by Angela Zeman
As the ambulance pulled away, carrying Dr. Savoia and Bella with Solly, the spinning wheels dug trenches in the gravel parking lot. The rest of us piled into our own cars to follow.
Before Solly could make it to the hospital, he died.
4
THE NEXT MORNING IN Mrs. Risk’s cottage, it was as if the weather had taken it upon itself to foreshadow events to come.
The raw November wind was thrashing the remaining leaves from the oaks to fling against the leaded windowpanes. High above her roof, they wound skeletal arms around each other and swayed as if consoling each other for Solly’s dying.
As always, except on the hottest summer days, a comforting fire crackled from the depths of her fireplace and today I huddled close. Her cottage is small, four rooms on the ground floor if you don’t count closets and pantries and such. A brick fireplace is the heart of the house, with four arched hearths, each opening into a different room.
Because her beamed plaster ceilings were so low, she’d removed nearly all the interior walls to cure the cramped feel of the place. The living room took the most space, then wound to the right around the corner into the dining room, which itself blended around the corner into the kitchen. The only walls remaining set apart her bedroom and bath, finishing the rectangle. The effect, with the low ceiling, was one of cozy, but unconfining space, although she’d horrified the historical society with her ‘depravations.’ The place was two hundred years old, give or take a harvest.
The age-smoothed grey stone floor, icy in winter and cool in summer, had sunken into gentle slopes over the decades. She softened it with rugs she changed from fat cushy wool in winter to thinner cotton in summer. In winter I often burrow my feet into the deep hearthrug, battling Jezebel for the warmest spots. We both feel the cold too much, and Jezebel doesn’t share well.
Within the large kitchen pantry, narrow splintery steps led down to a cellar of reinforced dirt walls which she claimed naturally maintained the ideal humidity and temperature to safely store her precious wine. Those yards of dust-hung spider webs must help, too, or I’m sure she’d remove them. I stay upstairs. Bundles of drying herbs from her garden hang from nails in the low beams, subtly perfuming the air. And everywhere on the white plastered walls, implements she used for gardening, cooking, and weaving doubled as wall decorations.
Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t into ‘cottage’ decor. Her kitchen appliances, for example, were high-tech. It’s just that her taste runs to comfort and practicality. If she liked something, she put it wherever struck her fancy, making a jumbled but warm and welcoming effect.
A second floor covers the back half of the house. The enclosed undersized, drunkenly tilted stairs peep enticingly at me from their corner of the living room whenever I sit in the chair to the right of the fireplace. I’ve asked her what’s up there, but she never answers. Which is why I’ve made a habit of sitting in the left hand chair, putting my back to temptation. I refuse to embarrass myself by sneaking up uninvited (she’d catch me for sure), and I refuse to let my curiosity drive me crazy. She reads incessantly. It’s probably her library.
Well, I can understand a desire for privacy, if that’s what it’s all about. I’m a little the same way. So, she makes things seem more mysterious than they are. Where’s the harm in that?
I hadn’t left St. Boniface Hospital until the early morning hours. Extra sleep would have been welcome this morning, but hadn’t come. I still had plenty of time since despite being Saturday, my shop wasn’t due to open until noon. Even the hardiest tourists had abandoned Wyndham by now, forcing us shopkeepers into our annual out-of-season war against overhead. The goal in winter becomes to survive to do business again the coming summer.
Since I was awake anyway, and knew Mrs. Risk sleeps little when something’s going on, I’d come early today. It’s a daily routine for me to share her pot of herbal tea while I read the morning paper—a task Mrs. Risk has urged on me since last year. Reading the newspaper, I mean. The paper’s okay. I’d rather read adventure stories, but she thinks it’s important I learn about the world.
See, my parents had pretty much left me to raise myself, which led to what Mrs. Risk calls ‘unique results,’ meaning I’m ignorant, let’s face it. Although she never openly said so, from that day of our first talk at her house, Mrs. Risk set out to teach me things she thinks I should know. Areas she feels were neglected as I grew up, I guess.
When I caught on to her game, was I furious! How dare she decide what’s best for me, I raged to myself at the time. Of course, back then, I hadn’t yet realized that interfering is practically her career.
