The Witch and the Borscht Pearl

by Angela Zeman

I leapfrogged to my cold-numbed feet and began running after him. However, the rain had slicked the close-cut brown grass into a glassy surface which slanted first this way and that as we charged up and down the gently rolling grounds, not the easiest of tracks on which to win a race. Feeling like Alice pursuing the white rabbit, I began shouting, “Hold it, stop!” as I stumbled and slid.

  I could’ve been the red queen shrieking ‘off with his head’ for all the cooperation I got. At least he was stumbling and sliding as awkwardly as I was, so the race evened somewhat and I began catching up.

  Suddenly he swiveled and ran straight at me. Before I could change course I slammed dead into his pointed elbow. Without knowing how I got there, I lay flat on my back, head angled downhill, adrenalin surges warming me (about time!), my heart thundering like a coal-fired train engine attacking an incline—I thought I could, I thought I could—or was that Charlie’s feet, the sound of him thudding up the slope?

  At the thought of him catching the vandal first, I struggled to right myself. Like a turtle on his back, my legs waved uselessly in the air before I managed to roll myself sideways to my knees, then to my feet. I gazed stupidly around until I spotted, about ten yards away, the intruder struggling to his feet. And Charlie was on the chase, all right, but still behind me.

  I sprang into motion just in time to see the intruder slip and fall again to his hands and knees, and to hear a sharp cry, quickly bit off—of pain, I hoped—as he again slipped. He scrabbled to his feet and this time practically flew, but with me right behind.

  Again he turned, this time to deal me a blow full of knuckles to the breast. FOUL, I thought, wincing in pain because that hurt. I tumbled backward onto a knee-high tombstone and crashed flat on my back, knocking the air out of my lungs. He made it to his car before I could regain my breath or my feet.

  Charlie caught up with me just then. He helped me stand, then we both stared in disgust as the car zoomed away, taking the curves with the recklessness of familiarity. And why not? This was his third trip.

  “Shit,” I said.

  I suddenly realized that the rain had stopped.

  Charlie took my arm and turned us around. Trying to ignore the stab of excruciating pain that punished me every time I took a breath, I trudged beside him in silence back to where Mrs. Risk waited. She lit a lantern. The place illuminated was even less appealing than it had been in the dark.

  I started as I caught sight of Charlie in the light. He was smeared from head to foot with mud. He looked like a swamp creature from an old horror movie. Pointing, I started to laugh, until he said sourly, “Wait til you get a look at yourself.” That stopped me.

  Mrs. Risk took the lantern, then, and walked over to the grave. A couple of large pockets had been gouged out beginning a few yards away in a direct line with the road. Rain had already pooled in the holes.

  She held the light this way and that, but made no comment.

  “I’m freezing,” I said in a faint voice. I didn’t mention the pain in my side.

  “Yes,” came her scornful answer. “It’s clear that your brains aren’t keeping you warm. You ran off like a lunatic. What did you hope to accomplish except to block the view of my camera?” And with that she stalked back to our hiding place and began bundling up food containers.

  I followed more slowly, suddenly exhausted. Charlie and she did most of the picking up and carrying. I trailed behind. The trip home was not one of triumph.

  17

  FROZEN AND MUDCAKED, WE stumbled into Mrs. Risk’s living room. I couldn’t believe it when the old clock on her wall chimed one. I thought it had to be at least four or five in the morning.

  Charlie was sent to the kitchen to clean up, while I was bundled off to her only bathroom, which was really just a warm enclosed nook between her kitchen and bedroom. I stood in her claw-footed tub under a shower head as big as a sunflower and, peeling off clothes, watched consecrated cemetery dirt slide between my toes and down the drain.

  I probed my side. I had a nice bruise blooming, and a lot of pain when I inhaled.

