Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine 11

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Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine 11 Page 8

by Jack Grochot


  “I’m shocked and saddened by the passing of the rabbi,” the cantor began.

  Lefkowitz gave him a quizzical look.

  “Yes,” said Samuelson. “He wasn’t an old man. So tell me, precisely, of what did he die?”

  The surprise on the doctor’s face didn’t diminish. “He had a heart attack and died well before the EMTs or I arrived.”

  “Maybe he was poisoned,” suggested Samuelson. His own heart beat a little faster at the words. He knew how odd such a theory must sound—he embarrassed himself. And yet… “He insists that’s what happened,” Samuelson blurted out.

  “Who insists?” asked the doctor. His expression had turned grave, with maybe the slightest undertone of anger.

  The cantor could hardly admit where he’d heard the story—from the dead man himself. “One of the members,” he mumbled in response. “I can’t say who…but he believes strongly…strongly…that the rabbi was poisoned.”

  Lefkowitz continued eating his sandwich. Brisket maybe, with a slice of unusually well-ripened and juicy-red tomato. Perhaps Samuelson should try take-out a little more often, himself.

  “I can assure you that all the signs were of death from a massive heart attack. Nothing at the scene—Nothing—Suggested anything else. Unless the unnamed member wants to accuse Edith Wild of poisoning her husband. He was home at least an hour after the service, showing no symptoms of any illness.” Lefkowitz chewed, chewed, chewed, and swallowed, all the while gazing—or perhaps it might be called glaring—at Cantor Samuelson.

  Even if Alexander had poisoned the rabbi, what was the cantor supposed to do? Exhumation was out of the question, expressly forbidden, unless they wanted to rebury the body in Israel.

  Samuelson nodded. “A terrible loss,” he said and stood. “I’m guessing the member who suggested poison was just upset. But I felt it my duty…”

  “I had no idea,” said Lefkowitz, “that you and the rabbi were so close. I was under the impression you two didn’t get along.”

  * * * *

  Samuelson felt he got along with everybody. Sure the rabbi had treated him dismissively, as if the cantor was a mere side-dish to the main, rabbi-driven, course of the congregants’s worship—but Samuelson followed the commandments, the mitzvot, telling him to love other Jews and not to bear a grudge. He was now quite upset with himself that he’d given the impression of disliking the rabbi. Well, no, upset with himself because he, in fact, had failed to love the unmannerly noodnik.

  The cantor used his key to let himself into the synagogue, where he went and sat in the pigeon-hole office allotted him. He led perhaps a small and simple life, but why should he, a man whom Hashem had given such a large voice, care about that?

  The cat who lived in the basement, Moses, walked in, tail up as if he owned the place, though only the week before the rabbi had been about to throw the poor thing out in the street, into the cold.

  Now Moses demanded that his friend Samuelson acknowledge what a remarkable animal he was. The cantor took a moment to pet the cat. If anyone knew what went on in the synagogue, it was Moses. And half of what Moses knew, he’d learned from Samuelson, who told him everything. The rest of the fine points of the daily goings-on he probably got from seeing personally, with his bright emerald eyes.

  “Moses, I can tell you because you’re a smart cat and won’t think I’m nuts, but I was talking to the rabbi the other day. Yes, his ghost. Imagine that. He said that Saul Alexander poisoned him. What do you think?”

  Moses didn’t answer immediately, so the cantor appealed to the Holy One and asked for a clue. Did Alexander poison the rabbi? Or was the rabbi only blowing smoke?

  At just that second, Moses turned his back and walked away. Then the cat glanced around to make sure the cantor was following him, which, of course, looking for an answer to his heartfelt questions, Samuelson did.

  Moses led his friend directly to the synagogue kitchen. Very interesting. The rabbi said Alexander had probably poisoned the coffee, so the place where Moses led Samuelson made perfect sense.

  The coffee would have been thrown out days before and the pot washed by Izzy, the janitor. But the location indicated that the rabbi’s allegation might be true.

