Dirty Harriet Rides Again

by Miriam Auerbach

  “Oh. No, sweetie, I didn’t have time today, but I figured I’d go first thing in the morning. They open at seven so you’ll have plenty of time to get dressed and get to work.”

  His eyes freeze, and his face goes rigid.

  “I told you to pick it up today.”

  “I know, but like I said . . .”

  “I heard you. You didn’t do what I asked. I work my ass off to provide you with this”—he sweeps his arm around to indicate the house, spilling champagne on himself—“and all I ask is for you to do one simple thing for me, and you can’t manage to do it.”

  I back away from him. “I don’t see what the problem is. If I get the clothes at seven in the morning, you can still wear them tomorrow.”

  “She doesn’t see what the problem is,” he mocks my words to Diva, who has now jumped off the couch and is hiding behind it. “The problem is I asked you to do something, and you didn’t do it,” he screams. “The problem is you’re a sorry excuse for a wife. All you think about is yourself, you worthless piece of shit.”

  He grabs the champagne bottle and smashes it down on the glass-topped coffee table. The tabletop shatters into big jagged pieces.

  I jump up and run to the far side of the room, to the dining table that I’d set.

  “I’m leaving,” I say. “I’ll come back when you’ve calmed down.”

  “Get the hell out,” he yells. Then he picks up one of the glass pieces and flings it at me. It flies through the air like a Frisbee. I put my hands up to protect my face. The jagged edge hits my forearm. Burning pain sears all the way up to my shoulder.

  I grab a linen napkin off the dining-room table and press it to my arm to stop the blood flow. Then I grab my car keys and run out of the house.

  But later that night I come back. And the next morning at seven I pick up his dry cleaning.

  The piercing cry of a limpkin bird outside jarred me back to the present. I gazed out the window at the foot of my bed. The pale light of dawn was coming through. I lay still, thinking about the dream. I was starting to see a connection. Every time I thought about romance or marriage, these dreams would come. Okay, so all I had to do was avoid those subjects. Just as I had been doing for the last four years.

  There was no way I’d get back to sleep now. Might as well get started on the day.

  I got up and made coffee. After drinking it, I still felt shaky. I needed to regain my balance, and I knew just how to do that. Motorcycle maintenance. If you own a hog, maintenance is an integral part of the experience. If you won’t keep it up, don’t saddle up.

  I pulled the bike off the airboat onto the porch and set it on its center stand. I cleaned, wiped, and polished every surface. Then I went through the standard safety checks of tires, wheels, controls, lights, oil, and chassis. By the time I was done, Doormat Harriet was gone and Dirty Harriet was back.

  Just in time, too, because the phone rang, and when I picked it up, the voice at the other end said, “Harriet, the most horrible thing happened!”

  Chapter 17

  WHO ELSE BUT Mom, the drama queen? What was it now? Before I had a chance to ask what horrible thing had happened, she went on.

  “Last night Howard Levine, Leonard and I attended a protest against the iguana statues. The protest was right on the bridge. It was so crowded, just jam packed, like the Ponte Vecchio . . .”

  Oh, please. Was she seriously comparing a little concrete span over a canal with the world-renowned medieval Florentine landmark?’ What did I say—drama queen. I kept my mouth shut.

  “Well, in all the melee, poor Howard was pushed off the bridge into the canal!”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Yes, now. But it was terribly frightening. Some young men pulled him out and an ambulance took him to the hospital. Of course, we went there after him, but they wouldn’t tell us anything except that he was stable. You know how tight-lipped they are, with those new privacy laws. But he called this morning and said he’d been released and was fine.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your distress, Mom, but it seems to be okay now.”

  “No, it’s not okay. First the reverend, then the rabbi, and now Howard. For all we know, someone tried to kill Howard.”

  “Maybe, but it sounds like an accident to me. And it doesn’t seem to fit the pattern of the killings. But how do you know about the rabbi, anyway?”

