Grave Endings

by Rochelle Krich

  I started to cry. Fat tears rolled down my cheeks. I caught them with my tongue and tasted salt. I wiped my eyes with the tissue Barbara handed me.

  She left the room and returned with two china cups and saucers, plastic spoons, and packets of sweetener. She placed a filled cup in front of me and resumed her seat, waiting patiently until I was cried out.

  “I hate Styrofoam,” she said, with a nod at the cup. “That’s lemon-flavored tea. There are other flavors—or coffee, if you prefer.”

  “Lemon tea is perfect. You sound like my grandmother. She thinks a gleyzele tea is the answer to most problems.”

  “She may be right.” Barbara smiled.

  I added a packet of sweetener, stirred, and took a sip. The warm liquid was a balm to my throat. “Aggie talked about you, too. She said you were kind and honest. She said she learned a great deal from you.”

  “I learned a great deal from her. Do you want to tell me why you’re here, Molly?”

  I finished my tea. “The police found Randy with the locket I gave Aggie.”

  I hadn’t planned to blurt that out or try to gauge the therapist’s reaction, but I couldn’t miss the shock in her eyes and the tremor in the lined hands that held the dainty cup. A second later she gazed at me without expression.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “They think he and Aggie were involved. They think he killed her because she ended their relationship.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “No.”

  “The fact that he killed Aggie, or his motive for doing so?”

  I was tempted to tell her that Randy’s computer was missing; that his girlfriend had come to his funeral in disguise and had made incomprehensible comments about men who were following her. The ones who killed Aggie. The ones who killed me.

  “His motive,” I said.

  “Because she was an observant Jew and Randy wasn’t Jewish? Or because she didn’t tell you?”

  I took a moment to consider. “Both.” Even if he were Jewish, why would she become involved with an ex-convict with a high school education and a drug addiction?

  “Did you ever meet Randy?”

  “I saw a photo. I know he was handsome, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “It was more than that. He had a magnetic personality, irresistible charm. He worked that charm on me a few times, and I should have known better,” she admitted with more melancholy than regret. “From my experience, Molly, people don’t always behave logically when it comes to matters of the heart. Perhaps Aggie was momentarily infatuated.”

  I shook my head.

  “What if it was true, Molly?”

  I flashed to the woman Gloria Lamont had seen sneaking into Randy’s apartment. “It’s not.”

  “All right, it’s not.” Barbara nodded. “But if it were. How would that make you feel?”

  “Shouldn’t I lie down on your couch?”

  “If you prefer.” She wasn’t smiling.

  I twisted the tissue. “Hurt. Sad that she didn’t let me help her. She probably felt very lonely, isolated. If it were true.”

  “Do you feel responsible for Aggie’s death, Molly?”

  “In a way.” I told her about turning down Aggie’s request to accompany her to a prayer vigil. “I had therapy after Aggie was killed. I know I couldn’t have predicted what happened.”

  Tell me how you feel, Molly.

  I feel empty. I feel guilty. I wish I could turn back the clock. I don’t know what you want me to tell you.

  Whatever you want to say. There are no right or wrong answers, Molly. Whatever you tell me stays in this room.

  I was angry at her.

  When?

  That night. I knew if I’d asked her to go somewhere with me, she would have. Anytime, anyplace. So I was angry that she asked, because it made me feel inadequate.

  That’s understandable.

  I envied her. I wished I could be more like her. Focused, successful.

  Envy is a human emotion, Molly.

  If you envy someone, you can cause the person harm.

  The evil eye? The ayin harah? Is that what you mean?

  It’s a powerful force. I read that if you envy someone, you cause that person’s life to be judged, and your own, too.

  Do you think your envy caused Aggie to be judged?

  I don’t know.

  Did your envy put the knife in the hand of the person who stabbed her? . . .

  “The police asked me about Randy after Aggie was killed,” Barbara said. “I told them he was very respectful to Aggie, that I had no reason to believe he’d killed her.”

  “So there was nothing between them,” I said, vindication flushing my face.

