The Witch and the Borscht Pearl

by Angela Zeman

  “Hey,” said Charlie, grinning, “it’s no problem for me.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said.

  Charlie was leaning sideways against the polished wood bar, long and lanky, with one foot propped on the foot rail like a gunslinger in a Western movie. That is, a gunslinger with auburn hair and a faint suggestion of freckles across his nose and forehead, which for some reason dazzles most of the local women. Except me. I am firmly not dazzled. Mrs. Risk sat between us on a high stool, legs crossed, leaning back against the bar ledge on her elbows. I sipped my wine and gave up worrying about the shirt.

  “Thanks for the lift to East Hampton,” she said to him, swinging one leg in a leisurely manner. “We’ll leave as soon as we finish our wine.”

  Charlie’s mouth stretched wide in an engaging grin. Engaging or not, I braced myself. I knew what was coming.

  “One little thing we should get straight, first,” he said to me. “She promised that if I lent my truck and my presence to a little expedition she had in mind, you’d go out to dinner with me out of abject gratitude. Of course, we’ll have to go somewhere where they’re having a wet teeshirt contest, considering that outfit.”

  I turned away from him hotly. “That’s disgusting.”

  “A night out with me, disgusting?” Charlie blinked, as if startled. Faking it. “We’ve had dinner before and nothing disgusting happened, did it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then what’s the big deal? You eat every night anyway, don’t you?” he added.

  “Yes, but—”

  “No but, yes but—why don’t you just agree to go and let’s be on our way,” interjected Mrs. Risk. “We’re short on time, and it’s not like he doesn’t have his attractions. Half the women in this town order milk just to see him at their door, Rachel. Don’t be a nitwit.”

  I simmered in the face of their combined finessing. “Mrs. Risk has misled you. I make my own social plans.”

  “Fair enough. Will you have dinner with me?” asked Charlie, a twinkle lurking in those intelligent eyes. His broad mouth twitched suspiciously as if he could hardly restrain from laughing. He was nearly irresistible—nearly.

  “Not if you were the last milkman on Long Island!” I would’ve loved to have dinner with him, but I couldn’t let Mrs. Risk get away with this … this pandering.

  “Then it’s settled,” said Mrs. Risk, dropping lightly to her feet from the barstool. She pushed back her empty glass.

  “What’s settled? No it isn’t,” insisted Charlie. “Nothing’s settled.”

  “Of course it is, dear. She’d adore to go out with you. She just likes to be in charge. So let her, and everything will be wonderful for you both. Come, darlings. It’s six-thirty already.” And with that she strolled purposefully towards the door beyond which I could see, illegally parked in a swirling undertow, Charlie’s truck.

  I marched after her, shrugging myself into my coat, trying to figure out if I’d won or not. It was hard to tell. Charlie, I suppose, had to follow. It was his truck we were commandeering, after all, although I could drive it if I had to. I can drive anything.

  We climbed in. I took a stance between and behind the two seats, propping my buttocks against a small built-in box contraption that served Charlie as a storage unit for eggs. Mrs. Risk settled herself in the passenger seat, wrapping her legs in her long cloak for warmth. Charlie’s transport was an antique panel truck he’d restored, and of course had those wonderful old-fashioned features: no doors, no heat, no shocks, and gear shift levers in the form of thick metal rods sticking straight up from the floorboards between Mrs. Risk and Charlie. Whoever longs for the ‘good old days’ has never thought things through, in my opinion.

  As we lurched into motion, I huddled miserably on my perch, grasped the edge of each seat, and thrust my legs forward to brace for disaster.

  8

  BY THE TIME WE found Solly’s house in East Hampton, the cold had numbed my hands and feet. My shoulders and legs ached from an hour of bracing to keep from being pitched backwards into stacks of wire milk carriers. And thanks to the wind whipping through the door openings, my wet shirt had hardened into an icy shell beneath my coat. At least the rain had stopped.

  I stiffly dismounted onto Solly’s graveled driveway, feeling like the highwayman in a poem Mrs. Risk had once read to me, coming to pillage and rob and make off with the innocent maiden (maybe not so innocent, in this case). The stolid brown brick mansion loomed over us, adding to the illusion.

