Missing

by Adiva Geffen

  “While you dreamt of swans and sea urchins, I spoke with the hospital,” she said as we ate. “We still can’t go visit the journalist guy, but we can definitely have a chat with the neighbors. We also have to talk to the good pastor and find out what he was doing at Ehud Gal’s place.”

  “He really doesn’t like me, Sammy.”

  “That’s as clear as a full moon, which is why I’ve sent your dad to talk to him.”

  “My dad? Are you crazy? He’ll work his fingers to the bone sewing a hundred more curtains for the guy.”

  “Don’t worry, Cooper’s with him.”

  “Sammy!”

  “It was your dad’s idea, and Cooper volunteered to help. By the way, what happened here last night?”

  “I don’t approve.” I ignored her question. “You need to consult all partners before hiring a foreign worker.”

  “I’m the senior partner, and he’s not taking any money.”

  I pulled a sour face. Too much Cooper. What was he trying to do? Why was he pushing his way back into my life?

  “So what happened to you last night?” she asked again.

  “Too much whiskey.”

  “And…?”

  “I had a visit from some sort of ninja who’s looking for something Daria supposedly left here. A guy with a limp and starving-vampire eyes. I have no idea what he was talking about, unless—”

  “Unless Daria did stash away something very important to someone somewhere.” Perhaps that was the answer to all the mysteries. The reason for her great escape, her despair, her falling apart. “But if there was something, how come she didn’t share it with you?”

  “She thought I was with the bad guys. Sammy, we need to find the connection between the break-ins, the people who keep messing up my life, the Ehud Gal incident, and Daria’s free fall from the roof. Plus, don’t forget to add the fact that her real name was Hadas.”

  “By the way, the police want you to drop by the Jaffa station and pick up your cell phone.”

  “Praise the Lord. So, where do we take it from here, Sammy?”

  “We listen, we talk, and we gather evidence. I suggest you take a walk down Sirkin Street and see if you can find out what the good people there know about the attack on Ehud Gal. Get as many people as you can to talk, including kiosk and shop owners. Try to come off like an overcurious neighbor and not a like detective. We don’t want to stir up the neighborhood. I’ll go to the police and do some nosing around, try to find out which way the wind blows as far as this attack is concerned. I’ll meet you in the afternoon back at the office,” Sammy summed up, rose, took a sharp breath, cursed her meniscus and its mother’s mother, and limped outside.

  If only I had a dog. Or, God forbid, a kid.

  People with children or dogs arouse much less suspicion. If you’re lucky enough to have such a thing, you can always start a conversation about stomach gas and baby bottles, or a doggie haircut discount. I couldn’t exactly take Chechnya for a walk down Sirkin Street. Although I suppose she’d be a real icebreaker. That’s why I printed a bunch of flyers: Help Me Find Chechnya! I included a photo of the feline lady in question, let her know she was under house arrest for the next couple of days, and as a bribe, offered her a bowl of cheddar bunnies, her favorite snack.

  Equipped with the tear-jerking props, I headed down to Sirkin Street and hung the first ad on a utility pole outside Ehud Gal’s apartment. I hoped someone would stop to chat, but that didn’t happen. I went into his apartment building and waited. Ten minutes passed before someone finally came inside. I used the last thumbtack on the bulletin board to post my flyer. He gave me a hostile look. Can’t say I blame him. Tel Aviv stairwells are virtually drowning in ads and flyers. But then he actually read the ad, and his entire demeanor changed. Following a few excited exchanges about cats and dogs, fleas, and fleabags who don’t pick up after their dogs, I asked if he’d heard about what had happened to Ehud.

  “He lives here,” my new friend, who went by the name of Menashe, said with pride. “He lives in the apartment below me.”

  “You don’t say. That’s terrible. Good thing they didn’t break into your apartment too.”

  He shook his head. “Like I told my wife, this is the sort of world we live in! A man can never know what’s waiting round the corner. Life’s just one big lottery.”

  “And you didn’t hear anything?”

  “Look, there have been all sorts of people going in and out of his apartment, and they weren’t all ‘our people,’ if you catch my drift. But, like I told my wife to calm her down, it’s just the press making a fuss — they’re always looking for the next headline. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Why was your wife worried?”

  He bent and brought his lips close to my ear. “I’ve seen lots of foreign workers hanging round his place. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of them who broke in.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, you know where those people come from.”

  I decided I’d had just about enough fun with my new friend, Menashe, said a few quick words about the violent times in our city, and continued to the neighborhood grocery store.

  I asked the owner’s permission and then hung the flyer on the board next to the redheaded cashier. We exchanged a few words about how much we loved our cats and the rain that never comes. Then I bought a pack of cigarettes. As she handed me the change, I asked if she knew what had happened on Sirkin Street, because I’d seen an ambulance there.

  “What happened on Sirkin Street?” She looked surprised.

  “Haven’t you heard?” the woman standing behind me in line barged into the conversation. “They almost killed Ehud.”

  “Ehud from your block?” Carrottop asked eagerly.

  “Yes, the reporter.”