But in the middle of my rage, I considered the frustrations I’d run into in my life already, and I wasn’t even that old. That cooled me down. After more thought, I decided to see how it went. Maybe some of the stuff she taught might come in handy someday. So, unless she stays on the podium too long, I listen. About the weather, about herbs. About fish, banking. Everything! What keeps me hungry for more is how she ties everything to human behavior.
People. When it comes to people, I’m stumped. And I don’t like feeling stumped. Exquisitely intricate beings, she describes us humans, ‘exhibiting limitless variations of personality, endless potential for evil and good.’ So far I believe her. Especially the evil part.
Anyway, that morning, dull from shock, lack of sleep, and a hangover, I searched for mention of last night’s disaster. While I scanned the columns, I rattled the papers at Jezebel, hoping to annoy her into finding a quieter napping place. I wanted that warm spot on the rug. But Jezebel merely shot me a withering glare and stayed.
I found it on page three of the Long Island paper. I read aloud: “ ‘Mr. Solomon Mansheim, former Manhattan theatrical agent and long time personal manager of well-known comedienne Ms. Velma ‘Pearl’ Schrafft, arrived dead at St. Boniface Hospital in Wyndham-By-The-Sea at twelve twenty a.m. after being rushed by ambulance from a dinner at the restaurant, Bon Nuit—’,” I stumbled over the French pronunciation and she corrected me, “ ‘—Bistro in Harbor Glen, Long Island. He had been dining in the company of his client, his client’s sister Mrs. Bella Fischmann, Ms. Ilene Fox, Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Graham, Dr. and Mrs. Antonio Savoia, Ms. Leeann Horstley, and two others.’ ”
I looked up. “They left out our names. Why?”
Mrs. Risk grimaced. “I have an agreement with the publisher. His staff never, without prior permission, prints my name. I cannot abide being mentioned in newspapers. Last evening I insisted the same privilege be extended to you.”
My surprise at this news was so great that I paused too long, and she prodded me to finish.
“ ‘Shortly after consuming a special dessert created for the occasion by the Bistro’s noted pastry chef, Ms. Agnes Bryan, Mansheim began to perspire and complain of chest pain. He then collapsed to the floor. A 911 call brought an ambulance, which rushed him to St. Boniface Hospital, where, in spite of all measures attempted, he arrived already dead. According to guest Ms. Leeanne Horstley the dinner was meant to celebrate his impending marriage, which would have been Mr. Mansheim’s first, to Ms. Bella Fischmann, the widowed sister of Ms. Velma ‘Pearl’ Schrafft.
“ ‘Sixth Precinct Homicide Detective Sergeant Michael Hahn is leading the investigation into the circumstances of the death. He reports that nothing can be speculated until the results of an autopsy ascertain whether Mr. Mansheim, who was sixty, did or did not die of natural causes. Turn to page seven for the continuing story.’ ”
I crumpled the newsprint pages into my lap.
“What’s Michael got to do with this? Solly did have a heart attack. Didn’t he? He’s—was—sixty years old. That accountant, Marvin somebody, and Pearl’s husband, they died of heart attacks. Old people do that.”
Her dark brows, like arched feathers, lifted and hovered over eyes dim with speculation. “Sometimes,” she finally said, but the word sounded tentative.
“No?” Her expression was so peculiar that I felt my pulse
quicken.
She turned away. “It’s customary. Police are required to examine circumstances of any sudden death.”
“Oh.” Her mouth might be saying ‘customary,’ but her expression suggested suspicion of more. Alerted now, I dug out page seven, but discovered only a longer rehash of what I’d already read. The Times had nothing to add.
“Poor Pearl,” I murmured, and let the papers slide to the floor where they landed on Jezebel’s head. Jezebel huffed in irritation and rolled to put her back to me. “Only other time I met Solly was at the birthday party, but I liked him.” I studied Mrs. Risk.
Mrs. Risk, sunken into a frowning reverie, only responded with an “Um.”
“He seemed so happy last night.”