  The air swirled around our heads so thick with unshed moisture you could wear it. A waning quarter moon sneaked between fleeting clouds. I sprinted for the porch. Charlie leaped up the steps to stand beside me on the surprisingly small, unsheltered stoop, very considerately blocking the worst of the wind. I huddled against him, shivering, greedy for his body warmth. The only illumination, other than the on-again off-again moonlight, was that which escaped through narrow gaps between drapes in the tall, narrow main floor windows.

  Mrs. Risk was dawdling in the grass island formed by the circular driveway, arms wide as if to embrace the gnarled old trees dotting Solly’s landscaped grounds. She inhaled the air voraciously.

  “Elements seem to be her element,” Charlie said, murmuring into my ear.

  He’d meant it as a joke, but it was true. She gloried in wind and rain, snow or baking heat. There were times when I’d seen her waving her hands in syncopation with the bowing and swaying of trees in a fierce storm, giving me the unshakable impression she was directing the wind, making the trees dance for her entertainment.

  I whispered, “She told me once that if humans would stop trying to dominate natural forces, we could experience true harmony in our lives. She says all of nature, including people, were designed to work together.”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow as he looked at me. “Go with the flow, so to speak?”

  I stirred uneasily. “She does seem to be at home wherever she is.”

  Charlie laughed. “That’s called confidence.”

  I looked up at him. His hair, outlined by the dim light, glowed like shined copper. His expression was electric with intelligence and good humor. “You have your own kind of confidence, too,” he added. “When other people would be frightened, or intimidated, nothing stops you. That’s a type of confidence. You’re the bravest, and oddest, kid I’ve ever met.”

  I stared at him.

  He raised his head and shouted, “Mrs. Risk. You want me to knock?”

  In less than a second she joined us. “Try the bell instead. This door looks remarkably thick.” She wrapped her cloak around herself and stood serenely waiting.

  Just when I decided no one was coming, the door opened. A woman stood there, a dark shape outlined by a sudden glare of light. I expected a housekeeper to tend the door in an establishment of this price and size, so it took me a second to realize that this was Bella. I recognized the fingers first, splayed against the slim hip. The last time I’d seen them, they were clutched tightly in Solly’s hand. One finger still wore Solly’s enormous emerald cut diamond.

  “Bella?” I ventured, squinting against the yellow light.

  “Yes?” I remembered the low roughness of her voice and wondered if Solly had found it sexy.

  “It’s us,” I said. I was shivering uncontrollably by now, which made my words emerge through chattering teeth. “Mrs. Risk and Rachel, and this is a friend of ours, Charlie. Can we come in?” She made no move and I wondered if she’d understood me.

  “Please accept my condolences,” put in Charlie. “I understand you and Mr. Mansheim were about to be married.”

  Again, no answer, and still we waited. I wondered if I was going to have to barge through this door, too, but she finally swung it open.

  We stepped in.

  “What do you want?” she asked brusquely, as she closed the door behind us. She didn’t invite us any further in, but the foyer was too blissfully warm for me to complain. Solly’s house looked old, as deep and high as it
was wide, with carved moldings, wood floors, Oriental runners, and paneling everywhere. The few pieces of furniture I spotted were intricately designed and decorated and had that sheen of loving care applied with muscle and oil I could smell like a sharp perfume.

  A staircase coiled around to begin its ascent from the far end of the squares hall, its railing forming balconies on second and third levels that looked down at us past an unlit chandelier bigger than Charlie.

  The room to our immediate left was furnished with a deep leather sofa, matching chairs, and richly tinted Oriental rugs. An inviting fire blazed in a rose marble hearth, and I stared at it with longing, but Bella either couldn’t take a hint or was too preoccupied to notice.

  “How are you bearing up?” asked Mrs. Risk.

  “Reporters,” came the terse reply. “They keep ringing up and asking insinuating questions.” She looked at us suspiciously, which Mrs. Risk interpreted immediately as an accusation.

  “We have nothing to do with the news media. We’re only here to help Pearl, and hopefully you, too,” said Mrs. Risk.