  “Do they know who it was?”

  “No, but it probably has something to do with his work. I heard screaming and shouting from his apartment more than once,” an aristocratic-looking lady wearing a blue velvet tunic said smugly.

  “Who was screaming?” I jumped back in to the conversation.

  She shrugged.

  “You know who he was working for?”

  “He was a man who kept his secrets to himself. A reporter, but a nice guy. Always paid his HOA fees on time.”

  “Did he have a family? A girlfriend?”

  “He lived by himself. But he had a sister.”

  “A sister?”

  “Yes, you should have seen her.”

  “Why?” I got closer to the well-dressed chatterbox.

  “Once, when I went to collect his HOA fees, I saw a framed photo of a girl wearing a white dress. She looked like a movie star. I asked who she was, and he said it was his sister, Avital. Something bad must’ve happened to her, because his face got all scrunched up when he said her name.”

  The cashier asked if I needed anything else. I added razor blades and batteries.

  “And who was the girl who found him after the break-in?”

  The chatterbox shrugged.

  Someone behind us started grumbling that we were holding up the line. I paid and went back out to the street. I continued to roam about with my missing kitty ads but gathered very little additional information. Few people knew Ehud. Some were proud to have a journalist living on their street, some thought he was gay, others claimed lots of girls went up to his apartment, someone else told me he was a widower. An elderly guy whispered he was sure Ehud had been harboring criminals in his apartment.

  After five hours of strenuous detective work, Ehud remained a mystery. Just a name on a mailbox. Someone who lived in the building never interacting with any of the neighbors. He locked his door and kept his secrets to himself but always paid his HOA fees on time. Nothing new other than the young woman in the white dress to whom something tragic mig
ht have happened. She was the only new piece of the puzzle I’d managed to unearth, and it wasn’t enough to complete the picture.

  In the afternoon, I went to the office to meet Sammy.

  Unlike the handful of small news items that had been published a few days before about Daria’s death, the media covered Ehud Gal’s attack in great detail, maybe because he was a member of the press, maybe because he had stayed alive, which meant real-time developments could be reported. I tried to find the identity of the woman who had called the ambulance, but no name was mentioned on any of the news websites.

  My mailbox did have some news though. I’d received a reply email from Dr. Barak Magidal.

  Dear Lioness, the doctor wrote. I’m so happy you’ve decided to reach out to me. I’d be delighted to lend you a helping hand. We have many ways of assisting a woman in her quest to be released from her troubles and to find a way out of her tortured soul. I recommend that you join our preparatory program before selecting one of the classes I teach. Please fill out the attached form so I can recommend a class for you.

  An automatic reply that was probably sent to anyone who had ever made the mistake of leaving her email address on his website.

  I went through the form, which requested the inevitable personal information, including marital status, income level, place of residence, employment, etc. Then they wanted to know how I’d found them — who had recommended them to me, where had I heard of the Magidal method, and if I had ever contacted them before. Next were more intimate details — What is my religious affiliation? Do I believe in personal growth? Have I ever participated in a spiritual workshop? What do I find difficult about my life? Do my difficulties have bodily manifestations? Do I believe in God as the creator of the universe? Do I have a supportive boyfriend? Do I have a good relationship with my mother, father, grandmother? And countless more prying questions about my soul, values, and beliefs.

  I filled out the form with outright, yet necessary, lies and sent it back to Dr. Magidal.

  I opened his website to do some more surfing. A window opened on the screen, bearing photographs of people who had participated in the workshops and had found the road to happiness through them. It had lawyers, software engineers, teachers, students. Another window suggested I register for a two-day workshop that would help me unearth the dormant happiness nestling within me, eager to spread its wings. “A taste of the light,” they called it.

  I tried to find the video with Daria, but it appeared someone had removed it. Small wonder, I thought to myself. After all, she may have touched happiness, but she’d burned her wings in the process.

  ◊◊◊

  When Sammy entered the office, she was breathing hard and barely able to utter a word. She handed me a note with the words: Sagit Doron, Shalhavim settlement.

  “New house?”

  “No.”

  “New client, then?”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to visit this Shalhavim. And Sagit is…?”

  “Ehud’s sister.”

  “His sister’s name was Avital,” I corrected her.

  She dropped into the chair and tried to catch her breath. “Maybe he has two sisters. Sagit is the one is sitting next to Ehud’s hospital bed. Ginger will take you to Shalhavim.”

  “And what am I supposed to find there?”

  “Oil? Perhaps a diamond mine? I don’t know, snoop around. Isn’t this what we do for a living? Ehud is unconscious, no one knows anything about him in his neighborhood, the police have a gag order on the entire investigation — we need to find a new angle.”

  Less than ten minutes later, I was on my way down to the street. Ginger waved to me, and we took off toward a new destination — the Shalhavim settlement.

  23

  The nanny was the only one home at Sagit Doron’s house. She was a pocket-sized, energetic woman who seemed capable of handling more children than Mary Poppins. With one hand tied behind her back.

