A Pain in the Tuchis

by Mark Reutlinger

  Chapter 22

  I had a very nice time visiting Morty. He and his wife Joanne live in a spacious house in the suburbs, one of those newer kind that look like someone stuck two matzoh boxes together and surrounded it with a strip of gehockteh leber—chopped liver. Whatever happened to peaked roofs, bay windows, and pretty back gardens? Nu, it is their house, and they seem to like it.

  Joanne, whose maiden name I believe was Livingston, is a very sweet girl. She is what is called a “Jew by choice,” a convert, and she acts much like so many of the people I have known who have converted to Judaism: she is, if I may say so, “more Jewish” than many who were born that way. She is the one in the family who insists on celebrating all of the Jewish holidays and who supervised the children’s Jewish education. She has been president of both their synagogue and the temple sisterhood. She is active in Hadassah and other Jewish women’s organizations. My friend Patricia Wilson, who is a Gentile, once told me it is the same when someone converts to Christianity. I remember her quoting someone who said that “there is no zealot like a convert.” She said the best example was the Apostle Paul, of whom I have of course heard. I do not know in what religion Paul brought up his children.

  Morty and Joanne have two children: Michael, who is fifteen, and Aviva, who is seventeen. Michael is fast becoming a man, and he is already as tall as his father. He is good at sports, I am told, like playing football and baseball. And Aviva, she is growing up to be a real krasavitseh, a beautiful woman. They are good children, but like most teenagers these days, they seem always to have plugs in their ears, as if they are hard of hearing, with wires trailing down each side like thin payess, the long sideburns worn by Orthodox Jews, and disappearing into their clothing. And of course there are the smarty telephones, like the one Sara gave to me. Only they do not seem to use them for making telephone calls, but only for sending messages with their thumbs and listening to music in those things in their ears. And to take pictures. Pictures of everything.

  I had brought along my new telephone, and they tried to show me how to do the “texting.” But my thumbs would not do what they were supposed to, and I usually ended up with words that looked like they were written in secret code. It used to be an insult to say someone was “all thumbs,” but my grandchildren were writing messages so fast it looked like they were indeed all thumbs, and so I guess that phrase is now more of a compliment.

  Nu, so of course the children were insisting on teaching me how to use my new telephone, even if my thumbs had to move much slower than theirs. They found it funny that I could not understand half the words they used in their messages, like “LOL” and “IMHO.” They also taught me lots of other things I could do with my telephone, like taking pictures, including those “selfies” that Sara had mentioned, recording voices, and even making movies. They showed me how to put what are called “apps” on my phone, little pictures which could do everything from reading those squares with the little squiggles you see everywhere to telling me how to get to Yahupitz by the shortest route. I did not see when I would ever need all those gadgets—it was like one of those knives with a hundred blades, the ones from Switzerland, where you only use about two or three of the blades ninety-nine percent of the time—but I pretended like I was as excited about having them as they were to show me.

  Sunday afternoon I returned to the Home. As soon as I had unpacked and settled myself, I telephoned Mrs. K, on my regular telephone with the wire attached, to see whether she had gotten any further in our investigation of Vera’s death while I was gone. And to ask about her date with Taubman, of course.

  “Yes, Ida,” she said, “in fact there is much for me to tell you. Why don’t you come over and I will tell you all about it.”

  That seemed like a good idea, and soon we were sitting in Mrs. K’s living room sipping hot tea from Mrs. K’s lovely bone china teacups—oolong, I think, which she had bought on our last shopping trip, as all we get at the Home is Mr. Lipton.

  “So how was the play, and how was your date with Taubman?” I asked. First things first.

  “I’ve told you it was not a date, just going to a play together. And it was very nice, thank you. The acting was quite good, and the surprise ending was, well, a surprise.”

  “And was Taubman a…a gentleman throughout?”

  “He did not make a pass at me, if that is what you mean. Really, Ida, we are not sixteen years old anymore. You should not pretend we are.”

  “You do not have to be sixteen, or even sixty, to have a kush, a little smooch, with a handsome man. You are never too old, in my opinion.”

  Mrs. K sighed. “Yes, you’re right, Ida. But in this case, there was no smooch, just maybe a polite squeeze of the hand when he took me to my door. But I will be honest: if he had tried a smooch, I would not have screamed for help or given him a klap on the kop. But he did not, and that is just fine.”

  “And will you be going out with him again soon?” This was beginning to sound promising. Not that I was trying to make a marriage for Mrs. K—I am not a shadkhen, a matchmaker—but only that it had been a long time since either of us had really socialized with a person of the opposite sex. Unless you consider my experience with Motorcycle Moishe socializing, and I would rather you did not.

  Mrs. K smiled, a little like that smile on that Mona Lisa lady, as if there was a secret behind it. She said, “Let us just say he has asked if we might go together somewhere else in the future, and I have said yes. We shall leave it at that.”

  “Mazel tov. So now what is it you did while I was away?” I asked.

  “First, tell me about your visit. How are Morty and the family? The children are well?”

  “Very well, thank you. The grandchildren are growing up so fast! And they know so much more—about everything—than we did at their age. It is a bit scary.”