  “As a matter of fact, Harriet, I had to hear about him from Howard himself last night. He’s a member of the congregation. My own daughter was at the scene, her boyfriend was arrested, and she couldn’t be bothered to let her mother know.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” was the first thing that came out of my mouth.

  I took a deep breath. I wasn’t going to get into it with her.

  When she realized that, she went on. “Well, surely your boyfr—I mean, Lior, did not kill the rabbi.”

  “I’m looking into it, Mom.”

  “Maybe it was a domestic dispute. I heard the rabbi’s wife was about to divorce him. Maybe she decided she’d be better off widowed than divorced. Like you.”

  So now I was a role model for wrathful wives?

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “So she killed the reverend, too?”

  “No . . . Oh, I don’t know. It’s all so overwhelming. I’m just trying to help.”

  “I appreciate that, Mom. But I’m on top of it. I might follow up on the domestic angle, but I’m pursuing other leads right now.”

  “All right, dear. You may be right. Now about that dinner we talked about a few days ago? How’s tomorrow night, six o’clock? And since you refuse to bring Lior, well actually, since he can’t come, anyway, why don’t I invite Chuck and Enrique? I think they said they’d be back today from their, uh, pseudohoneymoon, and I’m sure they’d appreciate a warm welcome home.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Fine. See you then.”

  Anything to get her off the phone.

  Once I hung up, though, her words began to nag at me. What if this really was as simple as a domestic case? Could I be complicating matters with my conspiracy theory?

  I decided it wouldn’t hurt to check out the supposedly merry widow. I figured the family would be sitting shivah, the traditional Jewish seven-day formal mourning period, so I could drop in to pay my respects.

  I loaded up the bike onto the airboat and sped off for land. Once there, I stopped by my office and looked up the rabbi’s address in the phone book. The house was in one of Boca’s innumerable country-club developments.

  I rode over and announced myself to the ever-present gatehouse guard.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “The family is receiving visitors all day today. Please go ahead.”

  He lifted the gate bar, and I cruised through.

  I easily found the house, as cars overflowed from its driveway onto the street. This was good. I could blend right in. Maybe I wouldn’t even have to ask any questions. I knew from experience that you could learn a lot just by listening.

  I rang the bell. A medium-height, droopy-eyed guy in his thirties answered the door. A yarmulke nestled in his curly brown hair.

  I introduced myself. “I’m here to pay my respects,” I said.

  “Please come in. I’m Abe Zelnik, the rabbi’s older son.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “Thank you. I’m sure my mother will appreciate your coming by. She’s over there.”

  He gestured across the room to a sixtyish woman sitting in a throne-like wicker chair underneath a mirror draped in black cloth. She wore a long black dress, had black hair and a long straight nose. Damned if she didn’t look like an older version of Morticia Adams.

  The room was full of black-clad, skullcapped mourners. A line of people waited to speak with the widow, who seemed to be holding court. />
  “Thanks,” I told Abe and walked over to take my place in line.

  As I waited, I eavesdropped on the conversation around me.

  Two older women stood in front of me. Based on their similar features, I figured they were sisters. One of them was saying to the other, “Rachel, did you hear that the rabbi left $30,000 to be used for his funeral?”

  “Really?” the other woman asked.

  “Yes! And I hear there’s absolutely nothing left!”

  “How can that be, Leah?” Rachel asked.

  “Well, I’m told the funeral cost was $6,500. And I heard Mrs. Z made a donation to the synagogue for $500, and she spent another $1,000 for food and drinks for this shivah. The rest went for the memorial stone.”

  “Twenty-two thousand dollars for the memorial stone?” Rachel asked. “My God, how big is it?”

  “Four and a half carats,” Leah replied.

  Hmm, I thought. Maybe the widow really had done him in.

  I tuned back into the conversation, hoping to pick up more info. Unfortunately, the women had shifted to another topic.

  “What a shame you couldn’t make it to Rex’s bark mitzvah, Rachel,” Leah was saying.

  Had I heard that right? A bark mitzvah?