  “She scheduled an appointment with me,” I lied. “You think I could wait for her?” I asked and tried to push my way into the house. The nanny blocked the door with her foot.

  “She must have forgotten, but I’m not allowed to let you into the house.”

  “Look,” I said with a smile, “they sent me from her insurance company. She wants to insure the house, and I’m the appraiser.”

  “She didn’t tell me anything about an insurance appraiser. Come back tomorrow. No, wait. Instead, call before you come — they’ve got some problems now.”

  “My name is Alona. Pleased to meet you.” I decided to use one of my favorite fake identities. “What’s your name?”

  “Miriam,” she said.

  “At least let me take a look around the house, Miriam. You see, it took us hours just to find the place.” I pointed at the taxi and Ginger, who just happened to scratch his ear. A waiting taxi is a sign of reliability. Rapists and burglars don’t show up on your doorstep in a taxi.

  She took a look at the taxi and hesitated. Then she told me to wait, she needed to talk to Sagit. Shit. The next call would be to the police.. I took a step back, ready to retreat to Ginger’s taxi any second. I saw her dialing. Waiting. Dialing again and waiting again. Obviously, Sagit was sitting next to her brother’s hospital bed and couldn’t talk.

  Miriam came back to the door and examined me carefully, trying to decide whether I was an insurance appraiser or a serial killer.

  “That’s all right, Miriam.” I tried to put her at ease. “I don’t want to put you on the spot. I’ll schedule an appointment with Sagit some other time. I just hope they don’t make a big deal out of it at the office. I’m only a temporary employee.”

  That did the trick. Five seconds later, I was inside the house.

  I knew I needed to be quick about it. I started to roam about the house briskly, taking notes and snapping photos, with supernanny always one step behind me.

  Unlike the neatness of the lawn and jasmine bushes that surrounded the house, the interior was a chaotic assortment of furniture that had probably been donated by relatives who’d decided to buy new stuff. A blue, faded sofa, a rattan armchair from the sixties, a pinewood cabinet with some missing shelves, and mountains of toys stacked up in the living room. On the other hand, there was a humungous plasma television hanging on the wall, the sort of television I have always planned on buying my father, the nature documentary lover, just as soon as I get rich.

  Miriam followed me everywhere, anxiously clutching her cell phone, still not convinced I deserved her trust. I sent her soothing, honest smiles from time to time.

  I went into the master bedroom. A white wooden bed with an orange bedspread and two matching nightstands. A tall chest of drawers faced the bed with a few standard framed family photos on top. Two sweet twins dressed up as clowns and a couple of wedding photos.

  “Is that Sagit?” I pointed at one of the wedding party photos.

  She nodded.

  “What a striking couple. And her?” I pointed at a photo of a gorgeous girl in a white dress. “She looks awfully familiar. Isn’t she a model or something?”

  “You must have seen her on TV — she was an actress.”

  “Was?”

  “She died, poor thing.”

  So the chatterbox had been right. “Died? How?”

  “Are you finished here?” she said, and her eyes made it clear I’d just crossed the thin line separating curiosity and nosiness.

  I wasn’t allowed to go into the children’s room. The twins were having their morning nap.

  I thanked her and said goodbye.

  Ginger started the car when he saw me coming out. All I wanted to do was to put as much distance as possible between myself and supernanny before she found out I had misbehaved.

  “Where to?”

  “The center of town. Perhaps we’ll find a grocery
store or a Laundromat — anyplace that has more than two people in it.”

  After five minutes of driving, we found the local discount supermarket. It was an ugly building with graying walls, a rusting sign above the entrance, three stairs, and a wheelchair ramp.

  This time, I sent Ginger in with strict instructions and waited in the car.

  Fifteen minutes later Ginger came out, grinning happily, accompanied by a young woman whose hair was tied back with a strip of floral-print cloth.

  He walked beside her like a modern-day knight, carrying shopping bags for a lovely wench. After helping her put the shopping bags in her car, he waved goodbye excitedly.

  “Your ex-wife?” I asked when he got behind the wheel with a dreamy look on his face.

  “Perhaps my future wife.” Ginger chuckled and started the car.

  “So, what did your future bride tell you?”

  “The whole tragedy in a nutshell.” He started the car and began to slowly drive down the street. “My darling Naomi” — a smile crossed Ginger’s face — “says that Avital was the town beauty. A model and a successful actress, she was even on the verge of signing a contract with some well-known American film company.

  “Naomi says she doesn’t know what happened. She thinks it might have been drugs, but they say that about every dead actress. She says that, in spite of all the gifts God had given her, Avital had very little self-confidence and wasn’t a happy person. One day, she let everyone know she’d changed her name. My Naomi did pretty well, didn’t she?”

  “She’s a treasure. I might just end up marrying her myself. Let me guess, Avital changed her name to something that rhymes with malaria or aria?”

  “How did you know? She called herself Avia.”

  In an instant, all the human pieces of the puzzle fell into place — Ehud Gal, Avital, Daria, and all the other daughters of God. Perhaps even Galia, the woman who kept hanging up on me.

  “Did you happen to ask if she was married?”