  “I know what you mean. But that is just the way of the world now, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I suppose. Anyway, I learned more about using my new telephone. And seeing everyone reminded me I must update my will. I have not done so since Michael and Aviva were very little, and my lawyer warned me then to be sure to have it looked at every few years, because if the family situation changes…But enough about that. Tell me what you were up to.”

  “Well, it was a very eventful weekend. It began Saturday morning. When I was taking my vitamin pills.” I have seen Mrs. K’s assortment of vitamin pills, and they cover most of the alphabet. “I had this little idea, a—what do they call it, the fancy name—an epiphany. And the rest of the day I spent trying to follow this idea to see where it might take me.”

  “Following it how?”

  “Oh, a lot of snooping. And questioning. First I had a long talk with Daniel.”

  “About what? About his mother?”

  “No, not exactly. You might say it was a professional consultation. I wanted to know certain things about medicines.”

  “And then?”

  “And then I telephoned to Inspector Corcoran. I did not think he would be working on Saturday, but I took a chance and he was indeed in his office.”

  “What did you want from Corcoran?”

  “Do you remember Hannah telling us about this cousin, Erik? And how she knew he was quite a heavy gentleman?”

  “Yes, I think she said Vera had shown her an old picture of their family and he was in it. Wasn’t that it?”

  “Yes, that’s right. What I wanted from Corcoran was that he should find out whether that picture was among Vera’s possessions after her death.”

  “Would not her family have taken all of her belongings by now?”

  “Yes, you would think so. And I asked Daniel whether he had seen it. But he said he had not, and that the police were holding certain of Vera’s things while they investigated, and they had not yet returned everything. So that is why I asked Corcoran if he had, or could locate, that picture.”

  “But he said we should not be asking any more questions, that we should stay out of the case.
Was he willing to help you with this?”

  “I will admit he was reluctant at first, but I think he realized he would not be doing his job properly if he didn’t at least consider evidence that showed up after he already made an arrest, even if the police did not themselves find that evidence.”

  “And he said…”

  “He said he didn’t know, that he didn’t recall any photograph, but then he had not been looking for one. And once I described it to him, he said in light of the report of a heavyset man snooping around Vera’s room that afternoon, and our telling him about the cousin, perhaps it would be a good idea to try to find a photograph of someone it might have been.”

  “I suppose they have gotten some kind of photograph of him from the prison? Do they not always take, what is it called, a ‘mugshot’ of new prisoners? At least that is what they do in the movies.”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but people look different in different situations, do they not? Would you have recognized yourself from the pictures they used to take for your driver’s license? When you had one, that is?”

  I laughed. “I see what you mean.”

  “And I wanted to see that photograph of Vera’s family anyway. I thought it could be very useful.”

  “So Corcoran agreed it was a good idea to find the photograph?”

  “Yes, although he did not sound happy about it. He said he would see if they still had it. And frankly I did not care why he thought it was a good idea, as long as he found it and let me see it.”

  “And did he find it?”

  “I don’t know yet. At least he hasn’t told me so. But I’m hoping he will by tomorrow. If it is not with Daniel, and if Vera still had it—and that is a big if—it must be with the police.”

  “So, Rose, it sounds like you had a successful day of snooping. I am sorry I missed it.”

  “Do not worry, Ida. There is much more left to do.”

  And as I soon found out, there was.

  Chapter 23

  On Monday morning, Mrs. K received a telephone call from Inspector Corcoran.

  “Ida,” Mrs. K said when we met for breakfast, “he has found the photograph and we can come down to look at it if we wish.”

  “And do we wish?” I still was not sure why she wanted to see that photograph.

  “Well, yes, at least I do. Perhaps there is no need for you to come along if you have other things to do this morning.”

  As it happened, I did have an appointment with the dentist, who was coming to the Home so we did not have to shlep downtown to his office. It is a little perk, as they say, of being old. So Mrs. K went to see the photograph by herself. I did not mind, as I had no particular desire to see what this Erik looked like some years ago. When I asked Mrs. K why she wanted to, as usual she said she would tell me later, when she had more information. To be honest, I often have trouble following Mrs. K’s reasons for some of the things she does, so I am quite content to wait until she has finally figured something out and she explains to me at one time the whole megillah, the entire story, including the ending.

  My appointment was over before noon—I was lucky Dr. Simmons did not stick me with one of those needles that make everything in your mouth go numb, so you can’t talk or eat properly—and by lunchtime Mrs. K was back. She seemed quite excited.

  “It is as I thought,” she said when we had been seated and served.

  “And how is that?”

  “I will explain later. Let us have our lunch in peace and not worry about Daniel or the police for now.”

  This seemed a good idea, especially as both Karen Friedlander and Isaac Taubman had just come to the table. Not only would it be impolite to ignore them, but what we had to discuss was not what one would call public information. And perhaps Mrs. K and Taubman would like to talk about their date-that-was-not-a-date. Mazel tov. Our discussion could wait.