  “It was the most fabulous party,” Leah continued. “All the doggy guests got kosher treats, and there was a beautiful cake from the dog bakery, and you should have seen the decorations! Our colors were black and gold, and all the guests got black patent-leather collars with real gold thread trim. I tell you, my party planner really outdid herself.”

  “That’s nice, Leah,” Rachel said, “but I doubt yours outdid the Blumensteins’ bark mitzvah for their little Rover. The party was held in a hot air balloon.”

  God help us. I had heard right. A bark mitzvah. Apparently a coming-of-age ritual for your pampered pooch. Only in Boca. I wanted to ask what exactly they do at a bark mitzvah. Read from the Pet-ateuch? And what do Catholic canines have? Con-fur-mation? It was all dogma to me.

  Leah went on, “Well, Rachel, of course the Blumensteins have no sense of decorum. That’s exactly the kind of tacky showiness I’d expect from them.”

  “I beg to differ,” Rachel said.

  “Hmmph,” Leah sniffed.

  Rachel apparently decided to change the subject, yet again. “Did you hear that Rhoda passed?” she asked.

  “Yes, I heard!” Leah replied. “I was shocked. It was so unexpected.”

  “Yes, you just never know,” Rachel said.

  Well, I reflected, that is just a reality of life in Boca. When you live in a retirement haven like this, a certain amount of death comes with the territory.

  Then Rachel went on, “Yes, that cosmetology exam is really tough, but she passed.”

  “Well, good for her,” Leah said. “You know, maybe she could be my new hairstylist. My Lorenzo is leaving the salon.”

  “He is? Why?”

  “Imagine this. After all this time we’ve been together and I’ve poured out my heart and soul to him, he tells me he really doesn’t like people. So he’s going to open his own salon in one of those assisted-living facilities. He figures that’s one population he can deal with. They’re not really demanding. Plus, he’ll have a steady supply of clientele right there, so he won’t have to troll for patrons.”

  Again I wanted to jump right into the conversation, and ask why Lorenzo was setting his sights so low. I mean, if he really wanted a nondemanding, steady supply of clientele, why not go all the way—to the funeral homes? After all, this is Boca. Everybody wants to look good right up to the very end.

  Mercifully, the women’s discussion finally ended as they reached the front of the line and expressed their condolences to the widow.

  Then it was my turn. I took the widow’s hand and said, “Mrs. Zelnik, I’m Harriet Horowitz. I happened to arrive at the scene of your husband’s mur—uh, tragic death. Please accept my deepest sympathies.”

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. She gestured to a young man on her left. “This is my younger son, Aaron.”

  Then she looked me up and down. “Are you married?” she asked.

  Oh, my God. Was she actually trying to fix up her son at her husband’s mourning ritual?

  “Yes, I am,” I replied quickly, attempting what I hoped was an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I told Aaron and moved away in haste. I didn’t move too far, though, angling to catch some more snatches of conversation. Hopefully relevant ones this time.

  I got lucky. The next caller that came along was apparently a close friend of the widow. After she expressed her sympathies, Mrs. Zelnik said, “Oh, come on, Esther. How long have we been friends? Let’s get real. You know I’m only doing this for the boys. I wouldn’t give that old shtoonk the time of day. You know he was shtupping half the women in the congregation, and the other half of the time he was farshikkert.”

  Thanks to my long succession of Jewish stepfathers, I’d picked up enough Yiddish to gather that the good rabbi was a skunk, a player, and a drunk.

  She continued, “I was about to get a get—” I knew that was a Jewish divorce “—but the putz saved me the trouble.”

  “Mama, don’t talk that way,” Aaron interrupted. “Someone might think you killed Papa yourself.”

  “How dare you speak to your bereaved mother like that,” Esther butted in, making a move to smack Aaron. He cowered, covering his face with his hands.

  Gee, I wonder why this mama’s boy wasn’t married yet.

  “Oh, please,” Mrs. Zelnik said. “Death is too good for him. I planned to take him to the cleaners in the civil divorce. He would have been miserable for the rest of his life for all the suffering he’s put me through.”