  After washing his hands, Samuelson opened the refrigerator to see if anything worth eating had been left behind by one of the members. He sniffed a plate of somewhat dried-out looking chicken. Not very appealing, but he gave a piece to Moses, who was happy to quickly devour his prize. Such a tidy creature, too, for he wet his paw and washed his face afterward. This was, indeed, a good Jewish cat.

  Samuelson gave the cat a dish of water.

  Turning around, he was startled to find the rabbi right behind him.

  “Now that I think of it,” said the rabbi, “maybe the chicken carried the poison.”

  * * * *

  Samuelson felt as if he himself had been fed a bitter pill. He openly wept. Had he killed an innocent animal—his best friend—Moses? He urged the cat to drink a little more water. Maybe they had an emetic in the first-aid kit? But where was it? Of course he could stick his finger past the animal’s sharp teeth to make him disgorge what he’d thought was a treat, but the cantor feared he could hurt his good friend worse than even a poison.

  In the end, Samuelson simply picked up the cat and carried him into the rabbi’s office, where he closed the door and lay on the couch, not wanting the animal to live his last hour all alone.

  His dear friend Moses had harmed no one—not a rude word in all these years—not a bite, not a swat, and Samuelson was well aware that the cat had plenty to grumble about.

  The cantor fell asleep and woke to the sight of Joshua Lefkowitz standing in the doorway, staring at him. Was Moses still alive? Yes—and he jumped down from Samuelson’s chest to go about the remainder of his daily routine.

  Samuelson took a peek at his watch. He’d had quite a nap. Surely the chicken hadn’t been tampered with.

  “I really had no idea you were so devoted to the rabbi,” Lefkowitz said.

  * * * *

  Later that evening, Samuelson found Alexander at the shul, sitting in the sanctuary. Had the dentist something to feel guilty about? The cantor waited, then invited the dentist into his office for a glass of tea. He brought in the coffeepot full of hot water and looked to see if Alexander startled. Not a flicker of an eyelash.

  Moses came in. He probably wanted to get the story firsthand.

  “The rabbi said he had been poisoned,” Samuelson stated, watching for the dentist’s reaction.

  Alexander stared, then blinked twice, apparently taking in the news that the cantor had been in contact with the rabbi.

  “Oy. That would be terrible. No one could blame his soul for being restless if such a thing was true,” said Alexander at once. “But who in the world would commit a deadly deed like that? Not a good Jew.”

  Moses rubbed against Alexander’s pants’ leg, while Samuelson popped a lump of sugar in his mouth, hoping the dentist wouldn’t scold him for it.

  But back to this thorny problem of a murder. Perhaps the suspect simply hadn’t been goaded enough. “The rabbi thinks the poisoner was you.”

  Alexander set down his cup of tea before taking even a single sip. “And you would believe such a thing?”

  “No, of course not. I’m merely reporting to you the facts.”

  Alexander seemed more annoyed than frightened. “I’m a family man,” he said as if that were a sufficient alibi. “And if the rabbi himself said he was poisoned, he probably wasn’t. That complainer.”

  * * * *

  Samuelson went to pay a condolence call on the widow, the rebbetzin, at an agreed-upon time—to speak to her privately. As anyone might logically expect, he opened with a few well-chosen words of sorrow, though he skipped the more usual expressio
n of consolation. He couldn’t be sure how Rabbi Wild had treated his wife at home, or how she felt about his passing. Indeed, in public she seemed devoted, but who knew what went on within her mind and heart? In fact, maybe the rebbetzin had poisoned the rabbi.

  She asked Samuelson into the rabbi’s den and offered him a glass of schnapps, which she brought forth momentarily with a service of tea and a plate of hamentaschen. He praised the poppy-seed pastry mightily while she giggled like a schoolgirl.

  Then, though with a respectful sense of caution, he got down to business. “Is it possible, perhaps, and I’m only saying I heard someone mention, and it’s just a silly thought, but could the rabbi have been poisoned?” He closed his mouth in order to concentrate on the woman’s reaction.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” Edith Wild retorted. “He came to you and gave you that ridiculous fairytale? Who in the world would poison that man? He told you Alexander, right?”

