flaxen hair over her shoulder—had nobody told her the ’60s were over?—and flounced out.

  “Why don’t you let James do his parental bit and lecture Jimmy on the evils of drugs? He’s been begging for an opportunity,” David said. “Problem with being an absentee father is you never get a chance to tackle anything important. You’re stuck in the role of court jester, devising the next round of entertainment when this one palls. I think Myrna took some perverse joy in not allowing me to discuss anything she felt was important for Susie’s future. Whatever problems there were, she kept them from me. I know she did.”

  He was beginning to sound petulant, Judith thought. Would James sound exactly like this talking to Inge about Jimmy and Anne? Never mind “of course not,” would he?

  David went on, “Never once mentioned Susie had anorexia till they took her into Sick Kids.”

  “Didn’t you notice?” That slipped out before she’d had a chance to check it.

  “No,” he said, inexplicably. He had crept up behind her and started to kiss the back of her neck.

  “And which of your selves are you wearing when you talk about Jimmy?” Judith asked, ignoring his touch. Must be James’s proximity making her so bad-tempered. Or the break-in. Or dinner with Mother. Or the grass in Jimmy’s room. “The wronged husband? Or the observant friend of the household who’s had occasion to behold the young criminal in action?”

  “Neither,” David said. His arms circled her waist, his palms pressed her hips against his. “As your lover,” he whispered. “I want to have more of your good times. Let him take some of the heat,” he said into her left ear a second before he started to nibble it.

  She turned her face into the rough tweed jacket front; the warmth, the faint smell of old pipe tobacco, a whiff of after-shave enveloped her in recent memories of love, and then forgetfulness. It had been like this with David for some months now—the warmth and the forgetfulness, each taking its turn. She had already decided there wasn’t going to be any permanence, only shared moments when David was less pressured by the Chief, or the Commissioners, when his job wasn’t at the center. Most likely, even without the Commissioners, the job would remain the obsession he had allowed it to become, a daily test of his ability to solve problems. A common enough affliction, but not easily curable.

  “Dammit, David, you have the worst sense of timing,” she said in the end. She pulled his hands back from the hollows of her hipbones where they had naturally settled. She was going to leave all the unsaid anger unsaid. “I’m supposed to be at my mother’s for dinner, someone’s broken into my home, I can’t think of a single reason why I’d feel inclined to make love.”

  “You can’t?” he asked querulously. “That’s because you lack spontaneity. Outweighed, most likely, by a delicious inherited sense of orderliness.”

  “Orderliness?” she asked, leaning against the drawers, smiling to lighten the tension. “Orderly is hardly the word that would come to mind looking around this place.”

  “I think you throw stuff around to protest your innocence,” David said, picking up on her tone. One of the reasons she loved him was his willingness to switch moods. “It’s your idea of putting distance between you and your perfect mother.” David had relaxed and stretched out on the bed, his ankles crossed, his arms intertwined behind his head.

  “Long as it keeps me sane,” Judith said, coming closer to him, testing the ground. “Any ideas why someone might be interested in my Zimmerman story?”

  “Yes,” David said lightly, “I, for one, might be very interested. So might a lady named Gloria Singer, whose husband was murdered in Toronto last week.”

  He obviously enjoyed her look of total bewilderment. He didn’t continue until she had hopped onto the bed next to him, all expectation, arms akimbo, forehead knitted, waiting. “You were about to elaborate on that, weren’t you?” she asked in exasperation.

  “I might,” David said. He was still playing for time, gazing at the ceiling, his eyes half closed as if he was suddenly tired. “Only I thought you were in a hurry.”

  “For God’s sake,” Judith yelped impatiently.

  “All right, then,” David gave in. He told her about following Singer’s shoes to New York and his brief meeting with Gloria Singer, who took the news of her newfound widowhood with extreme ill grace. “There is such a range of reactions to a violent death in the family: tears, depression, hysteria. Hers was anger. At Toronto, mainly. And Canada and all things Canadian. She said they’d never been up in this ‘damn godforsaken country.’ I guess she was outraged that he should have died in a place he had no business being in. When he’d been gone a couple of days she began to sift through his bureau for clues to his whereabouts, and there, among the debris of a lifetime, she found these.” David had reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handful of newspaper clippings. “She practically threw them at me.”