“Yes, he did,” said Mrs. Risk, stirring finally. “And although it may sound like a callous disregard of Solly, you’re right to say, ‘poor Pearl’. She finally recovers from her husband’s death, her friend Marvin Steiner dies, and then Solly. And in such a manner. And the timing! Just when she was ready to return to performing. Pearl depended totally on his guidance. I also have a terrible feeling that this is not going to help the reconciliation between Pearl and her sister.”
Mrs. Risk walked to the phone and dialed. She listened, then dropped the receiver back into place, leaving her hand on it.
I slumped down in the cozy chair. “How did Solly end up engaged to Pearl’s sister, and so fast! Wasn’t he going to marry Pearl? I swear somebody said so at Pearl’s party. Before last night, I never heard one peep about him and Bella. And if even the gossips didn’t know—”
“Oh, they knew.” She dialed again. “You just must not’ve heard.”
“Me?” I muttered wryly, “Not hear? My shop is the main artery of Wyndham, isn’t that what you always say?”
Again no response, and she hung up.
She began pacing the length of the room. For Mrs. Risk, that meant four long-legged strides that whipped her black woolly skirts around her ankles. “Pearl’s probably avoiding reporters and heaven knows who else.”
“Like police?”
Mrs. Risk eyed me thoughtfully. She dialed the phone again. Within seconds she said, “Michael, dear! Just wondering how you were. The weather’s wintry already, Thanksgiving’s not far—oh? Lovely!” She stage whispered to me so that he could overhear, “Rachel. Michael’s bringing us a fresh wild turkey for Thanksgiving!” Her voice lilted in delight but her face betrayed her complete lack of interest in turkeys. Beware of shameless witches with plans.
“We haven’t talked for so long,” she continued into the telephone receiver. “How is your mother—wait. I know you’re busy. Instead of my interrupting your morning, why don’t you join us for lunch? Rachel’s here, I know you’d love to see her.” Evidently I shared bait status with the food. I rolled my eyes to give her my opinion of that ploy.
“You must eat anyway, why not with us? We’re having crabmeat and corn bisque, and that pumpkin seed bread you love so well. Rachel just took it from the oven, my heaven it’s amazing you can’t smell it over the phone wires.”
I glanced wryly at Mrs. Risk’s cold oven, then hoisted myself from my chair and began searching her cabinets for the ingredients necessary for producing the pumpkin seed bread. It was nearing ten o’clock. Luckily it doesn’t have to rise before baking, or Michael would be eating bread dough with his corn bisque—which I knew I would soon be driving through the storm to downport to buy from our always reliable Downport Deli.
Mrs. Risk’s non-driving habit makes me suspect she’s an ex-Manhattanite, but of course she refuses to say. Many from the city don’t drive.
While I busied myself, Detective Sergeant Michael Hahn of the Sixth Precinct’s Homicide Department accepted her invitation. Mrs. Risk can be irresistible when she tries. When I sent out an SOS, Daniel promised to run the shop for me, which I knew he would.
A few hours later, Michael arrived, stooping from familiar habit to pass uncrowned through the low doorway. He was a tall gaunt bachelor with light brown hair and gentle manners. His wide thin mouth nearly always turned up in the corners in a faint smile, and his deceptively dreamy soft blue eyes disguised an edgy intellect. Before too long he pushed away the bowl he’d emptied for the third time, poked a last piece of sunflower seed bread into his mouth, and eased back into the soft cushions of Mrs. Risk’s dining room chair. Contentment softened his bony features as he nibbled a white chocolate brownie Mrs. Risk had concocted while I was at the deli.
The nutty aroma of freshly ground hot coffee mingled with the sweet baking smell and the woody perfume of the fire. Those who scoff at the effectiveness of aromatherapy should’ve inhaled this heady mixture in Mrs. Risk’s cottage that day—her version of sodium pentathol.
Our comfort was accentuated by the storm’s futile pounding at the solid two hundred year old walls. The rafters creaked and the fire crackled—background music for the interrogation.
Michael had met Mrs. Risk years before I came along, their paths crossing during her involvement—meddling—in various police investigations that touched her friends’ lives. With Mrs. Risk’s reputation, you understand, trouble brings her a constant supply of new friends. And whoever she chooses to support, she supports fiercely. After aggravating a long string of officers, Michael had emerged from the crowd as someone who could deal successfully with her. I think it was that old Army principle of appearing to volunteer because everybody else stepped back. Now, whenever it became known that Mrs. Risk was involved in some fracas, Michael was called. I haven’t decided yet whether he minds.