  She looked at him, expecting an answer, but Samuelson was stunned into an immediate silence. Had who told him what? Were they talking about her husband, who, of course, was dead? How could she know the cantor had seen the rabbi’s ghost? He felt he needed to lie down for a minute to recover.

  Her mouth broadened as if for a ‘tsk tsk.’ “The rabbi,” she said impatiently. “My husband. He’s going around all upset saying that the dentist Alexander poisoned him.” She shook her head. “Have another hamentaschen, my dear cantor. You’re losing weight without a wife to cook for you. That man…” Her hands rose into the air. “This is so typical of my late husband, cantor, to blame someone else for what he’s done. He ate too much. He smoked too much. We had to live practically inside the shul so he wouldn’t have to walk too far and get a little exercise. I told him time and time again—‘go to the doctor.’ But would he listen? No. Of course not. So he drops dead of a heart attack, and blames—who else? The dentist, of course. Oy, vey is mir.”

  “I also had a visit from the rabbi after his death,” Samuelson admitted, taking a deep breath.

  “Of course, you did. He knew you to be an honest man he could depend on,” said the housewife. “He knew you would give his claim a fair hearing. So, well, now, cantor, what do you think?” As she spoke, she once again offered Samuelson the dish piled high with her mouth-watering pastries, and he couldn’t help but take a third.

  “I think he died of a heart attack as Lefkowitz diagnosed…” Samuelson answered. “But he has no son. Perhaps you’ll let me recite Kaddish for him in a son’s place.” Saying Kaddish for a rabbi he wished he’d liked better would do him some good.

  “That’s very kind, cantor. You’re very thoughtful.” And the rebbetzin poured him another cup of tea and passed him the cream. “I hope you’ll come and visit me once more in a couple of days since I intend to make some apricot hamentaschen. No, better yet, I’ll cook you a nice red-pepper soup and leg of lamb with a potato kugel.”

  “I’ll be sure to drop by again,” Samuelson said. But he decided he wouldn’t. She’d already killed one man with all her abundance—serving heavy cream no less for the tea. A person could only take so much. “And for now, what shall I tell the rabbi if he shows up again?”

  “Oh, he won’t come,” said the rabbi’s wife. “I told him to move on and go where’s he’s supposed to be. He usually listens to what I say.” She smiled in triumph.

  Samuelson, puzzled by the contradictory description of her husband’s listening/not listening to her, said nothing in response.

  Carrying a bag of fresh pastries the rabbi’s wife had given him, the cantor went straight to Alexander to report the outcome. But when the dentist invited Samuelson to dinner, already sweating because his stomach was so full, the cantor declined.

  And besides, like the dear departed Rabbi Wild, Cantor Samuelson was not such a fan of herring in vinegar.

  THE COMPOUND, by Marc Bilgrey

  It started out as a job like many others I’ve had in Palm Beach, Aspen, or Santa Barbara. This one was in New England. To say the place was huge would be an understatement. The grounds of the compound (no one ever called it an estate) were as big as Central Park, and the buildings were the size of airline hangars. The amazing part is that most of the time I had the whole place to myself. As the resident caretaker, it was my job to make sure that everything ran smoothly. After my daily patrol of the grounds on a golf cart, checking the perimeter monitors, and the motion detectors, I was on my own. Once a month I’d take a car out of the garage and drive ten miles into the nearest town to pick up some groceries. The truth was I really didn’t need to go off the property at all, as my employers, the Jensens, had a least a year’s worth of food in their storage freezers, and enough of it to feed an army; it was just an excuse to get away and see other human beings. Having only relocated a few months earlier, I didn’t know or speak to anyone in town.

