Murder in the Melting Pot

by Jane Isenberg

  On Saturday of the holiday weekend, after the last B & B guest left for the morning, Miranda and Harry savored a cup of coffee.

  “I’m glad you “came out” to all those folks. You’ve been so caught up in your own secrets, you haven’t even asked me about mine.”

  “I didn’t know you had any.”

  He took her hand. “Everybody does. You know, you’re the first woman I’ve ever dated who didn’t quiz me about my ex.”

  “You’re right. Should I start?”

  “Yes, but not today. Today you should know that I hate the thought of how much and how long you suffered because of those bullheaded cops. And I really hate that bastard who attacked you the other night. I hate that you had to go through that. You must have been so scared to get so brave.”

  “I was scared until I got mad. It makes me mad all over again to learn that that man was repeatedly raping underage girls by threatening to report their parents to immigration.” She slapped the newspaper on the counter where, earlier that morning, she’d seen that headline. “I bet that creep had some terrible childhood trauma of his own to make him so screwed up. But I can’t start feeling sorry for him.” She refilled each of their coffee cups. “Anyway, enough about me. I did all the talking last night, and I’m still at it. Tell me, how’s Julia? Your dad? How was your Thanksgiving? It had to be hard for all of you without your Mom. ”

  She saw Harry blink, and when he spoke, he didn’t mention his mother or the holiday meal. “Julia told Holly and my dad that you’re a Hanukah person and she wants to have you with us when we light the menorah. And I want you to meet the rest of my family, at least my dad and Holly.”

  “I’d love to. When you give me a date, I’ll sign up Darlene. How’s your search for a place for your dad to live going? I guess it’s on hold for the weekend. That’s frustrating.”

  “What’s really frustrating is making my sister understand how frail and far gone my father is now, what kind of care he needs. He doesn’t need a place with trips to the theater, flower arranging classes, and trendy food. He’s eighty-eight and his heart is weak. His mind is, too, and his arthritis is bad, and his hearing’s shot. Christ, he can’t always make it to the toilet. And he’s stubborn.” Harry lowered his head and mumbled, “He needs a place where some kind, strong, patient person can be with him most of the time and help him get through the day like my mom did. He keeps asking where she is.”

  Miranda kept quiet, sensing there was more.

  “This afternoon Holly and I are interviewing a new caregiver to stay with him while she’s at work. The last one quit on Wednesday. And we have to talk about selling the condo.” He sighed. “So I really gotta go.” He kissed her. “Please take care of yourself. And don’t worry about that hospital snafu. I’m betting the FBI will be involved soon. And one bad lead won’t stop those guys. It’ll motivate them. You’ll see. If there was supposed to be a poisoning, they’ll find out.” He gave Rusty a final head scratch. “Now go answer your fan mail.”

  To Miranda’s astonishment, she actually had fan mail. Although heavily populated by underdogs, the Valley wasn’t exactly a leader in the struggle for civil rights. But when one of those underdogs stood up for herself, her action struck a chord with the others. She figured that was why as soon as news about Ladin’s attempt to rape her got out, PE teachers at both Sunnyvale and Topppenish High Schools invited her to speak on self-defense for women and girls and Pauline’s church wanted her to participate in a panel on that topic for their Ladies Auxiliary. A Heritage University prof asked her to address her women’s study students. Even Rabbi Golden pressed her to write an article for Temple Shalom’s newsletter on how her Jewish background helped her escape rape. “You could title it ‘Nice Jewish Girl Kicks Ass.’” Miranda’s favorite invitation came from the new owner of the old Western wear shop in Union Gap where she’d bought her cowboy boots. He wanted her to model them and be the spokesperson in the store’s ad on local TV. “We’re announcing our new slogan, ‘Boots on the Ground.’”

  She decided to put off accepting these invitations and setting dates until after the holiday weekend. Just then she wanted to know more about why Nurse Tammy was quitting her job. So as soon as Harry left she tore through her chores and ran with Rusty. As they passed Darlene’s house she waved to Josefina and her grandma who were building a snowman. Miranda hollered, “Back soon. Tea?” Seeing Josefina playing outside on Darlene’s front lawn prepared Miranda for the closed blinds and To Rent sign on the lawn of the pumpkin house. A couple of the property’s signature orange globes lay smashed in the snow below the front steps while a lone jack-o’-lantern sagged sadly next to the door.

