by Joan Hess
Theo excused himself and crossed the room. “Are you unharmed?” he asked, ignoring the menacing towers on either side of her.
For a moment, she looked like a frightened child. “I’m okay. I’m terribly sorry about Gideon. I truly am, and I wish I hadn’t been so bitchy last night. For all his arrogance, he wasn’t so bad, although he seemed a bit berserko last night. I just snapped at him because I wanted him to tell Hershel to send Judith home.”
“I understand,” Theo said comfortingly, “and I’m relieved to see that you’re okay.”
The frightened child vanished under a blast of Caldicottian disdain. “Attila Gili sent these two barbarians to drag me here, but other than that I’m dandy, Uncle Theo. It was so entertaining to be watched as I dressed and did my makeup; in fact, it was amusingly kinky. The barbarians don’t speak English, so they couldn’t do more than grunt and goggle as if they’d never seen lipliner before. What is this about?”
Theo winced. “Lieutenant Gili thinks you have information about Gideon’s death. I tried to tell him that you—”
“What am I purported to know—who killed him? That’s nonsense, Uncle Theo! I wasn’t there; I was in my room, washing my hair and trying for the millionth time to do something about my nails.”
Theo avoided the increasingly dark looks from both sides as he dropped his voice to a whisper. “You returned to your room last night after dinner, and remained there until this morning when the two officers came for you? Nobody came by for a chat?”
Dorrie fluffed her hair off her neck. “That’s right. I did my hair with this divine avocado gook that I bought at Bloomie’s before I went to Greece, then I worked very diligently on my cuticles. I can prove that I was in my room all night,” she ended in triumph, holding out ten shapely, shiny fingernails. “This does take time.”
“I can see that,” Theo said. He wondered if Gili would agree with her ironclad alibi.
The previous evening, Nadine Caldicott, née Bloomer, had driven by Theo’s small clapboard house, fully intending to stop and water the houseplants as she had solemnly promised. And if Pookie hadn’t snarled about the time, she certainly would have done so.
15
Theo did not have the opportunity to discover Gili’s reaction to the well-polished alibi. Dorrie was whisked away to the upstairs lounge amidst a great deal of grousing and glaring from all parties concerned. The kibbutzniks gaped at the drama, then turned on Theo with speculative expressions, centimeters away from overt hostility. An understandable reaction, but nevertheless discomfitting for its object.
Time for an exit. Smiling vaguely (as if his niece had not been taken away as a prime suspect in the murder of the son of two founding kibbutzniks), Theo sauntered out of the dining hall and went down the sidewalk to the children’s house. Judith was in her corner of the playground, her combatants occupied with tricycles and sand castles. The branches above her cast dappled shadows on her noticeably morose posture. He went through the gate to join her.
“Gili seems to think Dorrie might have been involved in Gideon’s murder,” he told her. “She’s been taken away to be questioned.”
Behind her glasses, Judith’s eyes were wary. “I know, since I’m scheduled for an interview as soon as someone can cover for me. But Gili won’t detain her for long. Dorrie doesn’t know the capital of Israel. How could she tell him anything?”
“I know her better than that,” Theo countered mildly. “The preppy pose has never impressed me. Dorrie is intelligent, thoughtful, and observant, even if she pretends to be more interested in polo players and shampoo. You know that as well as I, Judith.”
“I guess I do.” She sighed.
“I need your help. There is a reason behind her obstinate refusal to leave without you. Whatever she’s holding back endangers not only herself, but also the welfare of kibbutz. Someone is a murderer. Surely you care about exposing him so that Kibbutz Mishkan can return to normal.”
“The kibbutz is important to me, Mr. Bloomer. Even though I’ve been raised in foster homes where I was coerced into whichever religion the household preferred, I’ve always known that I was Jewish. This is my home—it has to be. This is where I belong now, and I’d do anything to protect it.”
“Or to protect Hershel?”
