Grave Endings

by Rochelle Krich

  “A guy dies in your building, you kind of want to know what’s going on.” He took another swig of beer. “So are you a private detective or something? Your card didn’t say.”

  At least he’d kept it. “Reporter.”

  “So you ask questions. Randy’s dad asked me a whole lot. Wanted to know if his son was doing drugs. The cops asked, too.”

  “Was he?”

  Mike shrugged.

  “When did you last see Randy?” I asked.

  “That’s another thing the cops asked. Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curious.”

  He smiled. “How curious?”

  I could see where this was going. “What’s the going rate for curiosity these days?”

  “Ordinarily it might be free, but my unemployment just ran out, and my agent hasn’t phoned to tell me I’m costarring with Tom Cruise in his next film. Plus business has been slow, like you said.” He nodded toward the lawn.

  “How much?”

  “Twenty dollars. I’ll throw in something from my fine collection of wares.”

  I could hardly contain my joy. “First I need to know what I’m buying.”

  “More than what I told the cops.”

  I took a twenty from my wallet and handed it to him. “Tell me about Randy.”

  He folded the bill and tucked it into one of the large pockets on his pants. “We weren’t best buds, but he’d invite me over to watch a game. You saw his TV, right? Cool, huh? We’d swap DVDs and stuff, grab a beer once in a while, shoot the breeze. Not so much lately, though. Lately he was one serious dude. He was an actor, too, did you know that?” When I nodded, Mike said, “We griped about the business, how hard it is to get a break nowadays.”

  I wasn’t interested in hearing Mike’s career woes and had a feeling I’d thrown out twenty dollars. “So you didn’t know him well?”

  “Well enough to know he was carrying around major guilt. He killed a woman.” Mike watched me to make sure I was properly impressed.

  After talking to Roland Creeley, I wasn’t surprised, but the words went through me like an electric shock. “What makes you think so?”

  “We had drinks one night. He was wasted and told me. He said he was going to hell for what he’d done, so he might as well enjoy himself. I think that’s why he overdosed. He couldn’t take the guilt, especially since he was into all this twelve-step stuff. You’re supposed to make amends, right? But how can you make amends for taking someone’s life?”

  That was a good question. “When did he tell you all this?”

  “I moved here three years ago. I’d say this happened about a year later.”

  “And you never told the police?”

  Mike snickered. “Tell them what? That a guy who was so drunk he couldn’t stand straight told me he killed some woman years ago? I didn’t even believe him. I thought it was the liquor. But the other day the cops were here, asking questions about a woman they think he killed six years ago, so I guess he really did it.” Mike sounded awed more than shaken. “Turns out he was into some kinky stuff, too.”

  “Did Randy say why he killed this woman?” This was what I’d wanted to know all these years. Not just who, but why.

  Mike shook his head. “He was crying, said he loved her, that he didn’t mean for her to die, that things just got out of control. And now he’s dead, too. Strange, huh?” He crushed the beer can. “His girlfriend found the body. The way she was screaming, you’d think someone was trying to kill her.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Doreen? She seemed nice enough. Pretty, too, if you like tall, skinny women with spiky black hair, which I guess Randy did. He met her about five months ago, I think at one of his twelve-step meetings. I don’t think Doreen was into it like Randy, though. I think she was using. That’s just my take, I could be wrong.” Mike shrugged.

  I didn’t know what else to ask, so I thanked him and entered the building.

  Gloria looked as weary as she had the other day and not much happier to see me. She was wearing another black sweater, this one with a puppy design.

  “I didn’t hear from Doreen, if that’s why you’re here,” she told me. “Too late for her now, ’cause I cleared everything out of the apartment, and the cleaning crew is comin’ tomorrow.”

  “Actually, I wanted to ask you about Randy’s other girlfriends. Did he ever talk to you about them?”

  “Brag is more like it, honey. He had a new one every couple of weeks. He’d bring them by, make sure I’d meet them. ‘What do you think, Mrs. Lamont?’ he’d ask me later. Sometimes I thought he was playin’ me, you know? Other times I thought, well, he doesn’t have no momma, he’s got to talk to somebody and maybe that’s me.”

