Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  “And what do I tell Justin, Bubbie? Should I encourage him to go to the police?” I had told Cheryl and her son that I needed to think before I advised him what to do.

  Bubbie sipped her tea. “This Justin thinks Shankman killed himself, yes? He says Shankman decided not to tell his story to the newspaper. But you’re thinking, maybe Shankman changed his mind, yes? And if he did, and this boy who cheated found out, or his father did . . .”

  I nodded. “And the boy or his father, or both, went to Shankman’s apartment to persuade him not to go public, and they ended up fighting. But where was Dassie when this happened?”

  The oven timer pinged. I beat Bubbie to the counter, slipped the mitts on my hands, and moved the cookie sheet to the cooling rack. The mandelbrot were golden brown, flecked with green and red from the chopped pistachios and cranberries Bubbie had added to the dough.

  When they were cool enough to touch, Bubbie put a handful in a brown paper bag. Then she handed me a small plastic bag inside of which were a sugar cube and a clove of garlic.

  “Put this in your chulent,” she said, referring to a traditional meat, beans, and potato stew cooked all night in a Crock-Pot and served for Shabbat lunch. “I got it yesterday morning at Gusta’s grandson’s bris. It’s a segulah for having children.”

  I had heard about the tradition. “You really think it works, Bubbie?”

  “It can’t hurt. And you’ll have a delicious chulent.” She smiled.

  At the door she kissed me again.

  “Should I suggest that to Connors, Bubbie? That this boy who cheated, or his father, might have been worried that Shankman was going to talk to the Times and other papers?”

  She shook her head. “Besser gornisht tsu machen aider tsu machen gornisht. Better to do nothing than to make something into nothing. I know you’re worried about the Bailors, Molly, and maybe you want the police to look elsewhere. First find out if there’s something.”

  I probably should have waited a day or so before visiting Melissa Frank, but Justin’s story was in my head. And maybe there was “something.” So instead of going to West L.A., I drove to Mar Vista and parked in front of Melissa’s house.

  The neighbor I had met Saturday night answered the door. I tried to remember her name. Diane.

  “You were here the other night,” she said. “Greg’s cousin. This must be a terrible time for you.”

  My lie had come back to bite me. I nodded, feeling lower than dirt, and asked if I could speak to Melissa.

  “I’ll check. She’s trying to get some rest, poor thing. The next few days will be crazy. She’s been on the phone since she got back last night from Seattle. She had to tell Greg’s parents, and she’s been talking to police, and to reporters. I don’t know how they found out, but they did.” Diane scowled. “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet, though. And Melissa hasn’t figured out a way to tell Kaitlin. But I know she’ll want to see you.”

  “I’m not Greg’s cousin,” I said.

  She stared at me. Her face turned red.

  Mine was hot with shame. “I needed to find Greg. I said that to find out where he lived. I’m sorry.”

  “I think you should leave.” Diane started to shut the door.

  “Melissa may want to talk to me.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Please tell her this is regarding one of Greg’s students at Torat Tzion. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll understand.”

  “Wait here.”

  Diane looked at me as though I were a snake about to slither through the opening of the door. A minute or so passed before she reappeared.

  “Melissa wants to know your name and your connection to Greg.”

  “My name is Molly Blume. I—”

  “That’s what you said last time.”

  “That is my name. I never met Greg, but someone asked me to talk to him about a delicate matter. That’s what I was trying to do Saturday night.”

  “Greg was dead Saturday night. The police said his car went over the road Friday night.”

  “I didn’t know that when I came here.”

  “I’ll tell Melissa.”

  I waited again. The afternoon sun was bright, but the day was chilly. I hugged my arms.

  Diane returned. “Melissa doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Will you give her my card? In case she changes her mind.” I hurried to get a card from my wallet before she shut the door. “Please tell her she can phone me night or day.”

  Diane glanced at the card and grunted. “You’re a reporter. I should have known.”

  “If you could just give Melissa the card,” I said.

  “I don’t think so.” She slammed the door.

  I dropped the card in the mailbox and left.