She gave him a quick look, then turned back to stare at her dusty charges in the sandbox. “Hershel doesn’t have anything to do with this and he doesn’t need protection. He may seem inept and graceless to you, but he isn’t that way when we’re together. He’s shy. He comes from a disrupted family environment that has sapped his confidence and left deep emotional scars. He’s afraid that others will desert him just as his parents did. In that sense, he does need protection—from further pain.”
Theo gravely nodded at what he presumed was standard Intro to Sociology rhetoric. “Then you are still determined to stay at Kibbutz Mishkan, despite the recent violence?”
“Of course I am,” she said, emphasizing her determination with a series of earnest blinks. “Hershel needs me, as does the kibbutz. Here I’m not just an orphan watching from the fringe of the group, nor am I a poor little scholarship girl who doesn’t know Perrier from soda pop. I’m needed—and I’m gong to stay.”
“And marry Hershel,” he added encouragingly. “You two have talked about your pasts and know everything about each other.”
She looked down, but not quickly enough to hide the dull red glow on her cheeks. “Of course, we do. Honesty is vital to every new relationship.”
“He must have been impressed that you had earned an academic scholarship to such a prestigious East Coast school. Tuition for four years at Wellesley probably rivals the income of the kibbutz.” Theo realized he was taking Essie’s advice about fishing. Carping, in particular, seemed apropos. “That and the dorm must cost—”
“I did not want to intimidate him,” she interrupted. “A communal social organization stresses intergroup dynamics over individual accomplishments. I’ll tell him later when it won’t be so threatening to his fragile male ego. As I told you, Hershel is a very delicate person with inner doubts about his own worth. He has only recently begun to consider a career in archaeology. Before he met me, he was too intimidated ever to agree to move away from the kibbutz. Now he—he has mentioned it several times.”
It was impressive. Theo gave her a moment to brush away a tear or two, then said, “And you have no idea why Dorrie is so adamant about not leaving without you? She has behaved very oddly about this.”
“Misguided loyalty,” Judith pronounced in a cool tone. “She has some screwy idea that I don’t know how to deal with men. I may have had a few minor problems with latent transvestites and married men, but that was last year. I am more in touch with my feelings now and capable of making critical life decisions for myself.”
Sarah appeared at the gate. “Judith, I realize this is a bad time for all of us, but I must discuss this requisition with you. My accounts indicate that the children’s house has already purchased new bedding, enough for the entire Israeli army from the looks of it.”
“No, Sarah, we don’t have any new furniture at all. The mattresses are army surplus, and about to split at the seams. Most of the bed frames are falling apart.”
“Here’s the voucher,” Sarah said as she fluttered a paper. “You should have had over forty new sets of bedding arrive three weeks ago. You’ll have to show me what you do have so that I can run down the requisition and try to sort this out.”
Shrugging at Theo, Judith took Sarah into the concrete structure to confer with the other members of the staff and inspect the furnishings. A small, black-haired child approached Theo, intent on mayhem. Theo retreated, locking the gate securely before walking toward the beach. A toothless, lispy threat drifted after him.
Orange tape delineated the area where Gideon’s body had been found. An officer watched Theo through mirrored sunglasses, clearly optimistic that he might be obliged to use force if the area were invaded by tourists, no
matter how mild or innocently curious.
Theo prudently circled the area and went to the edge of the water. Sitermann floated twenty feet from shore, his face scarlet but happy. “Damnedest thing, Bloomer,” he yelled. “You can’t sink out here, you know. It’s like being in bed with a warm lady’s body all over you, just a-ticklin’ and a-strokin’ with all her fingers. It stinks worse than a squashed armadillo, but you get used to it after a few minutes, and I can tell my lumbago loves it. Hey, why don’t you get your bathing suit and join me?”
“Not now, thank you.” Theo gazed pensively at the bobbling figure, then picked up Sitermann’s jacket and took a wallet out of the pocket.
“Bloomer! What the blazes do you think you’re doing?” Sitermann bellowed with the fury of a bullock facing steer-hood. “That’s my jacket—and my wallet! Put it down, or I’ll call a cop! Hey, Bloomer!” He began to paddle toward the shore, still roaring as Theo methodically examined the contents of the wallet and replaced it in the jacket.
