“It’s the challenge of the pulpit. I figure I’ll win them over one at a time. That should take me about, oh, give or take six years.” He flashed a wry smile, then speared a chunk of chicken cutlet. “Actually, this’ll be my first Shabbos officiating, so wish me luck. Rabbi Newman was there over thirty years, and the congregation adored him. It’s hard to compete with a legend.”
I had vague memories and several wedding-album photos of the pleasant, slouch-backed, gray-haired man who had officiated under my chuppa. Ron and I met with him once before the wedding and then two years later, when I received my get, the Jewish divorce that granted me freedom.
“I’m sure you’ll be fabulous, Zack. You have experience, and you have the perfect rabbi’s voice.” He did—deep and resonant and gravelly. “And if you have problems with the men, you can charm the ladies, just like you did in high school.”
He laughed. “My reputation was highly exaggerated.”
“You had a new girlfriend every three months,” I reminded him. “I lasted only two, by the way.” I could talk about it easily now, but at the time I’d been stung, had spent more nights than I care to remember crying myself to sleep.
“Then I owe you a month, don’t I? I’d like to make amends.”
His tone was light, but the way he was looking at me, as if I were the only person in the world, made my face feel warm. I’d been taken in by that look before, had practiced writing Mrs. Molly Abrams on the inside cover of my AP History folder on the strength of it.
“You just got back,” I said. “You’re going to meet tons of eligible women. Looks like you’ve already made one conquest.” I nodded toward the blonde sitting at the table across the room.
He half turned to see where I was looking, then faced me. “Reggie’s a member of the shul, a real estate broker. She’s trying to find me a house. We’re just friends, Molly.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’m not looking to play the field.” He was serious now. “I want to settle down, raise a family.”
“Sounds like a good idea. The shul board will approve.” That came out more cynical than I’d intended.
He looked at me appraisingly. “You don’t trust me?”
“You dumped me. One day we were an item, the next day it was over.” The words had come unbidden into my mind and had rolled off my tongue. I was surprised by the anger that pricked at me and wondered if this was why I’d come, to tell him.
He nodded. “I was an immature punk, but that’s no excuse. I’ve always felt bad about the way I acted. I’m really sorry, Molly.”
“Forget about it. It’s not like I think about it every day.” He had a forlorn, lost-puppy look I’d never seen before. My anger evaporated like air escaping a balloon, and I felt silly for having nurtured it for so long. But that’s what we do, isn’t it?
“I wasn’t ready for a relationship,” Zack said. “With the other girls, I knew there’d never be anything serious. With you—” He picked up his goblet and twirled the stem. “I was hoping we could start where we left off.”
There was something electric in the air. I think we both felt it.
I sighed. “You’re a rabbi, Zack.”
“You make it sound like a communicable disease.”
“I’ve had some unpleasant experiences with rabbis, Zack.” One, really, but I tend to generalize for effect. “It’s left me wary.”
“Don’t tar us all with the same brush. I teach and try to be a spiritual guide to people who need my help. That doesn’t mean I’m not a normal guy.”
“It isn’t just that.”
He waited.
“I’m divorced, Zack. My skirts and sleeves are too short. My necklines are too low. I wear pants and use four-letter words, but not in front of my parents or grandmother.”
He smiled. “At least you have some standards.”
“I’m serious, Zack. I ask questions and make comments that ruffle people’s feathers, even if the people happen to be rabbis. I like who I am and what I do.”
“I like who you are, too, Molly. You’re bright. You’re funny.” He paused. “You’re real.”
“Your board members don’t want ‘real.’ They want ‘suitable.’ ”
“Aren’t we jumping the gun?” He gazed at me. “If you thought it was pointless, why’d you come tonight?”
“I was curious.”
“Me, too. We’re having a good time, right? So why don’t we just enjoy the rest of the evening and see where it goes.”
Twelve years had given him maturity and sensitivity, and I was drawn to him now more than before. But . . . I looked at my watch. “Actually, I have to go. I have a deadline for a piece I’m finishing, and I have to get up early tomorrow morning.”