  This was the first thing Miranda commented on later when she and Rusty were warm and snug in Darlene’s kitchen and the women were sipping tea with Josefina and her doll. “Yes, they’re gone, those tenants! It’s some kind of miracle. I left for Spokane to bring Josefina here for the weekend and when we got back the house looked like now. The sign was up, the place was empty. Nobody around here knows why they left.”

  Miranda figured that the FBI’s hospital investigators’ intense scrutiny of Tammy had warned the nurse and her husband. Even though Tammy hadn’t stolen poison, once Steve Galen was arrested both she and her husband could be charged with harboring a killer and planning a hate crime. They were on the run. “I’m glad they’re gone. Tell me about your Thanksgiving. How was it without Javier?”

  “Our holidays are always a little, you know, a little sad. Geraldo’s chair is empty. Now Javier’s is too…. But my whole family thanked God that you’re safe.” She shuddered and began to button her sweater. “That detective was a bully. He really wanted to get his hands on Javier. He said if Javi would just come back and confess to killing that kosherer he’d get a reduced sentence. But if they had to wait, he’d get life or the death penalty. That man sat right in that chair where you are now for an hour every day for weeks and watched me cry.”

  Josefina patted Darlene’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, abuela. Javi’s okay.”

  Miranda registered the girl’s remark and the quick headshake it evoked from Darlene. It was tempting to tell her friend that wherever she had stashed him, her grandson was no longer suspected of killing Isaac Markowitz. But that would be premature. Instead she said, “We don’t have to worry about Alex Ladin anymore. He’s the one going to jail. He won’t even get bail.” Then she spoke to the girl and her doll. “Josefina, tell me, did you ever dunk your churro in your cocoa? It’s really delicious that way.” And she demonstrated.

  She left Darlene’s place frustrated again by the snail-going-backward pace of the investigation into Isaac’s murder. She hoped that perhaps the FBI detectives were making more progress than they were revealing to the press and tried to put it out of her mind. She answered her e-mail, paid bills, and went grocery shopping. It was while in line at the supermarket that Miranda consulted her phone and read a post by a local blogger. “According to an anony-mous source close to the investigation of the murder of Isaac Markowitz, a witness has come forward with new information about the identity of the young man’s killer and is willing to testify! She says she was inspired by the “cojones of that Breitner woman.” Miranda was elated. While the clerk rang up and bagged her order, she checked obits to see if a certain old woman living in Sunnyvale had died of cancer recently. There had been several such deaths, but only one that took place at the home of the deceased’s daughter with that daughter in attendance. That night Miranda told Harry, “Now that her mother’s no longer in danger of being deported, Carmen’s doing what’s right.”

  “The FBI could have shown Carmen photos already and they could be arresting Isaac’s killer right now. Then you can really kick back and put this whole thing behind you.”

  “Oh no I can’t. I still think Galen went to the processing plant to poison wine, to kill or sicken lots of Jews, not just to kill one. But let’s not argue about that again.” She hesitated. Harry foun
d her insistence on this point unreasonable. Should she be worried? No. Couples weren’t always in accord on everything. “How did the interview go? And the meeting with the realtor?” Before he could answer, Miranda heard the doorbell ring. “Somebody’s at the door. Gotta go. Talk later.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Guest book: “I’ll sign your book, but I already reserved a room for a week of house hunting next month. This place is a real find.” Gary the Plumber (for now)

  Even without the gold star on his chest and the requisite white cowboy hat, Miranda would have found Sheriff Ethan Carson a formidable figure because of his size and stance. Although only about five-ten, the lawman stood tall in the B & B doorway, his boots planted below substantial hips, his hands bracketing those hips, and his gray eyes busy sizing up a place he clearly felt he had every right to be. His all-business crew cut was a faded brown with just a few flecks of gray. Girded with a gun and assorted gadgets, his midsection threatened her doorjamb as he made his way in.

