by Angela Zeman
“Pearl thinks it’s her fault the police suspect Bella of Solly’s murder?” I asked.
Zoë nodded grimly. “Don’t ask me why. She’s decided that Bella’s staying away because she blames Velma for everything and Velma won’t even argue with her because she blames herself, too. Now you know it all, now leave us alone. Got enough mishegoss to deal with here, don’t need some—” She muttered some Yiddish under her breath I couldn’t quite hear and trundled away to the kitchen.
Obviously we were to see ourselves out, and the sooner the better, in her opinion.
I found our coats where Zoë had dropped them in a soggy heap on the floor by the door.
“We’ll leave now,” Mrs. Risk called out to Zoë, but her tone admitted no defeat. “If you discover later that you’d like to talk, you can find me easily. Just ask around. I’m down the road.” She flipped her cloak around her shoulders and wrenched the door open again.
The wind nearly knocked me down as I pulled the door shut behind us.
“Nice exit. One little thing you forgot,” I said sourly, shivering.
“No I haven’t. Just wait. I don’t think I could mistake the signs.” And at that instant the door opened behind us. Ilene joined us on the unsheltered steps, bending away from the rain to button her coat.
“Zoë can handle things in there,” she shouted at us over the wind. “I have to get back to Manhattan. I have two sets to do tonight, rain or shine.” She glanced at Pearl’s empty driveway and then at us with a wry intelligence. “Waiting for a ride?”
“We were dropped here by a friend,” said Mrs. Risk, her voice somehow audible, even when facing into the wind.
“Yes, the police. I heard.” Ilene turned as if about to step off the porch.
In desperation I blurted, “Is, uh, Zoë spending the night with Pearl?”
Ilene stopped and stared at me over her shoulder. “Of course. Pearl shouldn’t be left alone, and Zoë expected to stay here anyway.” Again she moved to leave.
I glanced in urgent appeal to Mrs. Risk. Her eyes twinkled and she loudly declared, “Maybe we should stay, Rachel. Pearl may need more help than even the gentle Zoë can supply.”
By now Ilene was on the bottom step. She turned, examined Mrs. Risk’s serene face with annoyance. After a pause, she asked dryly, “Need a ride?”
“How kind,” said Mrs. Risk.
“It’s the least I can do for Zoë,” she replied. Soon we were traveling down the road towards the village in her late model black Acura, with me in the back seat. Ilene was forced to drive hunched over the wheel to peer through the blanket of rain. She dodged flying branches and inched through gulches of water that swamped dips in the road.
“Where would you like me to drop you?” shouted Ilene over the racket.
“I’ll let you know,” came Mrs. Risk’s calm answer.
Minutes later, we approached and passed Mrs. Risk’s graveled, but unmarked, lane. Mrs. Risk cleared her throat at great length, drowning out my effort to point out the error. I subsided, mystified.
After a few minutes, Ilene said, plainly exasperated, “I thought you lived near Pearl.”
“Would you like to join us for tea before you start out?” Mrs. Risk asked. “The traffic on the Expressway will be a horror in this storm. A small restorative meal is just what you need after a long stressful day. And you still have a full night’s work ahead, as I believe you mentioned.”
Ilene sighed. “Maybe you’re right, but I have no intention of giving you a chance to pump me for information.”
“Food sounds good to me,” I said hopefully. “Maybe the storm will pass by then.”
Mrs. Risk flicked a glance at the horizon. “No, it won’t,” she said dismissively. She pointed at a large white building we were approaching. “There’s the Wyndham Bay Inn. Their restaurant, Harrington’s, is quite good. It’s right on your way. You can leave us there after you have something.”
Ilene frowned, but after a last second of hesitation, she jerked the wheel to the right and trundled into the Inn’s parking lot. Harrington’s food is what’s known as ‘American.’ The tourists would make it a popular spot if the locals would leave them enough table space. Mrs. Risk advises the restaurant’s manager (and co-owner of the Inn), Black Dan Harrington, on his wine selections. He always keeps a table free for her, regardless of the crowd.