  Chapter 32

  I had been to the West L.A. station many times, but never to have my fingerprints taken. I parked on Butler, passed through the Pizza Hut orange tile entry and, feeling like Hester Prynne walking around with that A on her chest, took the stairs to the second floor detectives’ room.

  Jessie Drake wasn’t at her desk, but she had left word that I would stop by. Another detective rolled my prints.

  “Detective Drake needs this for purposes of elimination,” I told him, though he hadn’t asked.

  “Uh-huh. Did you want to leave a message for Detective Drake?”

  I debated writing a note saying I had information and a possible lead regarding Shankman’s murder. Bubbie G’s cautionary words flashed in front of me.

  “No, thanks. Please tell her I was here.”

  I spent an hour copying crime data at the station, then drove to the Wilshire station, where I did the same and exchanged a warm greeting with Detective Hernandez, and a lukewarm one with Detective Porter, who liked me better before I helped solve Aggie’s murder, but now seemed to be thawing.

  I arrived home after four and checked my voice mail. Zack had phoned to say he had to visit a congregant in the hospital, so I should eat without him. My sister Edie reminded me that mah jongg would be at her house tonight, instead of Gitty’s. “Be on time,” she added. And my friend Penny wanted to know if I’d disappeared.

  There was no message from Melissa Frank. I hadn’t really expected to hear from her.

  I returned Penny’s call. I hadn’t seen her since my wedding, and I missed her. We spoke for over half an hour, covering much of what had happened to both of us in the past seven months. Between Zack, my family, and my writing projects, I often find myself too busy to stay connected with many of my friends, so I enjoyed catching up.

  We made a date to see a movie the Saturday night after Thanksgiving—Penny and her husband Bob, Zack and me. I wrote the information in my planner and checked my e-mail. My Amazon numbers had improved—Sins was now 22,800—but someone had posted a nasty review. Probably Ron.

  I had stopped at the Fairfax Fishery on the way home. I sprinkled garlic salt, paprika, and teriyaki sauce on two trout fillets, covered one in plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge. I broiled the other, ate it with a salad and couscous, and slapped a Post-it on the fridge with cooking instructions for Zack. I added a heart.

  I phoned the Bailors and spoke to Nechama. She told me Dassie was resting more comfortably, but wasn’t talking much.

  “I don’t know if you heard the news, Molly. A man who was Dassie’s teacher last year died in a car accident. We don’t know if we should tell Dassie.”

  I didn’t know whether Nechama Bailor was a great actress, or whether her husband was keeping another secret from her. I didn’t want to think about the possibility that the rabbi was keeping other, darker secrets.

  “Mom’s playing instead of Gitty,” Edie told me as I was hanging my coat in the entry closet. “I think she’s pregnant.”

  “Mom?” I like teasing Edie because she’s so easy.

  “Very funny. Did Gitty say anything to you?”

  I shook my head. Even if my sister-in-law had told me, I wouldn’t have admitted that to E
die. She takes her seniority seriously, and she would have been hurt.

  My mother and Mindy were in the breakfast room, setting up the tiles. Aside from having inherited our mother’s brown eyes and brown hair, my sisters and I don’t look alike, although people see a familial resemblance. Edie, five feet two, is the shortest, with chin-length highlighted hair (she and I are both assisted blondes). Mindy, next in line, is five-ten. I’m five-six; Liora is five-four.

  My mother, who taught all us Blume girls mah jongg, has been playing every Monday for over thirty years, but her group has extra players, which is why she could sub for Gitty. Liora plays, too, but she’s not as passionate about the game as we are, and most of her nights are occupied with dating. Like Aliza Bailor, I thought.

  I took out my four dollars and placed my tiles on my rack. Mah jongg has elements of fourteen-card gin and Rummy Q. It involves luck and strategy and a familiarity with the numbered Chinese characters painted onto the ivory-like tiles (Cracks, Bams, Dots, Flowers, Soaps). No matter how tired or preoccupied I am when I arrive, I know I’ll find relaxation and comfort in the form of nosh and conversation, which is rarely serious.