“Okay, Bloomer, you’re in big-ass trouble now,” Sitermann growled. He limped across the last of the shallow water, then hopped about, either in agitation or in response to the hot rocks, until he reached his sandals. “You’d better have a damned good explanation for this; in Texas, we shoot rustlers for less!”
“But not in Washington, DC, in a nice, suburban setting. You really shouldn’t have carried photographs. I’m afraid I recognized the neighborhood, since I once knew a gentleman who resided on your street. A lovely area, if I recall, and convenient to the downtown area. You shouldn’t have slathered on the cowboy cover with such a heavy hand.”
“What does that mean, Bloomer?”
“It means CIA, Sitermann. It means that you’re an employee of our beloved Central Intelligence Agency, or, in simpler terms, that you’re a common garden variety spy.”
Sitermann snatched up his clothes and checked to see that his wallet was in his pocket. “I thought I did a fairly good Texas accent,” he said without rancor—or accent. “Out of curiosity, why didn’t you buy it, Bloomer?”
“I’ve had a little experience in intelligence work. Nothing like yours, of course, but I did develop an ear for it. Your accent was quite consistent, by the way.”
“You’re a retired florist from some tedious little Midwest town, Bloomer. You sold the shop several years ago and returned to Connecticut, where you were to the manor born. Your sister Nadine Caldicott is married to a surgeon with a golf handicap of four and a reputation for hefty contributions to right-wing Republican candidates. Your niece, Theodora, was named after you, and she—”
“Must we, Sitermann?”
“—attends Wellesley, where she majors in sociology and dates a young man with a metallic blue Mercedes convertible, paid up to the last penny. His name is Bedford—”
“I know all this, Sitermann,” Theo said, turning around to leave. “When your mouth runs down, I’ll be in the lobby of the guest house, drinking soda water and watching television. We’ll chat, hey?”
Sitermann trotted up the walk to catch up with him. “I didn’t mean to show off, Bloomer. I guess I hoped it would intimidate you. Sorry about that. The bottom line, however, is that we have nothing in your dossier to indicate any involvement with intelligence work. I’m surprised anyone would take you after your less-than-glorious showing in Hollywood.”
Theo hastened his pace. “That was forty years ago, and I do not care to discuss it with you. I want to know why you’re here at Kibbutz Mishkan, Sitermann—or whatever your name is.”
“It’s Sitermann, and my assignment is classified.”
They entered the lobby and ordered drinks at the bar. Theo took soda water and sat down on a sofa. The spy followed with a hefty slug of bourbon. Theo felt responsible for driving him to drink so early in the day, and vaguely penitent. Having one’s cover blown was unnerving, at best.
He gave Sitermann a smile of apology, then said, “You really ought to explain, classified or not. I’m hardly Jordanian secret service or KGB. If you refuse, I’ll be obliged to tell Gili all about your fluctuating accent and covert credentials.”
“That’s blackmail, Bloomer.”
“I believe it is, Sitermann.”
Sitermann drained his glass and fetched another drink from the bar. When he returned, he said, “I don’t particularly desire involvement with the Israeli Criminal Investigation—or the Mossad, for that matter. It isn’t very nice of you to threaten me.”
“Spying isn’t very nice, either.”
“It pays well, though.” Sitermann blinked at the empty glass in his hand, as if unable to determine its purpose or origin. “Anyway, I’m tracing a packet of explosives. We’re on to this dealer in Athens named Popadoupolis who sells plasticine and other nasty stuff to anyone with money. We usually recognize all his customers, but this last time it was a pimply kid who looked like he ought to be at home playing with his chemistry set. Not at all our typical courier.”
“Oh, dear,” Theo said under his breath, dismayed but not especially surprised. Dorrie’s peculiar argument with Gideon and Hershel had hinted at some mystery about the package. He wondered how much she suspected—and how much Judith knew.
“Yeah,” Sitermann continued morosely, “I got sent to see who the kid was and who ended up with the explosives. I didn’t think it would be used before I could get airline reservations! These damned amateur terrorists behave like children with a new toy. They open it up and start looking for a handy building to demolish, just to clap and giggle over the sound effects.”