  They were some of the same Zimmerman stories that Research had clipped for Judith when she was getting ready for the first interview. There was the Pacific Airlines takeover from the Wall Street Journal, with several follow-ups from the Toronto Globe and Mail business section, Forbes, Zimmerman outbidding the Belzbergs for a sizable chunk of downtown Philadelphia; the Time feature on the tactics he used with the Montreal city fathers to let him build the largest indoor shopping mall in the world, Newsweek on his acquisition of the Blackhawks, Time and the Wall Street Journal on Loyal, a mention of his sponsorship of the Jerusalem Foundation in Canada, and the little squib from Business Week about his paving his driveway with meteorite. The Business Week story also dealt with his New York real estate deal.

  “And they were tied together with this,” David said, pulling from his other pocket a long black ribbon.

  “Rather melodramatic, don’t you think?” Judith asked.

  “Yes, under the circumstances, but I can’t imagine why she’d have made that up.”

  “Did he know Zimmerman?”

  “She never heard him mention the name.”

  “Perhaps he knew him through his business.”

  “Possibly. He was a retired clothing manufacturer. Nose to the grindstone. No boards, no takeovers, nothing. His son is running the business now. They make ladies’ dresses in wool. Far as I can tell, all they had in common was they were both Jewish and now they’re both dead.”

  Twelve

  JIMMY DENIED ALL knowledge of the “stash.” If it was found in his room, someone else must have put it there for the express purpose of causing him trouble. His own suspicions fell on the police, mainly because he’d been reading the new Dorothy Uhnak police procedural and become convinced that the police stopped at no breach of ethics to get their man. This time, their man was a 16-year-old at North Toronto who had been unsuccessfully promoting low-grade grass around the ninth-graders. Jimmy thought the police had planted the “evidence” to coerce him into being a stoolie. Naturally, he was sure David was involved in the deception.

  As a low-ranking second choice, he allowed for the slim chance that, instead of the police, the bag had been dropped by one of his friends whom he had sorely misjudged, but he didn’t know which one. There had been more than 20 visitors to his room in the past couple of weeks, not including the football team last Saturday morning on their way to practice at Winston Churchill Park.

  How they had all fitted into Jimmy’s room was a mystery to Judith. They must have stood shoulder to shoulder in three tidy rows, the shortest in front, so they could all see the two Penthouse centerfolds Jimmy had kept under his mattress. She didn’t want to throw them away till she’d been able to discuss them with him, and the right opening lines to that discussion hadn’t yet presented themselves.

  Question is, how can you tell if your kid’s lying? Answer: you can’t, but if you can’t,
no one else can. You’re supposed to be the expert on your own kid. And Judith’s expert opinion was that Jimmy was telling the truth. In turn, that left the problem of who put the marijuana in Jimmy’s room and why.

  All in all the skiing trip had begun to look good: it would take Jimmy out of circulation for a few days and give Judith the time to finish the Zimmerman story before she dealt with the baggie problem.

  James, expensively attired in red-striped black stretch pants, hand-knitted mohair sweater, Sporting Life red on black down-filled ski jacket, and knee-high fur-lined sheepskin boots, collected them at 10 A.M. Judith had left the two packed army-surplus canvas sacks on the porch. She didn’t go to the door. Two hours with James last night had been more than enough companionship for old times’ sake, especially with her mother playing plaintive accompaniment to Judith’s dutiful spooning of tapioca pudding. Marjorie’s reaction to the break-in story had been an elegant snort of derision. She had been used to better excuses for Judith’s shortcomings.

  It was too late to attend the funeral. By the time she arrived the procession had left, the news crews were packing in their gear, an elderly man in a fur coat was collecting blue sheets of paper people had carelessly discarded on the sidewalk in front of the church. When Judith picked one up, he eyed her suspiciously, then returned to his task. They were hymn sheets for the service: Psalm 51. The words were all supplied on one side, the music on the other with only the first verse.

  Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy

  loving kindness:

  According to the multitude of thy

  Tender mercies blot out my transgressions...

  There was still a small cluster of people on the corner of St. Clair Avenue but no one she recognized. She was on the point of approaching them anyway and introducing herself when she saw a familiar figure, in black overcoat and yarmulke, emerge from the church and slowly descend the steps. He turned up his collar and pulled on a pair of knitted gloves. Tucked under his arm he carried a black leather-bound book with gold-edged pages.

  She pretended to read the hymn sheet while she waited for him to draw parallel. “Rabbi Jonas,” she said, when he was near. “I’m Judith Hayes. I do hope you remember...”

  He didn’t. He glanced at her with complete lack of curiosity from behind his fogged-up granny glasses, then tried a small apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t quite recall, Miss...”

  “We met at the Zimmermans’ last Sunday when... Actually we were introduced by Mr. Masters,” Judith rushed on. “I’m writing a story about Paul Zimmerman for Finance International magazine.” She sighed. “A terrible tragedy.”

  The rabbi nodded stiffly, agreed, and began to move away.

  “I wonder if I might have a word with you about him,” Judith asked in her most ingratiating voice. “There was still so much he wanted to tell me, when he died. Philip Masters thought you could help me.”

  “I’m walking back to Beth Elohim, if you want to walk with me,” he said. “Though I doubt there is much I can add,” he said curtly. “I didn’t know Paul very well.”

  “You didn’t? I thought you’d known him since ’55?”

  “Hmm... ’55? That would be about right,” he said, nodding. “In ’55 I had just graduated from rabbinical school. My first year helping with the United Jewish Appeal.”

  “He was already on the board?” Judith prodded.

  “No,” Jonas said. “He wasn’t then. In ’55 he wasn’t involved in anything much beyond making his business grow. He had built a couple of shopping plazas, was putting up apartment buildings somewhere in Pittsburgh—Chicago, too, I think. They had Monarch already. Named after the butterfly. Paul was fascinated by butterflies.”

  “Did you persuade him to become involved?”

  “In the United Jewish Appeal? I don’t think so. He had already persuaded himself. Paul wasn’t one to be swayed by anyone else’s views. He listened to everyone, then he made up his own mind. Philip’s father had been a great supporter since the war and I’d known Philip off and on since McGill. Met Paul for the first time at one of Philip’s parents’ functions. Black tie—that kind of thing. Paul, with his height, shoulders like a wrestler’s, that blond hair, stood out like a giant oak in the shrubbery. I was surprised he was Jewish. He looked more like a Viking, or a Hun. We got talking about the Arabs and the Israelis, and Israel’s chances of survival. The need for a home for the Jews. The war. The horrors... It was Paul who asked me about the United Jewish Appeal. He said he wanted to help.”

  “And he did,” Judith prompted.

  “Yes,” Jonas said thoughtfully. “You could say that.”

  “He contributed somewhere over a million dollars last year alone.”

  The rabbi was walking briskly, looking mainly at his feet. He didn’t bother to reply.

  “And he was involved with the Jewish Welfare Fund,” Judith continued, “the Jerusalem Foundation, and the Weizmann Institute. In the past ten years he chaired 12 fundraisers for causes you’ve been involved in.”

  “That many?” the rabbi asked, surprised. “Hmm.”

  “That many, plus the extraordinary donations for the universities in Israel and the Israel bond drives. I would have thought you came to know him reasonably well in that time.”

  “A natural enough conclusion, but alas, the wrong one,” he said. “Paul Zimmerman was a hard man to get to know.”

  “Wasn’t he a member of your congregation?”

  The rabbi thought about that for a while as they marched across Spadina dodging traffic. “I suppose he wasn’t,” the rabbi said. “He certainly didn’t come to shul. But you don’t judge a man by his attendance record. You know him by his actions. Paul Zimmerman was a good man.”

