The Witch and the Borscht Pearl

by Angela Zeman

  Roselle jerked her arm out of her husband’s grasp. She glared at Bella. “It is my business. All of us who love Pearl, it’s our business. We’re more Pearl’s family than this trayfeneh.”

  Bella’s flicked glance at Roselle expressed clearly how little Roselle’s opinions interested her. She spotted a squat woman with a wizened scowling face hovering protectively at Pearl’s side. “Zoë! Ah, you’ve really changed. But I’d recognize that fierce loyalty to my sister anywhere. Now, you I expected to see.” She laughed lightly, but no one joined her.

  Zoë reddened.

  “You’ve slimmed, Pearl,” continued Bella. “You look lovely. Regal, I would say.”

  Pearl said nothing.

  “She’s been ill,” contributed Zoë as if feeling Bella had a right to know the facts, but begrudging her the information at the same time. “Since her husband died. She’s had a rough time, but it’s over now. Now she’s fine.”

  “Better than ever,” added Vivian with scorn.

  Zoë bridled. “So leave her alone.”

  Roselle said, “Don’t even think of giving her trouble!”

  As Roselle spoke, a tall, distinguished looking man stepped forward and placed a possessive hand on Pearl’s almost equally tall shoulder. His beige linen suit displayed his slim, tanned figure to advantage. Unlike many of the men here, he’d kept all of his hair, although it had silvered.

  “Hello. I’m Solomon Mansheim, your sister’s manager. Call me Solly,” he said agreeably. “So you’re the long lost little sister. I’ve heard about you.”

  She gave him a subtly knowing smile. “I’m sure you have.” As he returned her smile, displaying perfect teeth, their eyes visibly connected and lingered.

  “So you’ve come to make amends to your sister, thirty years later?” he asked in a light, joking manner, but his gaze was fascinated.

  “She wouldn’t dare try,” said Vivian in a hiss, suddenly animated. She moved closer to Pearl.

  Solly flicked Vivian an uneasy glance. “Maybe she has something to say.”

  “And who’d be stupid enough to listen?” shrilled Roselle, glaring at Solly. “You heard about it, but you weren’t here to see it. Pearl broke her back making it up to little Bella for being orphaned, but who made it up to Pearl? When after all that, Bella ran off with Stanley, Pearl’s fiancé, Pearl nearly died of grief. The two people she loved most in the world betrayed her, left her flat. Trust me, Bella’s only here because finally, thirty years later, Pearlie’s got something else she wants!”

  Zoë plucked anxiously at Pearl’s hand. “Listen to Roselle, Pearlie. Listen!” Pearl patted her hand reassuringly, but still stayed silent.

  Simon’s bourbon drinking friend said sourly, “Maybe she heard Pearl was marrying Solly. Is that what you came for, Bella? Sol?”

  Zoë gasped.

  Simon snapped at his friend, “Shut up! Don’t make this worse!”

  Bella’s voice rose, dominating the angry mutters that had begun arising from the crowd. “Yes!” she exclaimed. They fell silent to hear her. She continued calmly, “Yes. Roselle is right. I do want something. What I want,” she gazed intently at Pearl, “what I’m hoping for, is forgiveness.” The word came out on a tentative, questioning note.

  Vivian scrutinized Pearl, then Bella, eyes narrowed. “Forgiveness? Look hard at the shmatte she’s wearing, Pearlie. Those broken down mules. She’s here for money. Don’t believe those big soft eyes. Kick her till she don’t bounce back, like she did to you thirty years ago. Roselle said it. We’re your real family. Listen to us. Aah, I can’t take the sight of her! I’m getting another drink!” Vivian turned and stalked up the slope towards the house with some difficulty in her tight skirt, high heels wobbling in the soft grass. The glass-paneled kitchen door slapped shut on Vivian’s rump as she mounted the step into the house.

  Pearl took a long, deep breath, as if none of the conversation since Bella’s arrival had occurred. “Hello, Bella,” she finally said.

  After a despairing look at Pearl’s face, Zoë turned away. Tears welled in her old eyes.

  Bella nodded gravely. “Happy Birthday.”

  Zoë made a rude snorting noise.

  Bella continued, “I don’t want to interrupt everyone’s fun. Could we talk somewhere alone?”

  Pearl glanced at her manager and stage whispered, “Solly, get the party going again, will you?”