“Okay.” His eyes and voice said he knew I was lying. “Maybe we can get together again sometime.”
After paying for the meal, he walked me to my car and waited until I pulled out of the parking lot. I watched him in the rearview mirror and was halfway toward La Cienega when I realized he’d never told me why he’d decided to become a rabbi.
My answering machine was blinking. I wasn’t in a rush to find out who’d called—probably Edie or Mindy, wanting a debriefing.
I switched on the ceiling fan, changed into my sleepwear—a yellow tank top and briefs—removed my contact lenses, and scrubbed my face free of makeup. Then, sipping a cup of apple-cinnamon tea, I played my one new message, the last of over a dozen on an overly full tape I’d neglected to erase.
“You said to call,” a woman said in a low, clear voice. “I need to talk to someone. I’m af—”
And that was it. End of tape, end of message, but from the few words I knew it was Lenore.
six
Thursday, July 17. 6:48 A.M. Corner of Highland Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. A 37-year-old Asian man chased a 21-year-old African American man with a knife, saying, “I’m going to kill you. Die, bitch, die.” (Hollywood)
I awoke with the heavy, jittery feeling I get when it’s about to rain or I’m hours away from a migraine. It was the date with Zack, I figured, and the restless night it had caused, and the explanation I’d have to give my sisters, and myself. I did thirty minutes on the treadmill, my feet pounding rhythmically along with my heart as I worked up a sweat and wondered why I’d walked away from something that could have been so good.
Of course, I knew why. I didn’t need a psych degree to figure out that it was because he’d dumped me before, because Ron had done the same, even though I’d been the one to call it quits, and I’d be an idiot to risk that kind of hurt again.
But damn, I wanted to see him.
I went into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and saw the reminder note I’d stuck to the fridge with a magnet.
FAST DAY—DON’T FORGET.
It was Shiva Assar b’Tamuz, the seventeenth day of the Jewish month of Tamuz, the day on which the Romans first breached the walls of Jerusalem in the era of the Second Temple. It was also the beginning of the Three Weeks, and maybe that explained my jittery feeling.
I dread the Three Weeks. They take place in the heat of the summer, beginning with this fast, and culminate twenty-one days later on Tisha b’Av, the ninth day of Av, a longer and more stringent fast that commemorates our national mourning over the destruction of both Holy Temples.
During the Three Weeks we refrain from luxuries, like listening to live music, buying or wearing new clothes, cutting our hair, celebrating marriages, bar and bat mitzvahs, or other happy events. Within the Three Weeks are the Nine Days of Av, and they are even more somber and stringent. We don’t swim or do laundry and, except on Shabbat, we don’t eat meat or drink wine.
I’m okay with the stringency. I can survive for three weeks without Bloomingdale’s or a concert at the Hollywood Bowl or the latest Kevin Spacey flick. And it isn’t the solemnity that bothers me, or the fasting. I can certainly use an intense dose of introspection now and then, and I’ll admit it’s hard for me to feel the enormity of t
he loss of the Holy Temples when I have no concrete connection with either one. So the protocols of mourning help.
It’s the unease that I dread. It’s the apprehension that sneaks in and holds us hostage while we wait to hear of some tragic event—and there is always one, usually more than one—that will arrest our hearts and make us say, “Oh, of course, it’s the Three Weeks.” So we are grief-stricken but not really surprised when we hear, during these Three Weeks or Nine Days, that a driver lost control of his bus and plunged over the mountainside, taking thirty-one young campers to their deaths; or that a toddler drowned in his family’s pool; or that a mother had a fatal fall when hiking with her family. Or that a lovely, sensitive, pious young woman, Aggie Lasher, was murdered.
And we hold our breaths, not wanting to hear more, anxious for these Three Weeks to be over so that we can cast off their pall and allow ourselves to relax our guard once again, to feel joy.