Ilene killed the engine. For a moment, the three of us sat watching the grey roiling water barely beyond the car’s bumper. The incoming tide had already engulfed the sandy strip that separates the parking lot from the normal water line. Flooding is a serious problem here where the terrain dips down to meet the water’s edge in the center of the village. I hoped I wouldn’t be conducting business ankle-deep in water tomorrow morning.
Ilene turned to face Mrs. Risk with a defiant smile. “I’m a singer, not a talker.” Her eyes looked as if they’d seen too many sad things and remembered them all.
Mrs. Risk smiled back. “Let’s go in.”
7
THE PLACE WAS EMPTY, a rare event, no doubt because of the weather. Since we had the room to choose from, I led the way to my favorite table, against a back window with the best view of the water. The walls, ceiling, and the long curved bar were paneled in a warm reddish wood that blended well with the hunter-green upholstery and linens. Plants thrived in every direction, with so many windows, and the effect was an attractive blend of nature. A small dais took up one corner of the room. Black Dan Harrington brought in live music most evenings, usually jazz, sometimes blues. A lone guitarist strummed softly tonight, ignoring everyone as if he were entertaining himself.
Ilene sank into her chair with a sigh, stretching out her elegant legs as if her feet ached. After we’d given our orders, I asked, “Do you use a stage name?”
“No. I was born Ilene Fox, and I sing as Ilene Fox.” She smiled. “When people ask that it’s because they’ve never heard of me.” She gave a short laugh at my chagrined expression. “I’m a lounge singer, or as they say now, ‘club singer.’ Don’t feel bad about not knowing me. I have a steady enough following to keep me booked in the best rooms in the city. I’ve been in the Calistoga Room in the Rawlins Hotel for four months.” She leaned back in her chair complacently.
“Do you ever play the Catskills hotels, like the Concord or Krasner’s?” Mrs. Risk asked.
“Krasner’s, on special weekends. Like Pearl, that’s where my career started. I’ll be there Thanksgiving weekend, to open Pearl’s big show.”
“Will Pearl be able to perform by then?” I asked doubtfully. “That’s only three weeks away.”
Ilene glanced coolly at me. “Pearl’s a professional.”
Our food arrived. I bit into a sandwich and realized how hungry I was.
Mrs. Risk studied our guest in silence. She seemed to be deciding something.
Ilene kept her legs tightly crossed, even while extended, and held her elbows in close to her body. Secretive lids hooded large watchful eyes. Not an easy person from whom to pry information, I thought. Even for a witch.
“When’s Solly’s funeral?” Mrs. Risk asked her.
“Five, tomorrow afternoon. Bella made the arrangements.”
“He had no family to do it?”
Ilene shook her head before she sipped her tea. “But he’d left instructions, so the decisions were already made.”
“Where will the shivah be held, Solly’s house?” asked Mrs. Risk.
Ilene nodded. “What shivah there’ll be,” she commented wryly. “He wasn’t exactly religious and Bella doesn’t impress me as being observant.”
I wondered what a shivah was and turned my attention to the weather. Mrs. Risk would explain later, I was sure. Outside, the sky had turned black from its former aluminum grey. The rain driving hard against the broad window fragmented our reflections like a shattered mirror. Only the water immediately surrounding Harrington’s Pier was visible, now, and that only in illuminated spots beneath floodlamps. I wondered how th
e parking lot was faring, for the tide had continued to rush in. We might be stranded here if we stayed too late.
I knew I shouldn’t worry. Barton Peacock, Dan Harrington’s partner and the manager of the Wyndham Bay Inn half of the establishment, would leap to accommodate his adored Mrs. Risk with a good room. And my home above my flower shop across the street would be only a short swim. I checked my watch. It would be five in half an hour. I suddenly remembered Daniel. Nobody would be fording floodwaters for bouquets, he should get home while he still could.
“Excuse me,” I said as I rose. I walked through the wide doorway into the lobby of the Wyndham Bay Inn and made my call.
When I returned, Ilene and Mrs. Risk abruptly halted their conversation, which from the last few tense words, hinted to me that I’d missed something interesting. I looked curiously from one to the other, but they both avoided my gaze.