  “I was wondering if there was somebody he liked who didn’t like him back, and he was upset about it. Maybe he told you about it.” I didn’t know why I was asking these questions, what answers I was hoping for. “It would be someone from around seven years ago.”

  “Seven years?” The manager snorted. “I can’t hardly remember what I was doin’ seven months ago, never mind what Randy was up to seven years ago, ’cept that it prob’ly wasn’t somethin’ he’d be proud to tell anyone, including me.”

  Probably not. “By the way, have you heard from Trina?” I asked.

  “Not since last night. She came by, but her daddy and stepmomma were here, so she left kind of quick. I got the feeling Trina doesn’t like her. I can’t say’s I blame her. She has a mean face, that woman.”

  I thanked Gloria and left her standing in her doorway, her face scrunched in concentration.

  “Hey, you forgot to choose your bonus,” Mike said when I emerged from the building. “From my sale items,” he added when I gave him a blank look.

  “That’s okay.” I glanced at the junk-strewn lawn. That’s when I noticed a bit of colorful print fabric peeking out from under a gray Old Navy sweatshirt. Crouching, I yanked on the sleeve and pulled out a Hawaiian print shirt.

  “I saw this in Randy’s closet yesterday,” I said.

  “I didn’t steal it.” Mike sounded offended. “Randy’s dad took what he wanted. The manager said I could have what was left, she was going to give the rest to Goodwill. I did her a favor, cleaning out some of the junk.”

  I looked around. “What else did you take?”

  He pointed to his left. “There wasn’t much left. A couple of books, a few heavy-metal CDs, some shirts, a few chipped plates and cups, some videocassettes, DVDs. The dad wanted the movie posters, but his old lady said no. I kept the better ones for myself.”

  The crockery didn’t interest me, but I examined the books. Mostly paperbacks with tattered covers, and Alcoholics Anonymous. Hoping the photos were still inside, I took the book and exposed the one lying underneath it. A Practical Guide to Kabbalah.

  I picked up both and straightened my legs, which had begun to stiffen. I held up the Kabbalah text. “I didn’t see this when I was in the apartment yesterday.”

  “It was on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. I guess it fell down.”

  “Did Randy ever talk about his interest in Kabbalah?”

  “He was interested in a lot of stuff. Kabbalah, twelve-step programs, church. He went to a couple of twelve-step meetings every day.”

  “Do you know if he went to a Kabbalah class?”

  Mike scratched the stubble on his chin. “He never mentioned that. He did wear one of those red threads around his wrist. He said it’s supposed to protect you. He ordered lots of them online and e-mailed me the link, but I’m not into that. Although lately you hear about a lot of actors who are, so maybe you can hook up with some if you go to a meeting or something.”

  I could see from Mike’s expression that he was considering the possibility. “Did he ever say anything about a locket with the image of Rachel’s Tomb?”

  “A locket?” Mike frowned. “No. What’s Rachel’s Tomb?”

  I told him. “When was this? That Randy orde
red the thread, I mean.”

  “A couple of months ago? It’s funny, isn’t it? I mean, if the thread was supposed to protect him, it didn’t do the job. But I guess nothing protects you against yourself.”

  fourteen

  ZACK BROUGHT WEDDING GIFTS THAT HAD BEEN DELIVERED to his parents’ house, and steak sandwiches with sautéed onions that scented my apartment. Between taking bites of my sandwich and wiping barbecue sauce from my chin, I described yesterday’s wig and florist sessions, imitating Raul’s accent and manner.

  Zack barely smiled. Maybe he was upset that I’d postponed our meeting with the calligrapher. But when I asked, he told me he was troubled about a family whose son had been expelled from the local Jewish high school for taking drugs.

  “They’re devastated, Molly. This kid had a promising future. And now? I hope it’s not too late to save him.”

  Randy had hoped for a promising future, too. It seemed like ages, not days, since I’d first heard his name. The hate had been pure then, sharp, searing. Now it was complicated and diluted and muddied, and maybe it wasn’t even hate. Maybe it was sadness.