  Every so often there’d be a delivery to the compound, which I would sign for, or a landscaper to cut the grass or trim the hedges, but, for the most part I had total peace and quiet. I often went into the compound’s library, pulled a book off a shelf, curled up on a soft sofa, and started reading. Sometimes I’d watch a TV show on one of the wall sized screens and surf more channels than I ever knew existed. Or I’d take a swim in the heated indoor Olympic-sized pool, or find something from the vast music archive and listen to it. Once in a while, the boss or his wife would call to check in. I didn’t make any calls. When you move around as much as I have, it’s hard to make friends.

  Since my divorce, (she left me for another guy), I’ve been drifting through life, never staying in one place or one job for longer than a few months. But this was different. Since coming to work at the compound I’d had a lot of time to think, and had made a decision. I would stay, start saving my money, and with a little luck, in a few years, I’d have enough to open a small restaurant. Maybe someplace that would serve nouvelle cuisine or Asian fusion. I’d worked as a chef in enough bistros, pasta joints, and even diners to have the experience, and had my ex-wife not cleaned out our bank accounts when she left, I’d already have been well on my way. But now I had a plan. It felt good after five years to finally have some hope again.

  It was a cold day in January, when Kira Jensen drove through the front gates and made her way along the mile of rutted road that led up to the house. I hadn’t been expecting her, but since it was as much her place as her husband’s she didn’t need a formal announcement. I went out to her Volvo and helped her with her bags.

  “How’ve you been, Tom?” she said, as she walked into the house.

  “Fine, Ms. Jensen, and you?”

  “Very well, thank you. How’re things here?” she asked, taking off her woolen hat and letting her long blond hair cascade to her shoulders.

  “Everything’s quiet, as usual.”

  “Good,” she replied, removing her ski jacket and going into the dining room.

  I followed, waiting to find out if she needed anything. She walked over to the bar, opened a bottle of Jack Daniels, poured some into a glass, and took a long gulp. Then she looked up at me. Though she was at least ten years older than me, there was no denying her beauty. Her high cheekbones, full lips, and bright blue eyes bespoke her Viking ancestry. And then there was her tight sweater. But despite her obvious charms, I was only an employee, and wanted to stay one. The surest way to get fired was to cross that line.

  “Drink?” said Mrs. Jensen, holding up a glass.

  “Uh, no thanks.”

  She shrugged, sitting down on one of the leather Chesterfield couches. She gestured to a nearby chair, and I sat down.

  “The traffic coming up from Boston was brutal. You’d think that after two days they’d have dug out all the snow. But no, now there’s ice to deal with. I must’ve passed at least half a dozen accidents.”

  “Ice can be dangerous,” I said.

  She sig
hed. “John’s going to be in Barbados for the next couple of months. Claims it’s a banking matter.”

  John was her husband. I nodded. Sometimes part of the job is being a bartender, priest, and psychologist.

  “I understand there are quite a few banks in Barbados.”

  “And quite a few women, too,” she said, then stood up abruptly. “I’m sorry, I’m tired, I’m going to my room to rest.”

  She set her glass down on an end table, near an ornate lamp, and went to the foyer. When I walked over to try to help with her bags, she shooed me away, and disappeared into the recesses of the house.

  I wondered what all that was about, then decided that it was none of my business, and walked into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk. After I drank it I went to my room. Later, as I lay in bed, I thought back to my early days on the job in the waning weeks of the summer, when Mrs. Jensen and her husband were staying at the compound. They’d seemed happy and carefree, as they took walks, swam, and had their meals together. I remember watching them and thinking that they looked like a couple you’d see in a TV commercial. They seemed to have it all: looks, wealth, and each other. And yet, I couldn’t help noticing Mrs. Jensen’s glances at me. At first I thought it was my imagination, then when I realized it wasn’t, I started inventing things I had to do on remote parts of the property. When she and her husband left after labor day, I was relieved. And now she was back. Alone.

  In the morning I made some scrambled eggs and toast for Mrs. Jensen. She invited me to join her, but I declined, blaming my chores. I didn’t see her again till that afternoon. I was out by the lake, pulling some fallen tree branches out of the water, when I looked up. She was standing there, framed against the fading sun, resembling nothing less than Botticelli’s Venus.

 

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