Theo felt as if he ought to apologize for the terrorists’ impetuousness. He settled for a shrug. “So the explosives came here, and then were used in Hebron against the Arabs. Do you have any idea who actually planted the explosives?”
“No,” Sitermann sighed. “But the local chaps have had their eye on Adler, Waskow, and the girl—Ilana Tor. She’s trained in munitions, courtesy of the Israeli army, and capable of handling the technicalities. Hell of a job for a woman.”
“Is there any proof that they …?”
“Can’t tell you; I’d get flack from seven different directions. It’s a damned shame your niece got herself involved, Bloomer.”
“My niece is not involved. Judith unwittingly provided a means of transporting the package from Athens, but both of the girls were convinced it contained a piece of pottery.”
“Maybe it did. Then again, maybe I’ll sprout wings and learn to keep kosher. Want a drink? I’ll put it on my expense account.” He started for the bar without waiting for a response.
“What about Gideon’s death?” Theo said to the spy’s back. “Who’s responsible for that?”
Sitermann perched on a barstool while he awaited his third shot of bourbon in as many minutes. “That’s really none of my concern, Bloomer. I’m here to identify the terrorists and inform the locals, if I’m instructed to do so. Other than that, I’m just going to try to cure my lumbago. But you wanna know what I think about this murder?”
“That would be kind of you, Sitermann.”
“I think that the girls—Dorrie and Judith—found out their new boyfriends were as crazy as loons, that the little package would get them in big trouble if anyone found out exactly who carried it through customs. The girls got peeved and decided to take revenge. One of them, anyway. After all, who’d suspect some pretty little filly of having a knife tucked in her brassiere?”
“You believe that Judith or Dorrie stabbed Gideon? That is unworthy of an intelligence agent, no matter how much bourbon he has consumed.” Theo put down his glass and stood up. “Do you also believe the girls had something to do with Essie’s death? How about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, Sitermann? Florida real estate?”
He left the lounge in an aura of outraged indignation. And Sitermann’s loud guffaws.
16
Theo went back to the dining hall and waited until Dorrie swept out, unencumbered but pinker than a dianthus (calypso). Ignoring her barrage
of frigid comments about officious officials, he took her by the elbow and steered her to the sanctuary of his room.
Once she was settled in a chair, she managed a more decorous tone. “That man is intolerable. Do you know what he accused me of doing, Uncle Theo? He honestly thinks I’m some sort of POL agent. I don’t even know what that stands for, much less if I’d care to support it!”
“I believe it’s PLO,” Theo said mildly, “and it stands for Palestine Liberation Organization, one of many groups that specialize in hijackings, political terrorism, and so forth in the name of peace. Yasir Arafat is the leader.”
“Oh, right, he’s the one who never shaves for press conferences. But I don’t believe we’ve met.” She nibbled on her lipstick for a moment. “Some busybody kibbutznik told Gili that I’d argued with Gideon at dinner last night. It was hardly worthy of a response, but the little man was such a boor about it that I finally told him what I could remember. He then had the audacity to ask me for an alibi. Can he do that without a warrant?”
Theo took off his bifocals and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “He seems to think he can, my dear. Were you able to convince him of your innocence?”
“I showed him my nails, but he wasn’t impressed. They can’t keep me here, can they? Mother promised me that I could use her credit cards to shop before school started, but at this rate all the racks will be literally denuded before I get there. I’ll have to wear rags to school.”
“I thought you were determined not to return without Judith?”
“Yeah,” she said, frowning at the ceiling. “Judith came in while I was there, and she doesn’t seem to be in as much trouble as I am—which is damned ironic, since I’m here only to look after her welfare. She said that she was with Hershel all last night. They left the dining hall together and went to his room for a glass of wine. Israeli wine, if you can imagine. Then they stayed up all night discussing the role of manual labor in the socialist structure, whether it was acceptable to hire peasants to dig potatoes or whatever it is they do around here. It must have been sheer rapture.”