  “Yakima County Sheriff Ethan Carson here. Ms Breitner?” He extended a hand, not to her, but to Rusty who sniffed it and registered acceptance if not approval by retreating to his cushion. Miranda, who once recoiled at the sight of a badge, was pleased to see Sheriff Carson. Maybe she could pry out of him a shred of information about the slower-than-frozen-molasses investigation into Isaac Markowitz’s murder.

  “Forgive me for bargin’ in without callin’. I won’t be long, but I wanted to tell you myself how bad I feel about the, uh, alleged behavior of my soon-to-be former deputy.” His tone was apologetic, humble. He lowered his head for a moment while gripping his hat in both hands and revolving it.

  “I appreciate your apology, Sheriff.” This was an understatement. Miranda, who had thought she’d never see the day a cop acknowledged, let alone apologized for his own or his underlings’ screw ups, took special pleasure in the sheriff’s hat-in-hand mea culpa. Even so, she thought Sheriff Carson ought to be out trying to find Isaac’s murderer instead of there at her B & B apologizing.

  Having said what he said he’d come to say, the sheriff looked around. “Nice job you did here. I hope that killin’ across the street didn’t cause you too much grief. Terrible thing.”

  “Actually, it did. It still does. I grieve for the victim and his family. Isaac Markowitz was very young and newly married.” She considered stopping there, but she didn’t. “Another thing is, Sheriff, I’m Jewish, so it scares me knowing there’s still a killer on the loose, especially one who targets Jews. Not to mention that having someone murdered right across the street and his killer still at large has been very hard on my business.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to learn that with Detective Ladin shall we say, “otherwise occupied,” I’ve taken over the investigation myself. It won’t be long before that young man’s killer is in custody. And, Ms Breitner, for once the press got it right about that witness you inspired to come forward. She sure is a big help.” He glanced at her, his eyes newly narrowed, probing.

  Sheriff Carson’s scrutiny made Miranda wonder if he’d come not to apologize for having hired a sicko rapist but rather to size her up, get something from her. Had Carmen Esposito mentioned her visit? Did the sheriff suspect that she was the one supplying Crime Stoppers with leads? She felt a chill run through her. If he suspected her, Steve Galen could too. After all, who else had a bird’s-eye view of the processing plant parking lot, would have spotted the telltale smoke signals sent by the unwitting Carmen during each of her forays to the niche to smoke?

  Before Miranda could work herself into total panic mode, the doorbell rang again and this time when she opened it Michael Wright walked in. “Michael! I was going to call you. Sheriff Carson, meet my friend Michael Wright. Michael, Sheriff Carson.” The two men nodded at one another warily, each no doubt recalling the sheriff’s deputy’s attempts to pin Isaac’s murder on Michael or his grandfather when the family fish club turned up covered in blood at the crime scene. Sheriff Carson did not apologize to Michael for the careless detective work that led to that fiasco.

  “Hey, Ms Breitner. Glad you’re okay. Me and my sister think you’re a warrior! And we heard you have a busted lock, a bullet hole in your nice new floor, and a busted window pane and frame.” He grimaced at the extent of the damage. “So I’m going to fix them at no cost to you.” He hesitated and smiled sheepishly. “Colestah also said I should drill a hole in your front door and put in a peephole so you can check out who’s there before you let them in.”

  Sheriff Carson’s nod indicated his unsolicited approval of the peephole.

  But it was the clairvoyant Colestah’s approval and the siblings’ generosity that pleased Miranda. “Thanks, Michael. I didn’t want to interfere with your long weekend, so I was waiting until Monday to call you.”

  “No problem. I need a break from the books. I’m just glad you’re okay. What do you want me to start with?”

  “That room is booked for tomorrow night, so a new lock and window would be good. I boarded up the window as best I could this morning. I guess you’ll have to order a whole new window, right?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Okay. I’ll cut the room’s per-night charge until it’s replaced.”

  “But meanwhile I can seal it to keep the heat in.”

  “Great. I’m hoping my insurance company will pony up the cost of repairs. They sent an inspector.”

  “You can discuss that with my sister. I’ll check out the lock and the window and hit Home Depot and be back to seal that window and put in a new lock. I’ll repair the floor later in the week.” He headed down the corridor to the guest rooms.