  “Not then, no. Randy was friendly to everyone—too friendly sometimes.” She hesitated. “But he was drawn to Aggie. I could tell from the way he looked at her, the way he reacted when she smiled at him. One time I entered her office without knocking. She was between clients and I needed a file. Randy was there. They weren’t touching, but I sensed a sexual tension, as though I’d interrupted something.”

  “They could have been having an intense discussion,” I insisted.

  “Perhaps.” Barbara regarded me with sympathy. “This happened months before Aggie was killed, and I never saw anything between them again. I didn’t tell the police. I was afraid they would twist nothing into something.”

  “What about closer to the time she was killed? Was there friction between them?” I asked, moving to more comfortable ground.

  “Not that I saw. But Aggie was troubled. She said she was concerned about a client, but given what you’ve just told me, it may have been about Randy.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  The therapist was studying her hands, probably deciding what, if anything, to tell me. “I caught him going through her files. She phoned me from the field. She needed an address she’d left on her desk. When I entered her office Randy was standing next to an open filing cabinet.”

  I felt a prickling of interest. “What did he say?”

  “He made up a silly explanation for his being there. He begged me not to tell Aggie, but of course, I did. She asked me not to tell Dr. Bramer. She wanted to do it herself. I thought Randy was just nosy. But if you’re right, and he had a drug habit to support . . .”

  Blackmail? “Did you tell the police?”

  “I assumed Dr. Bramer would do that.” She played with the strand of pearls at her neck.

  “But then the police would have asked you to confirm what happened,” I said, thinking aloud. “They would have asked you for details.”

  A flush spread up her neck. We had switched roles.

  “He told me he was with his sister when Aggie was killed,” Barbara said. “He had proof, but he was terrified the police wouldn’t believe him, because he was an ex-convict. To me he was like a puppy that digs up the garden, always getting into mischief. He wasn’t a pit bull. I didn’t think he was capable of murder. And why would he kill Aggie?” Her accent had become more pronounced, her tone imploring. “She didn’t say anything to you about Randy?”

  The police had questioned me. I was her best friend, I would know things she hadn’t told her parents. Was there a boyfriend she had dropped? A jealous rival or coworker? Had Aggie been upset about anything? Worried? Afraid of anyone? Connors had posed the same questions days ago. My answer to everything had been no.

  Now I wondered. “Did you tell the police Aggie was worried about a client?”

  The therapist shook her head. “They would have subpoenaed her files. Women confide their darkest secrets with the assurance that those secrets will stay inside Rachel’s Tent. I couldn’t subject them to a police inquiry that would violate their privacy and possibly endanger them. And what would the police find, after all?”

  “What if one of Aggie’s clients killed her?”

  Barbara frowned. “I never believed that for a minute. Aggie had a wonderful rapport with all
her clients.”

  “But you said she was worried.”

  “About a client’s safety. Some of our women come from abusive relationships. Aggie asked me how far she should push a client to go to the police, whether the police could really ensure the woman’s safety.”

  “When was that?”

  “Sometime in early July, two or three weeks before she was killed. It was after the holiday party at the Horton residence. They invite all the staff and clients twice a year. July Fourth and Christmas. Aggie was jittery at the party. She spilled food on her dress—a pastel silk, so everything showed. She was mortified. She would have gone home, but she had come with another staff member. Mrs. Horton loaned her something.”

  Aggie hadn’t mentioned anything about the weekend, or ruining her dress. It was the kind of thing we would have laughed about. “Was Randy there?”

  “I’m sure he was. I can’t recall seeing him.”

  “How many clients did Aggie handle?”

  “Between fifteen and twenty.” Barbara was losing patience. “I can’t discuss any of them with you.”

  “But what if—”

  “A client’s expectation of confidentiality is sacrosanct.” The gray eyes flashed. “Aggie would have been the first to agree. She would not have wanted her clients’ confidentiality violated.”

  “I think she’d want her killer caught,” I said.