“Who’s going to be Pearl’s personal manager now?” I asked after a while, when the silence became boring.
Ilene looked as if the thought startled her. “That’s right. She’ll need someone. She hasn’t managed her own affairs since … well, since Solly took over.” She thought for a few moments. “There’s Simon Lutz, I guess.” She shook her head. “I don’t like to speculate.”
“First things first, I suppose,” I added. When Ilene looked at me, I explained, “We have to find out who killed Solly.”
Ilene’s face went rigid with anger. “Zoë told me how the police are using you to gather information. Just because you know Pearl gives you no right to intrude on her private—”
I snapped irritably. “Pearl needs our help.”
“Your help?”
Mrs. Risk shrugged and said bluntly, “I have skill in this area, and much experience. Rachel assists me. Damaging circumstantial evidence points to Bella already, and possibly soon to Pearl. And the investigation shows no sign of quick resolution. Would you rather we withdrew from the case, let events drag and take their toll on Pearl’s health and career?”
Ilene began twisting her empty cup in its saucer, making it clink. “Pearl needs nothing from a person like you.”
“It’s exactly my help she needs. And yours. And everyone who claims to be her friend. How can you not see that?”
She flicked Mrs. Risk a glance that began angry, but dissolved into broody thought. Then she said, “I should never have talked to you.” She began sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat.
Mrs. Risk leaned over and laid long graceful fingers across Ilene’s wrist, stopping her. “You and Zoë treat us as intruders. Why? Aren’t you interested in seeing Pearl’s trouble resolved?”
“The police are one thing. They’re doing their jobs. You’re just amateurs. More of Pearl’s nosy neighbors.”
“We’re not snoops. Pearl needs all of us—new friends as well as old—if even that will be enough. And if Bella proves guilty … the way Pearl feels about her?” She removed her hand from Ilene’s arm. “Bernie’s death nearly destroyed her. Zoë said this Marvin’s death was also upsetting. Think, Ilene. At best, the fallout from the police investigations could sideline Pearl’s career ambitions. At worst, it could dangerously tax Pearl’s heart.”
Ilene frowned speculatively at Mrs. Risk as if gauging the truth of what she said. Then she shook herself. She tossed a few dollars on the table. “You underestimate Pearl.”
“You’re uncomfortable facing facts,” said Mrs. Risk coldly.
“Still—”
“Still, that self-protective wall you’ve built around yourself is far from invisible. Inside it, your feelings are nearly frozen. Pearl must have been there for you in some painful event in your past. You must owe her a great debt. Otherwise, a closed-off woman like you would never invest any time or emotions in her. In anyone. What did she do for you? And how can you, and Zoë, who claim to be her friends, take it upon yourselves to turn away help—vital help—that’s freely offered? Do you think you’re the only ones who care?”
Ilene’s hot gaze bore directly into Mrs. Risk’s. Through clenched teeth she said slowly, her voice quivering, “Stay away from me. From us.”
“I hope someday you become strong enough to live again. You’ve missed a lot, Ilene Fox. Safe is not living.” She smiled faintly. “Safe isn’t even fun.”
Ilene spat out the word, “Fun,” as if it were an evil that repelled her. “And taking risks is? You were well named. How fun it must be for you to risk Pearl’s life.” She snatched up her purse and strode angrily away, but then, to my surprise, came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the dining room. She turned, started to speak, but stopped herself. Her face revealed an interior struggle, but after a deep breath she seemed to deflate a fraction. “Okay. Find Vivian Steiner. Snoopy Steiner. She’ll talk to you, when nobody else will. She’d talk to anyone. But I warn you, she’s clever. If you’re less than you say you are, she’ll figure you out. Then, Mrs. Risk, you’ll never get close to Pearl again. Her real friends will see to it.” She whirled and strode away.
“Well,” I said, nonplussed. “I hope she gets through that storm okay.”
Mrs. Risk smiled, then looked thoughtful. “The one that’s raging outside or inside her?”
“She wasn’t too helpful.”
“On the contrary.” She rested her chin in her palm. “We learned that Pearl might consider replacing Solly with this Simon Lutz. Judging by Solly’s lifestyle, she was an enormously lucrative client. This Mr. Lutz might not be so well off, which would provide him with a very nice motive.”