  “Sure, babe,” Solly murmured, but he only continued to stare with fascination at Bella and did nothing.

  Pearl nodded to Bella. “We’ll go up to the house.”

  Pearl turned away, moving stiffly. They trudged, the petite Bella behind the tall angular Pearl, up the sloping lawn.

  Coming to himself with a start, Solly stirred the other onlookers out of their daze. Although all were agog with curiosity, they gravitated immediately to the food tables, and now conversation was solely gossip about Bella.

  Trying to be unobtrusive, Mrs. Risk and I mingled, picking up plates of unwanted food, and yes, I admit I listened as hard as I could. However, most of what I heard were variations of what had been already said.

  Ten minutes passed. Then, as if in unspoken agreement Zoë and Solly drifted towards the house, their paths merging as they walked. Solly stooped sideways in order to better hear the shorter Zoë’s frantic whispers. They disappeared within.

  Dr. Savoia, fresh glass of ruby wine in hand, dragged a lawn chair close to the kitchen door and planted his portly body there with a troubled look on his face.

  Moments passed, which lengthened into enough time to blunt the attention of even the most avid watchers. Gradually, conversation veered away from Bella’s sins back into topics connected with the current state of show business.

  Finally Mrs. Risk and I decided to call Daniel to pick us up. (Yes, Mrs. Risk had accepted Danny’s offer.) The sun was fading, leaving a chill in its wake. The caterer had begun taking in the depleted bowls of food instead of refilling them, and we both felt sure we wouldn’t be seeing Pearl again today.

  Then Zoë burst from the house through the kitchen door and collided with one of the bartenders. A tray of dirty glasses shattered across the stone tiles. Heads turned. Conversation suspended as Zoë shouted hysterically, arms flapping, “The Borscht Pearl necklace! It’s gone! It’s swiped! Oygod! Did anybody see Bella leave? She’s gone, too!” Zoë dropped in a heap on the patio in front of the doorstep. She began a tearful blubbering, “I knew she was up to no good. I knew Pearlie would suffer. I knew—”

  Dr. Savoia shoved the sobbing Zoë aside, bowling her onto her back, and dashed, puffing with anxiety, into the house. Grabbing my arm to tow me behind her, Mrs. Risk entered the house close on the doc’s heels. But once inside, she drew us back into a corner of the living room and we waited. The doc bounded heavily on down the main hall towards Pearl’s bedroom.

  The others dashed for the patio and streamed through the doorway behind us, stepping clumsily over the uncaring Zoë, knocking her about, until Solly, arms wide, blocked them at the living room door. He looked distraught and unusually disheveled as he shouted, “Back outside, okay? For God’s sakes, we’re all confused in here. None of you are helping things by being in the way.” Vivian stood just behind him, casually sipping a tall drink in a frosted glass. He turned to her and said, “Make sure they all go outside, Viv.” I’m sure he didn’t spot us in the corner.

  Vivian made no move beyond taking another sip of her drink.

  Simon called out from the center of the crowd, “Is Pearlie okay?”

  “She’s fine. Just upset,” Solly answered.

  Roselle, too short to see much from her position at the rear of the group, shrieked, “What about Bella, Solly? Did Pearlie sock Bella?”

  “For God’s sake, Roselle, shut your pisk!” exclaimed Simon, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure nobody socked nobody, already.”

  “Oh.” Roselle sounded disappointed. Leeanne sidled through the crowd to reach Roselle. They rolled their eyes at each ot
her in mockery of Simon.

  “Tell us what’s what, Sol,” shouted Simon’s bourbon drinking friend.

  “Well,” Solly began, but found his volume insufficient. He raised his voice. “Well, maybe the Borscht Pearl necklace is missing. We’re not sure, though, so don’t get agitated.” Solly then turned and disappeared down the long hallway.

  “My God, Bella stole Pearl’s quarter million dollar necklace!” Roselle’s voice caught everyone’s attention. “That dress was a rag! She’s starving and—”

  A flush darkened her husband’s face.

  “Look out, Simon,” Leeanne admonished loudly. “You’ll make Roselle a widow like Viv and Pearl, you let your blood pressure pop like that. Your face is red!”

  Simon menaced his receptionist with a look, but she only clucked at him.