  “Besides,” Esther said to Aaron, “your mother was playing bridge with me and two other friends all Friday morning. She couldn’t have killed your father, even if she’d wanted to. Which, of course, she didn’t,” she added hastily after the widow gave her a look.

  Okay, I’d heard what I’d come for. I headed for the door.

  AS I RODE homeward, my hog humming thanks to the upkeep I’d done, I thought about the widow’s alibi. So she had three witnesses to state that she was elsewhere at the time of the murder. But she could have hired a hit man, or woman. But didn’t those people usually shoot their target? Strangling someone with his prayer shawl seemed awfully personal. Or spur of the moment.

  Just as I pulled the hog up to the airboat, my phone rang.

  “Harriet!” It was Lupe. “Have you heard?”

  “I’ve heard plenty, but probably not whatever you have to tell me.”

  “Oh, it’s dreadful.”

  I got a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Unlike my mother, Lupe was no drama queen. If she said something was dreadful, it was.

  “Yes?” I asked, almost wincing.

  “Father Murphy from Our Lady of the Fairways has been found dead. Drowned in the baptismal font in his own church!”

  Chapter 18

  NOW I WAS absolutely certain that there was a connection among the killings. And damn it, I’d just spent the afternoon pursuing a false lead. I should have trusted my instincts instead of listening to Mom. Maybe if I had, I could have prevented this latest murder.

  I sighed. “Who are the cops pinning it on this time?”

  “The church maintenance man. He’s Haitian. They found a chicken foot next to the body, so they think he killed the Father as some kind of voodoo sacrifice.”

  “Say what?”

  “Well, you know that animal sacrifices are common voodoo and Santeria practices.” As a cultural anthropologist, Lupe knew all about these things.

  But I knew a few things, too. I knew that chicken feet and other animal parts were occasionally found around town. E
specially on the steps of the courthouse when someone wanted favors from the deities to influence a case. I also knew about the use of such dubious devices as Evil-Off Spray and Love Me Oil. As a ScamBuster, I was well aware that these were usually cons perpetuated upon desperate, vulnerable believers.

  “Yeah, I know about it,” I said.

  Lupe must have caught the skepticism in my voice.

  “You may not believe in it, Harriet, but don’t deny the power of faith. Anyway, human sacrifice is certainly not part of the picture. Zombification and casting the evil eye are the preferred methods of dealing with one’s enemies. And only a small minority of believers practice those dark arts. Plus, these beliefs are syncretic poly—”

  “Sin-cratic-poli? What the hell is that? Shorthand for a sinful theocratic politician? Isn’t that redundant?”

  “No, Harriet,” Lupe said patiently. “Syncretic polytheistic religions. Meaning they’re a blend, in this case a mix of African Yoruba religions and Catholicism, and they have many gods, which are simply the counterparts of the many saints in Catholicism. So it hardly seems that a Catholic priest would be the target of a killing by these believers.”

  “So this is obviously another setup,” I said.

  “Clearly,” she replied.

  “Thanks for filling me in. I’ll get on it.”

  I turned around and headed straight back to my office. There, I took out my printouts of the committee membership lists that the reverend and the rabbi had both been on. I quickly scanned the lists. Father Murphy was on only one of them, the city council’s Ethics Advisory Committee.

  This was the only link I could find among the victims. It had to be the key to the crimes.

  I went online to look further into the Ethics Committee’s activities. I reviewed all the city council minutes for the past year. I nearly passed out from tedium reading about zoning regulations, building permits, contractors’ bids, and on and on. However, when I was done, one thing was clear—the Ethics Committee was one influential group.

  Over the past year, the committee had made recommendations on about a half-dozen issues. Things like whether to allow a dog racetrack in town, whether to block porn sites from the Internet at the public library, and so forth. And in each case, the council ultimately voted in accordance with the committee’s recommendation. So if someone wanted to, say, influence the city council on some controversial issue, a good way to do it would be to get to the Ethics Committee.