  Tonight was no different until the second game, when Edie brought up Shankman’s fatal crash.

  “They didn’t identify the school,” Edie said, naming a tile and tossing it onto the table, “but it’s obviously Torat Tzion. I hope there’s no scandal involved. Have you heard details from the cops, Molly?”

  “Not that I can say.” I scooped a handful of warm popcorn from the bowl.

  She looked at me shrewdly. “So there is something.”

  I tossed a tile. “Three Bam.”

  “If Shankman was planning to reconcile with his girlfriend, why would he kill himself?” Edie asked.

  “Maybe it was just a terrible accident,” my mother said. “Why read into it? Let him be.” Her tone was sharp. For my mother, that’s unusual.

  “You sound as if you knew him, Mom,” I said.

  “He gave a session on teaching AP classes at an all-day educators’ conference sponsored by the Bureau. He impressed me as being knowledgeable and passionate about his students. And he was so young. Not even thirty.”

  We finished the game without much talking. Mindy won. We turned the tiles facedown, mixed them, and set up for another round.

  I passed Edie three tiles. “Speaking of APs, I hear that kids cheat on them.” Not my smoothest segue. “Is that going on at Sharsheret, Mom?”

  “There’s definitely cheating, although I don’t know about on the APs,” she said. “We talk about it at every faculty meeting. We’re vigilant, but students are creative. And cheating is epidemic.”

  “And endemic,” Mindy said. “If there’s a test, someone will cheat. How are they doing it now?”

  “The usual. They write information in teeny letters on their palms or on the inside of their fingers, or on a stretched rubber band. Two weeks ago my colleague caught a student who peeled off a water-bottle label, printed math theorems on the back, and glued the label back on.”

  “Clever,” Edie said.

  “And cheating has gone hi-tech,” my mother said. “Kids text-message answers with their cell phones. At one school, they used a device to get their teacher’s password and steal his exams and his answers. And they buy term papers online. It’s big business. Go to Google, type in ‘term paper.’ You’ll get thousands of sites. ‘Plagiarism-free papers, guaranteed. Custom research. Best prices.’ It’s sickening.”

  “It’s commerce,” Mindy said.

  “How do I cheat—let me count the ways.” I poured myself a glass of diet peach Snapple.

  “Why is that legal?” Edie asked Mindy. “Why don’t they stop the people who are selling the papers?”

  “They claim they’re providing a service. They’re not in control of whether the student neglects to credit his sources.” Mindy shrugged. “A Wal-Mart heiress allegedly paid her roommate twenty thousand dollars over three and a half years to write papers and other assignments.”

  “I heard that.” Edie nodded. “They named a university sports arena after her.” She frowned. “What was her name?”

  “Paige.”

  “How much per page per Paige?” I said, and we all laughed. “But that can’t work for the APs, Mom. Students don’t know the questions or essay topics until they’re in the room taking the exam.”

  “No, but someone who takes the exam in New York or Ohio phones the answers to a friend in an earlier time zone.” My mother looked at her tiles. “And with camera phones, they can take a picture of the questions or material and e-mail the page or pages.”

  “So why don’t schools ban cell phones during exams?” Mindy asked.

  “That’s Sharsheret’s new policy. I’m sure other schools have done the same. But parents complain. They want to be able to be in touch with their children, in case of an emergency. Anyway, as soon as we figure out how to stop one form of cheating, they come up with another method.”

  “Like car thieves,” Edie said. Her Suburban had been stolen and stripped two months earlier. “I knew kids who cheated in high school and in college. They thought it was cool, no big deal.”

  “It’s more complicated,” my mother said. “There’s incredible pressure for students to excel, to get into the Ivy Leagues. And the competition can turn ugly. A friend at another school told me that a top-ranked senior lowered her rival’s grades on her transcripts to improve her own chances of getting into the top schools. Eventually, the truth came out, but still.”

  “What happened to the girl who changed the grades?” I asked.

  “All her college acceptances were withdrawn, and she didn’t graduate with her class. I don’t know what she’s doing now.”