  One of Simon’s cohorts removed a cigar stub from his mouth and grabbed Simon’s shoulder. “Let’s see if we can squeeze more booze outta the waiters.”

  With undisguised eagerness, both men fled the house.

  With that, others began leaving, and soon a slow exodus was accomplished. Silently, we followed. I nudged Mrs. Risk for comments but she only motioned me to wait. Observe. Back outside, some yawned as the surfeit of food, drink, and sunshine overtook the excitement of the day. A few ambled to the property’s edge to gaze philosophically out over the water.

  About thirty minutes later, Pearl marched unsteadily out of the house, aided by Dr. Savoia. Solly, hovering close behind, tried to add his support to that of the doctor’s, but she shrugged his arm away. He contented himself with clutching her hand. Mrs. Risk started to move towards her, but then restrained herself and stayed with me, intent, but still silent. Her eyes gleamed like radioactive onyx beads.

  Solly whispered furiously at Pearl, who shook her head. Solly gave her a long, imploring look, sighed, then faced the party guests. “Pearl wants me to thank everyone for being so patient.” He glanced again at Pearl, who compressed her lips. An unhappy Solly turned back to the crowd, whose rapt attention he now had, whether he liked it or not.

  “We-ah … can’t find Pearl’s necklace—for now. The one her husband gave her, that everybody calls the ‘Borscht Pearl’ necklace.”

  The listeners gasped, but Solly continued. “Yes, it might have been stolen, but then again, it might’ve been mislaid. Things get confused when you’re putting together a party.”

  Two or three people interrupted with questions, but others shushed them.

  “I—ah—have been asked by Pearl to request—” and here he glanced at Pearl again, but only for a split second, as if he knew any appeal to be useless, “—that the name of her sister Bella not be mentioned in her presence again, nor is her appearance today to be commented on. She—Pearl believes it might have been Bella who took—” He couldn’t finish. Possibly visions of lawsuits danced before his eyes, but for whatever reason, he stopped.

  He ended with, “Pearl’s not up to par at this moment, but she insists it’s just a reaction to the shocks she’s had this afternoon, nothing serious. She wants you to thank you all for coming to help celebrate not only her birthday, but also this formal public announcement of the re-start of her career. She wants you to know that her plans for a come-back still stand, that nothing will delay or stop her.”

  Roselle, who had been standing directly in front of Solly, turned to face the crowd, shook her tiny fists at the sky and shouted, “Yeah! Pearl’s back to stay! Can’t stop her!” Applause began to spread. Some color returned to Pearl’s face. She shook her shoulders in a small swagger, then grinned broadly. Zoë started laughing through tears that rolled down her wrinkled cheeks.

  “That’s right, and this necklace problem will get sorted out,” said Solly, urbane once more. To the sound of random cheers he continued, “But in the meantime, Pearlie Schrafft—the original Borscht Pearl—is back. Watch out New York, Las Vegas, Pittsburgh, and everywhere else. She’s back!”

  3

  I HAVE TO ADMIT, when it comes to village news, Mrs. Risk calls my shop ‘information central’ with much justification. However, the morning after Pearl’s party I was stunned to witness just how strongly the river of gossip flows through Wyndham-By-The-Sea. Daniel swooped into the Downport Deli with the rising sun and caught me ordering my daily mocha cappuccino fix. Breathlessly he reported hearing how a woman named Bella Fischmann, who turned out to be Pearl’s black-sheep younger sister, emerged eerily out of the woods on Pearl’s property after thirty silent years in France! And then the fabulous ‘Borscht Pearl’ necklace disappeared! He demanded confirmation, which I didn’t give, being too speechless at the moment. Mrs. Risk and I had leaked nothing to Daniel on our ride home. Besides, he already knew more than I did.

  Not too many days later, Bella was spotted shopping in ‘Lena’s Lingerie Imports’ on Main Street South, so from that I concluded nobody had arrested her for stealing the necklace. I also heard she was staying at the pricey waterfront Wyndham Bay Inn. The Inn, a sprawling white colonial-style hotel (with attached restaurant/jazz club—Harrington’s—Mrs. Risk’s hangout, Bella should beware) takes up much of Wyndham’s coveted bayfront space on Shore Drive. It also lies diagonally across the street from me, although my front door faces west and the Inn faces north/south. But in spite of such proximity, I never ran into Bella. She probably had little need for flowers in her circumstances.