  “I’m not so foolish as to believe that. I will not talk to you. I have no desire to have what I say end up on page one somewhere. Or in police reports.” Her eyes glittered coldly.

  “Drat that Zoë,” I groaned.

  She added, stiff with anger, “The police are full of questions. I believe they think Solly was murdered and that I have done it.”

  “Did they accuse you?” asked Mrs. Risk.

  “No. But I’m not stupid. I can smell the suspicion on their breaths. What I’d like to know is who planted that suspicion? Why would I, of all people, want Solly dead? What would I gain?”

  I gazed pointedly over her shoulder to the rooms beyond. “What a beautiful house. You must be very comfortable here, except for possibly painful memories.”

  Bella took a step towards me. “What is this you suggest?” Mrs. Risk clutched my arm and squeezed. As my fingers began losing all feeling, I got the message that maybe I was supposed to keep quiet.

  Hastily she inserted, “Rachel means that it must be very painful staying here without Solly. You must have wonderful memories of times spent together here.”

  “I never lived with Solly if that’s what interests you. I moved in this morning, for convenience to hold shivah for him. When that’s over, I am gone.”

  “Back to France?” I asked, flexing my bicep against the pain Mrs. Risk was inflicting on my arm.

  Bella, glowering at me, said nothing.

  Mrs. Risk, her resigned tone saying that she knew it was no use, asked anyway, “If we could sit down?” She let go of me. I exhaled in relief.

  “No. You may come tomorrow after the funeral, if you must, but I’m in no mood for company now.” She pulled the door open. The icy wind instantly reduced me to shivers again. I cast an inquiring eye at Mrs. Risk. Were we going to stand for being tossed out, or were we staying?

  When nobody moved to leave, Bella prompted with frigid politeness, “If you please?”

  Mrs. Risk turned away, and Charlie and I followed her out. The door closed, followed by the substantial clack of a bolt that meant business.

  Mrs. Risk exclaimed, “Drat!” She immediately turned and rapped sharply on the door. Charlie raised an obliging hand towards the bell, but Mrs. Risk shook her head no.

  “Never mind,” she said with a sigh. “I doubt she would answer anyway. Rachel, why did you have to talk?”

  “I wanted to know if Solly left her anything. Why should you get the fun of asking all the questions?” I lifted my chin. “And we found out, didn’t we? She inherits nothing but that chunk of ice on her finger.”

  She sighed with long-suffering gusto and muttered something containing the word ‘tact,’ which I tactfully ignored.

  I shuddered, and Charlie put his arm around me. “Rachel’s going to catch pneumonia if we don’t warm her up soon,” he said.

  Mrs. Risk glanced up at him, but instead of answering, she peered off to her right. “I was hoping to inform Bella of the person spying on her through the window, but I got too involved in repairing the effect of Rachel’s questions and forgot.” She shrugged. “Now I suppose we’ll have to find out who this is on our own. Charlie dear,” she began, but he’d already, at her first words, jumped sideways from the stoop and was loping off in the direction she’d indicated.

  At Charlie’s approach, a shapeless figure suddenly detached itself from the deeper shadows of the house and sprinted across the lawn, skirting a group of spindly rose bushes. Nothing could be discerned about the figure at all, not even its gender, except that it ran quickly. Charlie seemed unable to catch up, and, with my frozen legs, I was a poor second behind Charlie.

  The peeping tom plunged through the perfect line of mercilessly trimmed shrubs that edged the property. A solid living fence, they rose more than three meters high, with short trunks spaced at about a half meter apart and branches tightly intertwined. I followed Charlie, impressed by the desperation of someone who would plow through a barrier that dense. Those stiff branches must’ve gouged pretty good.

  With some difficulty, Charlie thrashed himself through. By the time I reached the shrubs, I heard the cough of a starter. An engine caught and then roared as gas was fed into it with a heavy foot. I dropped to my knees and scrambled between the small trunks, below the lowest branches, then sprang again to my feet in time to see Charlie stomping through puddles, racing down the middle of the street after a departing car. After about twenty meters, he swerved and doubled back for his milk truck.