  “So let’s see the wig,” Zack said when we had finished the steak sandwiches. I think we were both eager to lift the gloom that had entered like an uninvited guest.

  In my bedroom I twisted and reclipped my hair three times until I got it to lie flat against my head. Then I spent about ten minutes brushing the wig before deciding on a center part.

  “It’s exactly like your hair, but straight,” Zack said when I returned to the breakfast nook. “It looks great.”

  “I wear my hair straight sometimes,” I reminded him. “You don’t like it straight?”

  “This is one of those lose-lose questions, right? I love it straight. I love it curly. You look beautiful.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a married woman being attractive. The idea is not to look seductive to anyone but her husband. That would be me.” He smiled.

  “I don’t hate the wig,” I admitted. “I just don’t know if I want to wear it.”

  “I told you, it’s your call. The board won’t fire me if you don’t cover your hair. Half the women in the shul don’t.”

  “But you’d be happier if I did.”

  “Yes. But not if you’re miserable. Shalom bayit is more important.” Peace in the home.

  “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  The kettle whistled. I went into my tiny kitchen and prepared two cups of coffee, careful to avoid the kettle’s steam. Steam frizzes the hair, Natalie had warned me.

  It was Zack who brought up Trina.

  “She didn’t show,” I told him. “I’m a little worried, because she was anxious to tell me something important.”

  “She was probably too busy to cancel.”

  “Probably.” I took a tentative sip of coffee. Too hot. “Randy knew Aggie, Zack. He killed her.”

  He put down his cup, eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

  “He worked at Rachel’s Tent as a handyman and driver.” I repeated what Creeley had told me. “At first I thought maybe Randy came on to Aggie. She rebuffed him, he got angry. He followed her that night. He was high, or drunk. So he killed her.”

  “And now?”

  “Rachel’s Tent must pay really well.” I described the TV, the furniture, the expensive sound system. “And he has a Porsche. Suppose he was dealing drugs at Rachel’s Tent and Aggie found out. She threatened to report him. He panicked—he couldn’t afford a third strike.”

  Zack nodded. “Once an addict . . .”

  I picked up a chocolate chip cookie from a batch Edie had dropped off in the morning. Her peace offering. “A couple of things still puzzle me.”

  “Like?”

  “Randy gave Trina a locket just like Aggie’s, with a red thread. He had a book on Kabbalah, and the neighbor said Randy ordered red threads online.”

  “As much as thirty-six bucks on some websites.” Zack took a bite of his cookie. “These are good. Cheaper at your local Judaica store or Kabbalah center, even less in Israel. The thread, I mean. Not the cookies.” He smiled.

  Pennies if you buy the thread and wrap it around the sepulchre yourself, as I had done. “But why would Randy give Trina a locket with the red thread?”

  “I told you, it’s the latest spiritual fad. I heard that Britney Spears posed for the cover of Entertainment Weekly wearing a red thread, and apparently not much else.”

  “Why the cynicism? I thought you said Kabbalah could fill a void.”

  “I said people are turning to Kabbalah to fill a void. There’s nothing spiritual about wearing a red thread when you’re almost naked. And many rabbis don’t believe that the red thread has any meaning or power.”

  “Don’t tell that to Bubbie G. She believes in it. So do I and most of my family.”

  “Mine, too. A lot of people believe in the red thread, and there are all those stories. Are they true?” He shrugged. “The major Kabbalists throughout the ages didn’t wear red threads. The point is, Molly, Kabbalah isn’t about the red thread, and it wasn’t intended for the masses. You have to be married and at least forty before you read the Zohar. You have to be thoroughly versed in the Torah and Talmud, and on a superior level of observance.”

  From my Jewish studies I knew about the Zohar, Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai’s fundamental text on Jewish mysticism. “That gives you ten years to get ready,” I said.

  Zack shook his head. “I’m light-years away from ever being ready. So are most people.”