  However, her new residence, added to her poverty-stricken appearance at Pearl’s party, plus her exalted taste in lingerie led us all to wonder if she’d successfully fenced the goods.

  I’d seen newspaper pictures of it. A choker of five rows of matched natural pinkish white pearls, each pearl separated from the next by a thirty-five point diamond set in platinum. Natural pearls are much rarer than cultured, you know. At the throat was a diamond pavé bow-shaped clasp, from the center of which drooped graceful diamond pavé petals surrounding the famous, almost perfectly round, 18mm black South Sea ‘Borscht Pearl’ of glowing purple bodycolor. Purple, like borscht soup with no cream. Her late husband, the television producer Bernie Rosen, had commissioned, then presented Pearl with the necklace on their first wedding anniversary and named it after her.

  Pearl’s real name was Velma Schrafft, but under her stage name, she was one of the most famous, best beloved comedians to emerge from the Catskills Circuit—the Borscht Belt. Because of her origins, she’d been dubbed by fans early in her career, ‘The Borscht Pearl’. The necklace was rumored to have cost her husband two hundred thousand dollars or more, and that was eleven years ago. What it would be worth now, I couldn’t guess.

  Since Pearl never really mingled in village daily life, the excitement faded quickly. Tourist season was in full swing and we shopkeepers, at least, had no time to stand around speculating, except in blessedly rare lulls. We all had a good season that year.

  A good season for me meant the mortgage and bills were paid through September (including last winter’s arrears) and I was able to stash enough surplus to carry the shop, me, and Daniel until the Holidays began in mid November. I was at that break-even stage in business, where only my nose was above water.

  Time sped by and it was early November before Pearl and Bella appeared on the local gossip network again. And again it concerned a party. A small one, this time, scheduled for the following Saturday night. As before, Pearl had invited Mrs. Risk and said I was welcome to come, too. To the best of my knowledge, in the three months since Pearl’s birthday, the necklace hadn’t been found. Bella hadn’t been spotted around Wyndham in weeks. It was with high excitement that I accepted Mrs. Risk’s invitation to go with her to this second party.

  That Saturday evening, a maitre’d directed us to what Mrs. Risk informed me was the choicest table in the place—a dimly spotlighted corner with a cushy banquette on one side. Windows behind the banquette gave us a romantic view of the moonlit Sound. We were two villages east of Wyndham in the tiny five-star French place called Bon Nuit, outwardly a modest white house tucked
just off the main road (yes, still Shore Drive), but inwardly the most exalted and prestigious temple to fine food on Long Island. I’d heard about it, but had never been here. Not at these prices. I’d had to borrow the little navy velvet dress I wore from a friend. (Dresses weren’t in my budget until next year.) Mrs. Risk, of course, wore black. Chic, tailored, just touching the knee, black.

  Judging from the number of places set, this party was small indeed. When Mrs. Risk had told me the purpose of the evening, I’d felt a little awestricken to be included. We arrived first, but Pearl walked in right behind us and greeted us with hugs. Not to sound cynical, because in spite of not knowing her very well I really was thrilled to see Pearl, but everybody hugs in New York. The ‘air’ kissing thing happens a lot, too.

  Anyway, we hugged. Though her pallor was evident even in the restaurant’s dim light, she still radiated a performer’s vibrant persona that unconsciously captures center stage. She was just at six feet in her low French-heeled shoes, nearly as tall as her manager, Solly. With such a large-boned frame, I could easily envision her as a gangly teenager—all arms, legs, huge feet and hands.

  I’d seen films of her earlier routines in comedy clubs or on television variety shows, and she’d carried substantial weight then. After the death of her husband, Bernie, and the subsequent development of her heart condition, she’d dropped forty pounds or more. Excess, unfilled skin had given her a hound dog look until she’d had a local surgeon snip it off—I’d heard. She looked strangely elegant in her black dinner sheath. I use the word ‘strangely’, because elegance had never been her style. Brash, raucous, ‘in your face’, garnished with sequins and vulnerability. Her fans adored her. I was one of them. Daniel, too, which again just shows his superiority, in my opinion.

  Her subject was life, and she was a Jewish philosopher whose warm hearted hilarity at her own foibles had endeared her to humanity. At the end of each routine, her wide open arms seemed to gather her audience for a comforting hug. Few failed to be charmed.