  —

  About an hour later, someone knocked on my door just as I was finishing with the toilet. Have you noticed that you can go the whole day with no one knocking on your door or calling you on the telephone, but the five minutes you are on the toilet, the telephone will ring and the door will knock? At least I have a telephone extension in the bathroom, but I cannot open the front door from there. Maybe I should start to carry my smarty telephone into the bathroom; I have heard ladies in the public restrooms talking on their phones while on the toilet, as if they were sitting in their living rooms at home. It is what they call multitasking, I think.

  Anyway, I put myself together and hurried to the door. It was Mrs. K, and she had a worried expression on her face.

  She came in and sat down on the sofa. She looked quite serious.

  “So, Ida,” she said, “we are now getting to what you might call the heart of the matter. But I still need certain information before I know if I am, as you put it the other day, barking at the wrong tree.”

  Usually if Mrs. K is barking at a tree, it turns out to be the right one. But there is always an exception possible.

  “And there is a problem finding this information?”

  “I think there will be. Let us look at the possibilities.”

  I asked Mrs. K to wait while I made some tea and we could relax a little. She seemed like she could use it.

  It took me only a few minutes to boil the water and make the tea, and soon we were sipping and Mrs. K looked much more relaxed than she did when she knocked on the door.

  “So, Rose. Perhaps you should start at the beginning. Otherwise I will be getting confused.”

  Mrs. K put down her teacup and cleared her throat.

  “Ida, do you remember I said that on Saturday morning I had a little idea?”

  “Yes, certainly I remember. It was while you were brushing your teeth, was it not?”

  “Actually, it was while I was taking my vitamins, but that is close enough. And I spent a great deal of time thinking and, as I told you, asking questions of Daniel and Inspector Corcoran. And now I have seen the photograph, and things are beginning to fall into place. I am seeing possibilities that I did not see before, although some of them might seem quite improbable.”

  This reminded me of the important lesson of Mr. Sherlock Holmes that Mrs. K is fond of quoting: “When you eliminate what is impossible, what is left over must be the truth, no matter how meshugge it might seem.” I mentioned this to Mrs. K.

  “I am pleased that you see where I am going with this. I have eliminated what at least I consider impossible, and I am trying not to let the fact that some more possible solution is—what is the expression—is a long shot, keep me from considering it.”

  “So what is the impossible, and when we take it out, what is left?”

  “Yes, is that not what they call the sixty-four-dollar question? What could and could not have happened, I have been asking myself, given what we know and what Inspector Corcoran has told us?”

  “And did you now come to a conclusion?” I could tell Mrs. K was excited, like a hunting dog that is getting near the rabbit it has been following. I also know that at such a time, she is more interested in pouncing on the rabbit than stopping to explain where she thinks it is hiding.

  So I was not surprised or disturbed when she answered, “Not yet, but I am getting there. I still need to find a couple of important pieces to the puzzle. They are related to the two medicines that we were told were together responsible for Vera’s death. I can think of only two, or maybe three, ways to get this information.”

  “And they are…”

  “Well, the easiest way would be to get certain medical records. I was going to ask Inspector Corcoran for another favor, that he should get these records for me.”

  “I don’t know, Rose,” I said. “Medical records? They are extremely confidential, are they not? I remember Morty telling me that when Joanne was in the hospital with some kind of infection, they would not tell him anything about her condition, even though he is her husband, until she signed some kind of paper saying it was okay he should know. So
if a husband cannot even find out about his sick wife…”

  “Yes, exactly. That is why I hope Corcoran will help. The police can get information that we cannot.”

  “But even if they can, will they give it to you? You are not the police.” It is true that once before, during that matter of the matzoh balls, Mrs. K had been able to obtain information from the police records of certain residents of the Home, and perhaps she was thinking she could do so again. But that time she had persuaded Isaac Taubman to ask his son Benjamin, who is a policeman, to get the information for her as a big favor. Benjamin could have lost his job if his superiors had found out. I reminded Mrs. K of this, and she agreed she could not ask such a favor again. And Corcoran would be a lot harder to persuade than Isaac Taubman!

  Mrs. K thought about this problem for a long time, sipping her tea and looking somewhere far away. Finally, she said, “Yes, you are right. It probably is not even worth asking Corcoran. It would not be proper for him to do this for me, and besides, he has already been very helpful about the photograph and I don’t want to become a noodge, a nuisance. So that takes me to the second possible way to get the information….” Her voice trailed off.

  Mrs. K sounded even less enthusiastic about this choice than she had about the police.

  “It would be a much more unorthodox method. One we used in the past, although very…very reluctantly.” It sounded from her voice like she was even reluctant to mention it to me.

  For a moment I could not understand to what Mrs. K might be referring. And then suddenly I had my own epiphany, or whatever it is. Or at least one of those lightbulbs went on over my head for a change.

  “You don’t mean Sara’s friend Florence, do you? Florence the lady burglar? Whose telephone Sara gave me?” I was hoping the answer was no, but I was pretty sure it was yes.

  It was.

  “I’m afraid so. Do you think it is possible she would do another big favor for us?”

  “You mean enter a room again and look for, or at, something?” This was what the lady burglar had done for us once before. But it had not gone well.