You’re probably thinking, “superstition,” and I can’t prove you wrong. But like most of my friends and family, during the Three Weeks I exercise caution. I don’t use my cell phone when I’m driving, and I won’t have any elective surgery done, and during the Nine Days I try not to go anywhere that requires air travel. I am careful not to wave a red flag in Satan’s face. I don’t want him to see me.
After showering and getting dressed, I phoned my mom to talk to her about Zack. I needed a gentle push, and I knew what she’d say: Not everyone is Ron. But I never did get to talk about Zack, because she told me about a forty-seven-year-old father of eight who had died of a strep infection that had traveled to his brain a day after a routine dental appointment.
The Three Weeks . . .
My father had heard the report at the morning service in shul. Not someone we knew, but the sadness was there all the same. There were meals to organize for the family while they were sitting shiva, my mom told me, funds to raise for the widow. Our community is prepared for tragedies like this, and I knew the family’s needs would be met with compassion and efficiency. But this woman would never again feel her husband’s touch; eight children would have to forge their way without a father’s guiding hand.
I volunteered to help cook the Friday night Shabbat dinner, and I spent a little longer than usual on my morning prayers, which I sometimes skip altogether when I’m distracted or rushed or lazy. I prayed for the bereaved family and wished I could do more. I thought about how precious life is, and how we don’t always get second chances. I thought about Zack, and then about Lenore, and wondered again what she’d meant by not deserving a second chance, about the message she’d left on my machine.
Jeannette Plank wasn’t happy to see me. The nurse glared at me, brown eyes narrowed into raisins, lips curled in derision, and brushed me off with a quick turn of her head that sent her cornrows flying.
“Ms. Saunders phoned me,” I said. “She asked me to come.”
Jeannette opened her eyes wide in mock surprise. “Is that right? Did your momma teach you to lie like this, or did you take special lessons?”
“I didn’t lie to you last time, Jeannette, and I’m not lying now.” I ignored the rolling of her eyes. “You assumed I was a detective. I never said I was.”
“You never said you weren’t.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said without apology. I should have come last night. Maybe the nurse on duty would have been less hostile. Then again, Lenore’s mom had probably made me persona non grata with the entire staff.
“Well, you can’t see her,” Jeannette said, and pulled her lips into a grim, self-satisfied line.
I was becoming annoyed. “I think that’s her decision to make. Please tell her I’m here. She said she needed to talk to me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I can bring in my answering machine tape if you don’t believe me.” I can do sarcasm, too.
“Well, you’re out of luck. She’s not here anymore.”
I frowned. “Has she been moved to another floor?”
“Lady, she’s gone. D-E-A-D. You want to see her, you’ll have to talk your way past St. Peter.”
seven
I stood there, uncomprehending. “But she sounded fine last night.”
Jeannette placed her hands on her shapely hips. “Oh, so you’re a doctor and a detective, is that right?”
I barely heard her. “She was fine,” I repeated stubbornly, as if that would make it true. “She phoned and wanted to talk to me.” If I had come last night . . . I thought again. “When did she die?”
Maybe it was the distress in my voice. Whatever the reason, Jeannette answered more civilly. “Sometime in the night, but I don’t know exactly. She was on Seven South. That’s where they moved her yesterday morning.”
“They moved her?”
Jeannette nodded. “She was doing much better.”
“Obviously not. Who made the decision?”
“Things happen.” Ignoring my question, Jeannette punctuated this philosophical truth with a shrug. “If you want details, you’ll have to talk to her doctors or family.”
She seemed eager to end the conversation, and I wondered whether Mrs. Rowan was contemplating a lawsuit.
On the seventh floor I stopped at the first nurses’ bay and was told by a youngish male nurse with crew-cut bleached-blond hair that neither Dr. Lomeli nor Dr. Korwin was available.
“I’d like to speak to someone about Lenore Saunders,” I said. “I understand she died last night.”
He exchanged a quick look with a female nurse. “Are you family?”