Sometimes I suspect he might be as smart as she is. He’d gotten his law degree last year, and before that had earned a master’s degree in criminal justice at NYU. A recent rumor reported that the Suffolk County ‘top cop’ (Police Commissioner) had asked him to go to Quantico for specialized training. He hasn’t said yet if he’ll go.
She quizzed him on his family affairs (he has a widowed mother and an older sister, both of whom he adores and vice versa) and the stresses of his love life (she’d get nothing out of him there, because I was present) until she judged him sufficiently conditioned to answer other, less harmless, questions.
Then she leaned forward and murmured to her victim, “How is poor darling Pearl handling the loss of her manager, Michael? After all, he’d been with her practically from the beginning of her career. She certainly was devastated last night.”
Michael stopped in the act of drunkenly inhaling the rich coffee and chocolate aromas. His voice huskily reflected a struggle against the dulled, euphoric state of his senses. “You know I shouldn’t answer any questions about a case.”
I smothered an urge to laugh. This particular alarmed expression was one I’d seen before on his face, in a poker game I’d lost. I cleared my throat loudly, then did it again, but Mrs. Risk pressed on, either too intent to pick up my warning or ignoring it.
“Then it’s become a ‘case’. Mr. Mansheim did not die of natural causes.”
He struggled to sit more upright. “I didn’t say that.”
“The symptoms—the chest pain and the rapid death—could narrow the choices of poisons.”
Michael shook his head. “Don’t go putting words in my mouth.” He took a gulp of coffee that had to scald and pushed away the plate of brownies, but not too far away.
Mrs. Risk mused relentlessly, as if she’d heard answers in his protests, “If it’s a poisoning, the perpetrator need not be present when the subject dies. Depending on the method used to administer the substance, of course.”
“I never said—”
“Then your suspects shouldn’t be only Pearl and her sister. Remember that.”
“Don’t go assuming—”
“Is Pearl handling things? She doesn’t answer her phone. Has she gone away?”
“No, she’s still home, but—”
Mrs. Risk straightened and spoke sharply. “If you know so easily where she is, she must be under surveillance. I hope you haven’
t taken any foolish steps. You may not realize how fragile Pearl’s health has been since the death of her husband.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed in offense, but his tone was light when he said, “You know better than that. Tony’s keeping watch. And she’s only a suspect because we suspect everybody at this stage of an investigation.”
“So it’s her sister you suspect more,” stated Mrs. Risk.
“You tell me.” Now Michael relaxed, openly amused.
“Ah. Bella ranks at the top of your list, with Pearl a near second. Pearl must be doubly devastated. First Solly is murdered and now her newly reconciled sister is suspected of poisoning him. By now you’ve probably discovered that the poison was digitalis, and that possibly Pearl’s own heart medicine was used, putting her in an intolerable position. My God, Michael.”
Michael straightened abruptly in his chair. His eyes widened in such open surprise that I knew Mrs. Risk had scored. “How in the name of—” Michael gave a sharp ‘hah!’ that was his version of laughter. “How do you do that?”
So! I’d thought she’d been a little too thoughtful this morning.
I patted his long bony fingers. “You’d better hurry up and tell her everything before she tells you first.”
He gestured towards the plate of brownies and gave me a sour grin. “Could you wrap up the rest of my bribe so I can finish them later? I’m stuffed for now.”
“My pleasure,” I said, grinning back.
He turned to Mrs. Risk. “Here, brought you something.” He removed a small spiral notebook from his suit breast pocket and plopped it onto the table. “This’ll get you up to speed.”
“Your notes!” For an instant her fingers only lightly touched the notebook. Then she picked it up. When she spoke, her voice was husky, “Pearl is such a dear friend of mine.”
“I know,” he said gravely.
My eyes softened as I gazed at him. Michael must’ve caught my look because he blessed me with that devastatingly sweet smile of his.
I briskly rose to gather up bowls and silverware, throwing tactful discouragement Michael’s way. I think I already mentioned that he’s a bachelor.