  “She was your best friend, and you are grieving for her. You want answers, you want justice. Don’t presume to think you know what Aggie would have wanted.” In a gentler voice she said, “In the end it didn’t matter, did it? The client Aggie worried about left Rachel’s Tent. And the police found Aggie’s locket with Randy.”

  I wondered how much of Barbara Anik’s attitude toward the police had been shaped by her childhood. I wondered, too, what would have happened if Aggie had reported Randy to Bramer—I was convinced that she hadn’t—or if Barbara had done so.

  I’m sure the therapist wondered the same thing.

  She sighed. “I’m too old for this.” She sounded weary and sad, and looked all of her seventy-one years.

  I was in the lobby, taking another look at the mural, when I heard Bramer bellowing my name.

  He’d figured out where he’d seen me, I thought, forcing a smile as I turned to face his anger.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” he said when he was at my side. “Mr. Horton will meet you Monday morning at nine-fifteen.” He handed me a business card. HORTON ENTERPRISES, with a Wilshire address. “If you can’t make it, be sure to let him know. He’s a very busy man.”

  Bramer sounded as though he’d arranged a visit with royalty. I wondered if he expected me to curtsy when I met the man.

  “Mr. Horton is delighted that you’re doing the story,” the director said. “But I wouldn’t bring up Randy or his drug addiction. Mr. Horton had high hopes for Randy, so it’s a painful subject.”

  “I understand.”

  “Excellent. I hope you enjoyed your talk with Barbara. Was she able to give you what you needed?”

  “She gave me a great deal to think about,” I said.

  twenty-one

  Saturday, February 21. 9:35 A.M. 6100 block of Sepulveda Boulevard. A woman took a cab to UCLA. The cabbie pressed her to pay him. “I’ll pay when we get there,” she said. “You are so beautiful,” the cabbie replied. “I bet it’s good.” The woman told him she wasn’t comfortable with him talking to her like that. The cabbie persisted in demanding payment. The woman refused. The cabbie stopped at a gas station, pulled the woman from the cab, and began yelling at her. The woman told the station’s employees to call the police. The cabbie pushed her, causing her sandals to come off, then kicked her in the small of her back. The woman finally reached a pay phone and called the police. The cabbie left, taking the victim’s sandals. (Culver City)

  I SAW AGGIE’S MOTHER AT B’NAI YESHURUN, THE LARGE Modern Orthodox synagogue where Zack has officiated as rabbi for the past seven months. The shul is well attended on most Shabbats, a testament to its growing membership and to Zack. This Saturday the number of congregants was swelled by family and guests who had come to celebrate his aufruf, the calling up of the groom to the Torah, usually on the Shabbat before his wedding.

  In our case, two Shabbats before the wedding. Zack and I had wanted to share the happiness and import of the day, but Ashkenazi Orthodox tradition says the bride and groom don’t see each other during the seven days before the wedding. The idea is to heighten the anticipation, and maybe to ward off bad luck. Not everyone is strict about the custom, and my anticipation didn’t need heightening, but after one failed marriage, I was taking no chances.

  Yesterday, after leaving Rachel’s Tent, the aufruf had been the farthest thing from my mind. I had sat in my car, trying to make sense of what I’d learned, and had been startled when I looked at my watch. Ten to twelve. Sunset in February arrives early, and I had a lot to do in the five hours before Shabbat would begin.

  I stopped at the florist’s to okay the linen for the dinner reception and make sure Raul had the correct delivery address for the floral arrangement my parents had ordered for Zack and his family. I shopped for groceries. I packed a suitcase for my weekend at my parents’ and picked up my new suit from the dressmaker. Then I picked up Bubbie G and two loaves of the challa she had baked. Bubbie, who will turn eighty this May, is thin and looks frail but is surprisingly spry. Even with her cane, which she uses grudgingly, she had me hurrying to keep up with her as she walked to my car.