Something was going on. I felt a prickling of unease at the base of my spine. “A friend. Can you tell me what happened?”
“You’ll have to talk to the police,” he told me and pointed me to another bay at the end of the long corridor.
I walked down the corridor and from a distance saw Connors. He was talking to a tiny, white-faced Asian nurse who was twisting her hands. I caught his attention and the slight not-now shake of his head, and stayed with my troubled thoughts for ten long minutes until he loped over to me.
He’s a tall, lanky man, around six feet two and string-bean thin, and stands with his shoulders kind of hunched and his head bent, as if the height is too much for him and he’s thinking about folding himself in half. He has a long, thin face; a long, sharp nose; and intelligent hazel eyes that miss nothing. His light brown hair is receding, and he has a bald spot that even a yarmulke won’t cover, but he’s sexy as hell and looks better in his tight jeans than I ever will. He wears cowboy boots, too, and I figure he thinks he’s McCloud, if you remember the Dennis Weaver series that never took off like Columbo.
Connors motioned for me to follow him about a hundred feet away from the bay. He slouched against the wall.
“Losing your touch, Molly?” He gave me a slow grin. “What took you so long to get here?”
“What’s going on, Andy? Why are you here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” There was something more than curiosity in his voice. Official, almost.
“Lenore left a message on my answering machine last night. She wanted to talk to me.”
“Guess you should’ve come last night,” he said, not unkindly.
I flushed.
“Hey, I was teasing. You couldn’t have known.”
“She sounded fine, Andy. And the nurse I spoke to on Tuesday said Lenore was doing better, enough so they moved her to a regular floor. What happened? Did she start bleeding again?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
I scowled at him. “Don’t play games.”
An orderly came down the hall, wheeling a cart. Connors waited until the man had passed, then lowered his voice. “It looks like she killed herself. Not pretty.”
In my research I’ve seen my share of grisly crime scene photos, but I’m never prepared. I steeled myself. “How?”
“Apparently, she lifted a pair of scissors from a surgical cart or nurse’s pocket and played tic-tac-toe on her wrists.”
<
br /> “God!” I swallowed hard and tried unsuccessfully to block the mental picture of Lenore on the bed, her blood turning the white sheets crimson. “Who found her?”
“The nurse you saw me talking to, a little after four this morning. She was making rounds and found Lenore dead. Twenty-six years old.” He shook his head. “What an effing waste.”
I looked at the nurse, who was talking to another staff member, her eyes darting anxiously at Connors every few seconds like a car blinker. “Does Mrs. Rowan know?”
Connors nodded. “She got here around a quarter to six, ten minutes before I did. They had a hard time keeping her from going into the room. She said she had a bad feeling all night about her daughter.”
“Meaning?”
“Lenore was real depressed last night. The mom came early this morning to make sure she was okay. Evidently, Lenore tried to kill herself before.”
I frowned. “Then why wasn’t she on a psych ward? What does Dr. Korwin say?”
Connors raised a brow. “You do have your ways, Molly Blume. How’d you get his name?”
I smiled in answer.
“He’s playing it close to the chest,” Connors said. “He admits he was worried and says he talked to Lomeli last night about maybe transferring her to psych.”
“Covering his butt.”
“Probably. She may have been more agitated than usual because they were weaning her off the antidepressants. But he insists they had no reason to think she was suicidal. He’s shaken up. So is Lomeli.”
“Probably worrying they’ll be sued.” I had a thought. “Do we know for a fact that Lenore was taking the meds?”
Connors frowned. “Why wouldn’t she?”
“When I visited her on Tuesday, she told me she hated not being able to remember and blamed the pills. She said maybe she should stop taking them. I didn’t think she was serious.”
He looked at me, interested. “I don’t think they were giving her much, but I’ll check it out with the nurses. It’ll be on her chart.”
“She could’ve fooled them,” I said, warming to my theory. “She could’ve pretended to swallow the pills, and flushed them down the toilet. Or saved them.”
Blues in the Night Page 4