  Judith was sorry she had abandoned her daily walks program some weeks back. In fact, she was sorry she had altogether abandoned physical fitness years ago when she had discovered it was boring and time-consuming. Rabbi Jonas had built up to a steady speed, swinging his arms from the shoulders, head down, chest forward. She was half running to keep up with him.

  “Did you know he was dying?” she panted, close by his heel.

  “No. I did not. I’ve heard it since from Brenda. Quite frankly, that took me by surprise, too. But then, we had very few personal conversations. I am deeply sorry about that. I wish I had known and been able to help him.”

  It seemed to Judith he had speeded up once they reached the uphill portion of Bathurst. Her impression that he was trying to get rid of her was strengthened when he said evenly, “Anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Hayes?”

  “Well, yes...there is...” Judith lurched ahead so she could get the question out without losing him. “I was wondering why he decided to be buried by the Catholic church.”

  “Why,” the rabbi repeated. “Why indeed? We have an old custom of answering a question with a question, Mrs. Hayes. Sometimes in the course of a response, the question answers itself. In this case, though, I very much doubt this will happen. I am told that his will endowed the church with a fund for renovating its 19th-century organ. As far as my friend Father O’Shea knows, Paul never attended a service.” He stopped suddenly and looked at Judith. “Perhaps,” he smiled at her, “he wanted to cover all the bases. Jews, like everybody else, can panic under threat of death. It’s only human.” He set off again in the direction of the synagogue. “We’ll say Kaddish for him,” he said over his shoulder. “Goodbye, Mrs. Hayes,” he added when he noticed she wasn’t following. “And if you get a better answer, let me know.”

  “Goodbye, Rabbi Jonas,” Judith said, one hand pressed to her side where the stitch was. She took a cab back to her car and drove home to recover.

  A message from Philip Masters said that Brenda would see her after all, but not in Toronto. She and Meredith were flying to their Bermuda home as soon as the formalities were over, and certainly before the end of the day. If Judith wanted to join them there tomorrow, she was to let him know.

  Though Mr.
Masters hadn’t yet returned, Goodith, his statuesque secretary, did have all the details for Judith’s trip. The car would pick her up at 7 A.M., drive her to Buttonville Airport, whence the PA Lear, number 421, would take her to Bermuda. Mrs. Zimmerman’s driver, Geoff, would meet her there. She could expect to be back in the evening.

  There had also been a telegram from Paris. “A Mrs. Zimmerman,” the operator said. “Shall I spell it for you?”

  “From Paris?”

  “Paris, France. Spell...?”

  “No.”

  “The message reads: ‘Paul was murdered stop signed Mrs. Zimmerman, Meurice, Paris.’ Shall I repeat that?”

  “Please.”

  It didn’t improve on second reading. Judith wrote it down carefully, asked the operator to mail it, phoned David Parr, and repeated it to him, twice.

  “Must be the first Mrs. Zimmerman,” David observed sharply. “Do you suppose she’s a nut?”

  “There is a lot of that around. On the other hand, she may be right.”

  “You were sitting next to him, for Chrissakes. Did he look like he was murdered?”

  “How in hell would I know? Anyone could have slipped poison in his food or drink. There were 16 people at the party. Why don’t you get an autopsy?”

  “Sure. He was buried this morning with all the pomp and circumstance allotted a man of his exalted position and wealth, and you want me and a couple of the boys to run round to the cemetery this afternoon with shovels and dig him up. Because his ex-wife sends you a telegram. Terrific. What do you say we sleep on it?”

  “I’ll phone her at her hotel.”

  “Good idea. Better than your first one, I’d say.”

  She told David she was planning to be in Bermuda the next day interviewing the second wife.

  “One little thing you could look into for me,” David asked. “We’ve been interested in Jaguars since Singer’s body was found, and it seems Zimmerman had one. An XJ-S, 1987, he’d imported direct from London. A couple of days ago, the same day he died, it was shipped to Bermuda. I’d like to know if all of its windows are intact.”