“So you’re going to help Pearl after all?” I asked.
Mrs. Risk looked at me with consternation. “Not just me. I assumed, that is, I’d hoped that you’d help. Unless you’d rather not, of course.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Me? Oh, sure.” I tried to sound offhand, but a thrill shimmied down my backbone. I’d caught her earlier statement to Ilene that I ‘assisted’ her, but had thought she was just puffing up my role for Ilene’s benefit. I sat up a little straighter. “But Ilene said Pearl’s friends won’t cooperate with us, they’re not even cooperating with the police. She called us ‘nosy neighbors.’”
Mrs. Risk waved away the thought. “First of all, even though Ilene said stay away with one breath, she aimed us at ‘Snoopy Steiner’ with the other. She wants us to help, dear. I keep telling you, it’s not what people say that matters, it’s what they do.
“For instance, Michael’s concern for Pearl is a perfect example of the charisma she exerts on everyone she meets. She’s a profoundly warm woman, Rachel. Her charm springs from her open, generous heart, and her humility.”
Mrs. Risk gave a reminiscent sigh. “That’s why she failed in that television sit-com created for her in ’89. Poor darling, she couldn’t pretend to be anything other than herself. She absolutely cannot act. Unfortunately, by being so open and genuine, she leaves herself too vulnerable to the wrong people. You saw one result today.”
Taken aback, I asked, “What?”
“The pearl necklace, dear. It was most definitely stolen by somebody, if not by Bella. And today’s the first she knew of it.”
“I don’t get it.”
“What, the fact that she was unaware of the theft until today? Or that Bella was supposedly ‘keeping’ it for her when she’s terribly dependent on having it nearby? Much about that puzzles me.”
“No kidding. Actually, I wondered why she’d let people think her precious sister was a thief.”
“Yes. I wonder what she’s told the police about that?” Mrs. Risk tapped her lower lip with a forefinger musingly.
“You mean, lies?”
“And omissions. None of this is like the Pearl I know. I’m worried, Rachel.”
After a moment, Mrs. Risk stood and said briskly, “We have a lot to do. Wonder where we can find ‘Snoopy’ Steiner? I can’t wait to meet with her. However, until then, Bella’s practically a neighbor, so let’s find her first.”
“Now? No taxi’s going to run in thi
s weather, let alone go all the way out to East Hampton. See how dumb it was to leave behind my car? Now we’re stranded again.”
Mrs. Risk shook her head. “Your car? In this deluge, we’d really be stranded if we’d used your low slung car. Consider us not stranded. Open to better opportunities, rather. Yes, I intend to visit Bella. You can tag along if you like.” She strode towards the hotel lobby. I hurried after her.
In the lobby, I don’t know what I expected, but a phone call to our local milkman wasn’t it.
With mounting exasperation I listened as Mrs. Risk pandered me with sickly sweet tones to Charlie the milkman, using me as a lure to entice his services as a free chauffeur.
After she hung up, I stated, “That is positively the last time you use me to acquire male help for anything, got it?”
She meekly agreed, but after that no matter how I questioned her, she stubbornly kept her plans for Bella’s interview to herself. That’s okay. I can be just as stubborn, and proved it by pretending to lose interest in her plans.
We adjourned to the bar to wait, where she bought me a glass of wine. Mrs. Risk considers a glass of good wine one of life’s necessities. Charlie quickly arrived, obviously not inconvenienced by a mere flood. His old-fashioned panel truck could, as Mrs. Risk figured, ford the deepest pools without even wetting the running boards.
“Babe! You might think you’re setting a new trend, but the Victorians thought of it first,” Charlie said with a grin after giving me an up and down scan with those light hazel eyes of his. “On you it looks good, though.”
I looked down at myself. The restaurant was so comfortably warm that I’d forgotten the soaking I’d received on Pearl’s doorstep. My jeans didn’t matter, and my boots have been through worse, but my white cotton shirt was plastered against me in revealing transparency. I shook out the folds of material, but they dropped back into place, molded against my body.