  The house smelled like Shabbat. Chicken soup with dill simmered on the stove. A French roast warmed in the oven, along with a potato kugel and one of Bubbie’s challas, which are the best. Zack phoned to wish me a good Shabbos and thank my parents for the flowers. My mother, Bubbie, and I lit our Shabbat candles, and they worked their magic, ushering in a heavenly stillness and quiet that soothed my soul.

  My father and two younger brothers went to shul. After setting the dining room table, Liora and I joined my mother and Bubbie G in the family room, where we recited the Shabbat and Friday evening prayers, singing parts and saying the rest aloud to include Bubbie, who is having difficulty even with the large-print siddur we bought her. I had a wave of nostalgia for the Friday evenings when all four of us Blume girls would harmonize prayers and other songs we’d learned in school or camp. Sometimes my mother joined in. Other times, like tonight, she would watch us and smile. She looked wistful now, and I sensed she was remembering those Friday nights, too, maybe wondering how long before Liora would marry and leave this big house that suddenly had so many empty rooms. Probably within the year, considering how often people call to set up my youngest sister. And my brother Noah has been dating someone for six months. . . .

  An hour or so later my father and brothers returned. My father is almost fifty-seven, tall and broad-shouldered, and though he has more gray in his dark brown hair than he had a year ago, he still looks young, at least to me. My friends say he reminds them of Harrison Ford, without the scar and the earring. Noah and Joey are lankier. Noah is twenty-five, an overachiever and second-year law student at UCLA keenly aware that he’s following in the able footsteps of my sister Mindy. Joey, two years younger and two inches shorter (I’m not sure which bothers him more), has a BS in computer science but no job because of the glut of unemployed programmers following the dot-com crash. He’s been helping my dad, who hopes Joey will like the construction business and take over when he retires, something my dad talks about but the rest of the family agrees won’t happen anytime soon.

  My father always blesses us on Friday night. He usually goes from oldest to youngest, but tonight he saved me for last and rested his large, calloused hands on my head longer than usual. His lips lingered against my forehead.

  “Mazel tov, sweetie,” he murmured, and we hugged each other tightly. “Happy?”

  “So happy.”

  “Bli ayin hara,” my grandmother said.

  My mom joined our little circl
e. Liora did, too. I was waiting for Joey to make a flip comment—he’s tender-hearted but uncomfortable with sentimentality. But he didn’t say anything, and when we took our seats, I saw that his hazel eyes were misty.

  Noah noticed, too. “Joey’s all mushy.”

  “Don’t tease him,” Liora said.

  Joey’s face had turned red. “I’m worried that with all the money Dad’s shelling out for Molly’s wedding, there won’t be anything left for mine.”

  “You mean in twenty years when you’re all grown-up?” Noah said.

  “A hundred bucks says I get married before you do. What’s taking you so long, anyway?”

  “Za nisht kayn k’nacker,” Bubbie said.

  “I’m not a big shot, Bubbie. Noah started it.”

  “Cool it,” my dad said. He likes decorum at the Shabbos table.

  “They’re just joking, Steven,” my mother said.

  My father made kiddush over the wine and recited the blessing over Bubbie’s challa. Between courses we sang zemirot and discussed the week’s Torah portion and neighborhood news. Someone had become engaged, someone had given birth, someone was moving to Baltimore because housing here was so outrageously high. Mr. Friedland was in rehab, recovering from hip surgery, and had struck up a romance with Mrs. Goldowski.

  “Maybe you should go out with Zack’s grandfather, Bubbie,” Joey teased. “He’s a cutie.”

  “And he’s a greeneh—like you, Bubbie,” Noah added. An immigrant.

  My grandmother shook her head and smiled. Even before the macular degeneration, some of the sparkle had gone out of her blue eyes when Zeidie Irving died.

  At one point my dad’s walkie-talkie crackled with static from the kitchen counter. My father and my brothers belong to an L.A. Jewish emergency-response organization that serves the Hancock Park–Miracle Mile area. Zack belongs, too. My dad went into the kitchen and returned a minute later to tell us the call had been answered. Joey looked disappointed.