  “Writing term papers for sale,” Mindy said. “Or running a political campaign.”

  “Obviously, that’s an extreme example,” my mother said. “But kids in college prep tracks have insane schedules. Sixty or seventy pages to read a night, labs, term papers, exams they have to ace every semester—double all that if they’re in a yeshiva. Plus all the extracurricular programs they have to take, because every other student is taking them to show admission boards that they’re well-rounded, exceptional students and leaders of tomorrow.”

  “That’s quite a speech.” Mindy smiled.

  “It was, wasn’t it?” My mother’s laugh was self-conscious. “I wish I had answers. In the meantime, kids come to class like zombies because they drink coffee or take caffeine tablets so they can pull all-nighters. If it’s not caffeine, it’s Ritalin.”

  “Like the mom on Desperate Housewives,” Edie said. “Desperate Schoolchildren.”

  “It’s not funny.” My mother gave her a warning look.

  “Or Desperate Teachers,” Mindy said. “I heard that’s going on, too.”

  Edie looked appalled. “Teachers cheating?”

  “It’s the pressure,” Mindy said. “With the No Child Left Behind law, if kids don’t do well, the school could lose federal funding. So teachers ‘help’ students along.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “They drop hints during an exam, or write the correct answers on the board. They change answers on score sheets, give out the real exam as the sample test. Sometimes they give extra time to take a standardized exam, or they don’t include a poor student’s results.”

  “But what about on an AP test?” I asked my mother.

  “I don’t see how a teacher could tamper with the essay. But with the multiple-choice sections, the teacher could change the blackened ovals. Or the proctor could do it.”

  “Why would a teacher do that?” Edie asked.

  “Status,” Mindy said. “Bragging rights.”

  “So this is what my kids have to look forward to?” Edie said. “Wonderful.”

  “Next on Oprah, ‘Teachers who cheat and the cheaters who teach them,’ ” I said.

  Zack was studying Talmud on the phone with a friend when I came home after eleven. I
blew him a kiss and went into the bedroom, where I changed into flannel pajamas. I save the sexy stuff for the right time of the month.

  I was brushing my teeth when I heard the second phone line ring. I rinsed my mouth and hurried to my nightstand. Maybe Melissa Frank had changed her mind and was willing to talk to me.

  I picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Molly? This is Irene.”

  “Irene, this is such a coincidence. I was going to phone you tomorrow at the office.”

  “At the office?” She sounded confused.

  I realized the voice didn’t sound right. “You did say your name is Irene?”

  “This is Irene Jakaitis. From Yamashiro? We met Thursday night?”

  “Oh, of course. Sorry. I thought you were a different Irene.”

  Irene Gurstner: my friend, and the therapist who helped me work through Aggie’s murder and other traumas.

  “You said I should call if I remembered anything else,” the waitress said. “Well, I didn’t, but I thought you’d want to know that someone phoned about your cousin and the guy she was with. He said he was her father.”

  I sat down on my bed. “When was this?”

  “Friday afternoon, after four? The maître d’ said this man told him you were here Thursday night, asking about his daughter, Dassie, and the guy she was with. The maître d’ told him, yes, your cousin was here. The man wanted to know who you talked to, because he wanted to thank her. Meaning me. So the maître d’ called me to the phone, and the man thanked me and wanted to know what I told you, because he said you didn’t give him details. Did you?”

  “Not so many, no,” I said, my heart sinking.

  “Anyway, I told him about the wedding ceremony and about the damage to the car, how it almost ruined the evening. So he said, right, you told him about that. But I thought something was funny.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said he couldn’t remember the license plate number of the car. I mean, how can you forget Rocky Road, right?”

  “Right.” Perspiration beaded my lip. “So you told him what it was?”

  “Uh-huh. I didn’t see why not to. If he’s not your cousin’s dad, why would he be calling? But the more I got to thinking about it, the whole conversation was strange, you know? So that’s why I’m calling you. I thought you’d want to know. By the way, did you ever talk to the guy who was with your cousin?”