  I dunked my cookie in my coffee and took a bite. “But aren’t you tempted? I’ve heard that the Kabbalah holds secrets of Creation and the key to mystical powers.”

  “To be honest, the prospect intimidates me. It’s an intense study, Molly. And it’s risky. The Talmud talks about four of the greatest sages who attempted the mystical experience described as ‘entering the orchard.’ Rabbi Akiva and three of his disciples—Shimon ben Azai, Shimon ben Zoma, and Elisha ben Avuya.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ben Azai’s soul left his body when he was in a state of spiritual rapture. Ben Zoma became insane from the experience. Elisha ben Avuya abandoned his faith and became an apostate.”

  “And Rabbi Akiva?”

  “Rabbi Akiva is the only one who emerged unscathed. But that’s not the Kabbalah people are getting from some of the classes and centers springing up around the country and the world.”

  A hundred thousand people, and the numbers were growing, from what I’d recently read. “So what are they getting?”

  “For three-fifty, a bottle of water that has supposedly absorbed the Torah reading.” Zack’s expression was wry. “They can buy red threads, jewelry, incense, candles, meditation cards, age-defying skin creams. And of course countless books on Kabbalah, and outrageously overpriced translations of the Zohar in English and Hebrew. Basically, it’s a spiritual panacea.”

  I took another cookie. “What’s wrong with something that makes you spiritually connected?”

  “Nothing. Books and lectures that encourage introspection and tell you to be kind to your fellow man, that talk about the positive force of goodness and align it with light—those are great. But you don’t need Kabbalah for that. And studying the authentic Kabbalah without a solid background in Judaism is like taking a class in calculus when you can’t even count to ten. You may memorize a few terms, but you don’t have a clue what they mean. It’s worse, really. Because if you misuse the Kabbalah, the result can be disastrous.”

  I nodded. “Like the rabbis who died or became insane.”

  “Or people who tapped into its mystical powers to learn black magic, or used the combinations of the names of God for evil.”

  I grimaced. “Heavy stuff.”

  “And profitable. A friend of mine who works in a Judaica store had a customer who was anxious to get a copy of th
e Zohar. She heard that touching it would cure her illness. He couldn’t talk her out of it.”

  “People desperate for cures aren’t always logical. I know cancer patients who traveled to Mexico for laetrile even though there’s no proof that it helps. I guess Randy was desperate to find a spiritual cure for his guilt. He tried everything—Kabbalah, twelve-step, church.”

  “And in the end none of it was enough.” Zack sighed. “A sad life, a sadder ending. What a waste.”

  Bubbie G says life is like a child’s undershirt, short and soiled. That sounded very much like Randy’s life.

  “His funeral’s tomorrow morning at eleven, by the way, not ten.” I was glad I’d checked with the mortuary.

  “We’re meeting Galit at eleven-thirty, Molly.”

  This time I’d remembered. “I’ll reschedule for tomorrow night. I’d like to go to Rachel’s Tent after the funeral.”

  “I’m giving a class tomorrow night.”

  “Saturday night then, or Sunday.”

  “What if Galit’s not available? I don’t want to leave this for the last minute, Molly. We have to make sure the wording on the ketubah is correct.”

  “Right.” A rabbi would read the ketubah under the chuppa and the wording had to reflect my divorced status. Any error, even a misspelled word or name, would invalidate the contract—and our marriage. “I’ll phone her now.”

  I stood and walked the few steps to the wall phone. Galit was in, and I rescheduled for Saturday night.

  “She says she’ll have plenty of time to finish,” I told Zack. He was eyeing me over the rim of his cup. “What?”

  “Anything else you want to reschedule?”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m sure something else will come up.” His voice was too quiet. “If you’re having second thoughts—”

  “No.” I stared at him. “Why would you think that?” My face felt warm.

  “You’re busying yourself with this investigation, Molly. The wedding is taking second place.” He shrugged. “I just wondered.”

  “You said you understood.”

  “I did. I do. But maybe you don’t want to deal with your feelings. You keep telling me you don’t know if you can handle being a rabbi’s wife. Ten minutes ago you said you didn’t know if you could do this.”