  By the time I caught up, Mrs. Risk was already in her seat, with Charlie pumping the ancient engine back to life.

  “Watch it! Don’t flood the engine,” I shouted over the racket as I squeezed in behind Mrs. Risk.

  Charlie cast me a sardonic look. “Just hang on,” he said.

  Fortunately, because Solly’s drive was circular, we didn’t have to waste time turning around. The engine sputtered into action and soon we were toddling (don’t forget, this is a fifty year old milk truck) down Solly’s street. We teetered on two wheels as Charlie skidded left around the corner to get back onto Ocean Avenue. Luckily, considering Charlie’s curbside driving style, local security prohibited parking on the exclusive street.

  At the next intersection, a sprawling junction where Ocean met highway 27, we joined the light traffic entering downtown East Hampton. A flash of familiar taillight guided us to bear right on James Lane where it splits to enclose a long narrow pond in front of a row of well-manicured old houses. After passing a few overly cautious drivers, only two vehicles separated us from our quarry on the narrow road. Charlie hunched over the steering wheel, his fanny hardly touching the seat.

  As we headed deeper into town, I spotted an oncoming van weaving in the opposite lane about ten blocks from us, threading a too-rapid path around enormous gullies of leftover rain water. “Watch that van,” I muttered to Charlie.

  Then the last vehicle ahead of us turned right, leaving nothing between us and the car we pursued except too much space. I strained vainly to read the license plate. To my frustration I couldn’t even see if the car was from New York.

  “Get closer,” I demanded.

  Charlie broke his concentration to glance back at me with incredulity. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “We’re supposed to be catching up to this guy?”

  “Oh, grow up,” I snapped back.

  Suddenly the divided sides of James Road rejoined itself and the two tiny lanes broadened into four, although now clogged with parked cars on either side.

  The van caught my attention again. It still barreled towards us, careening crazily between puddles and, like an arrogant bull, trusted its bulk to frighten away traffic in the opposing lane when it carelessly crossed the double yellow lines.

  “That guy’s been smoking something,” muttered Charlie.

  Our quarry swerved right with squealing tires to avoid the oncoming van, causing the van to swerve broadly left across lanes
in reaction to the near collision.

  Charlie jammed on his geriatric brakes as the van, on the rebound, aimed straight at us.

  Mrs. Risk twisted in her seat and grabbed my arms to keep me from tumbling backwards into the truck bed. I stifled a scream and then lunged to clutch her in return as, when Charlie swerved the other way, she nearly dropped out through the gaping door hole. Charlie shaved so close to a parked Lincoln that he jerked the steering wheel back too hard in reaction. At that moment the van slid by without collision.

  Engineered in an era of low speed and sedate driving habits, the top-heavy panel truck rolled for four breath-taking seconds on its two passenger side tires, nearly dumping both me and Mrs. Risk out into the road.

  Empty wire baskets bashed into themselves, bouncing off the inside walls of the truck. A few ricocheted painfully off my backside, one striking me square between the shoulder blades. We clung to her seat and each other with every muscle we jointly owned.

  By the time the truck righted itself—with a little encouragement from Charlie—and I had sucked in a new lungful of air, the old one having been used up a while back, not only was the van long gone, but no trace of the car we were chasing could be seen.

  Traffic was sparse, but enough was moving to keep us guessing whether or not the car had turned a corner.

  “It must have turned left there,” declared Mrs. Risk, pointing decisively at a side street. Charlie followed her direction, and we suddenly found ourselves in the middle of a shopping center parking lot, with crazily scattered stores and no exit visible in the maze. Finally we discovered a sign that pointed to our right, to ‘Newtown Lane’. Another left turn after that and somehow we found ourselves back on the main road, hopelessly alone, heading back in the direction from which we’d come.

  For twenty minutes, Charlie tacked back and forth on side roads, trying to catch sight of the car again.

  Eventually Mrs. Risk sat back with a sigh. “What color was that car exactly, Charlie?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Pale green, maybe? Blue? Pale something. Under fluorescent streetlights, tough to figure out. And I never caught up enough to make out the license plate.”