  “You’re a busy woman, and I’ve taken up enough of your time.” The sheriff shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other as he spoke, so Miranda suspected he had more to say. She was right. “But before I go, would you give me a list of the guests who were here three days before and after the day Isaac Markowitz was killed? I need their contact info too.”

  Miranda was stunned. She’d sent Steve Galen’s contact info to Crime Stoppers. Surely Sheriff Carson didn’t think one of her other guests killed Isaac Markowitz. “Yes, I guess so. But why?”

  “Routine. After a homicide we knock on the doors of all the neighbors to see if any of them saw anything or heard anything. Detective Ladin should’ve interviewed each of your guests individually.” The sheriff scowled. “Turns out you’re the only one he talked to here.” He rolled his eyes. “So I’m just tryin’ to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s and move things along. That’s all.” He shrugged.

  “Why don’t you help yourself to a cup of coffee and a gingerbread scone while I print out that list? I have only four rooms here, so it won’t take long.”

  After the sheriff left with the list, scary possibilities whirled around in Miranda’s head. It wouldn’t take Steve Galen long to figure out that it was she in her crow’s-nest who spotted Carmen Esposito and recruited her as a witness. He’d really hate her for this, possibly come after her. Or he might come after Carmen. Then she reassured herself that that snake must be holed up some place where he felt safe, confident that sooner or later the authorities would arrest a gang banger for the murder of Isaac Markowitz. But she couldn’t leave it at that for long. Steve would’ve heard that Tammy was grilled about stealing poison. So he’d know she and her husband had been outed as haters, possibly as collaborators. Thus warned, maybe Steve had already shed his art restorer persona and established a new identity for himself. But by the time Miranda had run with Rusty, baked several batches of cranberry muffins, and caught Harry up on the sheriff’s visit, she’d reassured herself that it would be dumb for Steve to return to the scene of his crime in any guise, and he wasn’t dumb.

  Almost a week later, as Miranda swirled environmentally friendly cleanser around a guest’s toilet bowl, she shooed Rusty away. She’d still not managed to cure him of quenching his thirst with eau de toilette. She addressed
the un-repentant animal sulking in the bathroom doorway. “You just like to push my buttons, don’t you? This stuff may not hurt the ecosystem, but it would really mess up yours, trust me.” She sponged off the base of the toilet and the rim and was swabbing the seat itself when she flashed on one of the names on the list of guests she’d given the sheriff. Kneeling there on the bathroom floor hyper-aware of Rusty’s bad habit, she read new meaning into that name: Angela Lacey. The pleasant pregnant pharmaceutical rep came to the Valley wheeling a suitcase full of sample meds to leave with doctors. Angela could have supplied Steve Galen with poison. How hard would it be for a charming pharm rep to get her hands on a chemical suitable for poisoning large quantities of grape juice? Easy peasy.

  Sheriff Carson wasn’t just dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s. No, he was trying to figure out if the art restorer had a co-conspirator besides Nurse Tammy and her hubby. Finally, thanks to her Crime Stoppers submission, he was investigating a hate crime as well as a homicide. She hoped the sheriff would do a background check on Angela Lacey, learn how she earned a living, and investigate whether or not she’d provided the poison.

  Miranda should have felt elated, but instead she felt a little queasy. The bedroom she’d just aired out had been Steve’s. Maybe Angela had given Steve the poison and he’d prepared the toxic concoction right there in the sink she’d just scrubbed. Then maybe he’d flushed away the excess in the very toilet bowl she’d just disinfected. Or not. Maybe he forgot to flush. It amazed her that so many of her guests were averse to flushing. If Rusty’d had a chance, he’d have helped himself to the contents of that toilet. She glanced over at her still pouting pooch and remembered that she’d caught him in the act of drinking from Steve’s toilet on the morning Isaac met his death. And she also remembered that Rusty had seemed out of sorts later that day and squirted out liquid shit that evening when Alex Ladin showed up bringing word of the tragedy across the street. Maybe Rusty pooped funny not because of his instant dislike for Alex Ladin, but because he drank poisoned water.