  By the time I trailed barefooted and wet-haired out of the steamy bathroom, wrapped in a robe of soft fluffy material, sleep threatened to overpower me. I dropped into my customary chair by the fire in the living room. Charlie, already dry but not nearly as clean, crouched on a stool by the hearth sipping tea like an overgrown boy minding his manners. Mrs. Risk sat curled up with Jezebel in the chair opposite me. The ever-present fire had been built up. It blazed, warming and illuminating the quiet room. As Charlie and Mrs. Risk talked in low murmurs, the clock struck a resounding half past the hour.

  The circle of light made by the fire somehow emphasized the surrounding woods beyond the windows. Almost as though the beamed ceiling didn’t exist, I sensed the wind in the tall old oaks, the swaying clumps of nearby birches, and the water murmuring and shifting just yards from the house. It often happened that this time of night was when the isolation of my circumstances bore down on me hardest. For a variety of reasons, I felt it tonight more than ever, even with the others present. Maybe it was Mrs. Risk’s presence that made it worse. How many days did we have left in which to pretend Pearl’s innocence before Michael caught on to Mrs. Risk’s criminal deception? How many days did I have left to spend in Mrs. Risk’s glorious, aggravating, alarming, beguiling, and entirely entertaining presence before she wrecked her life irretrievably …

  To distract my mind, I tried to listen to the conversation, but was instantly reminded of my blunder, which depressed me even more. A cup of tea sat steaming on a side table. I picked it up and sniffed at it suspiciously, remembering yesterday’s unexpected nap.

  “I already described to you the damage done on the other two occasions. Did you notice the difference in the digging this time?” Mrs. Risk asked.

  Charlie nodded. “Really chopped at the ground. Frustration?”

  “And anger,” said Mrs. Risk. “At what?” Her eyes gleamed in the firelight. “What happened between today and yesterday, when the digging was much more methodical?”

  Charlie chewed mentally at the question.

  “The will was read.” I said it dully not really attentive.

  Mrs. Risk nodded. “Very good. So perhaps someone—the digger—had expected the will to contain something different than it did.”

  “So you’re saying the digger might have expected to benefit from Solly’s will?” asked Charlie. “A murderer expects to benefit from the death of the victim, doesn’t he? Otherwise, why kill? So is the digger also Solly’s murderer?”

  “There are all kinds of benefits, dear.” She sighed. “So many choices.”

  “Then it wasn’t Bella out there digging,” he said. “She made out like a bandit.”

  “Little Bella out there?” I snorted. “No way. You should’ve felt that elbow, and then the fist in my chest.” I winced at the memory.

  “What? Stand up,” demanded Mrs. Risk. “I thought you were moving a little stiffly. You’re hurt, aren’t you!”

  I slowly got to my feet. Unceremoniously, she whipped me around so that my back was to Charlie and opened the robe to examine my side. With her long fingers she gently probed and prodded. I clenched my jaw to prevent moaning. When she was done I had to blink away tears of pain.

  Making small soothing noises she wrapped me tenderly in the folds of material again and helped me sit down.

  “I’ll get you something for it before you go to bed.”

  Charlie frowned at me, looking alarmed and angry all at the same time.

  I said tiredly. “Oh, forget it.”

  All conversation trickled away and the fire made the only sound in the room.

  I finally sighed. “I’m really sorry.”

  Mrs. Risk, understanding me immediately, patted my knee. “I’m the one who owes the apology, dear. I deeply regret speaking so rudely to you afterwards. I should’ve explained to you that a good picture was all we needed. Michael could’ve apprehended him for us later. You were ve
ry brave.”

  “I thought the whole point of us being there was to catch him.”

  “In the act. Not physically catch him.”

  “And Charlie ran.”

  “I sent him after you.”

  Charlie said, “When the guy turned around and attacked you, I thought you’d been hurt. And then when you kept up the race, I worried that the next time you got close he’d really clobber you. I was trying to protect you.”

  Unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice, I said, “Kind of slow about it, weren’t you?”

  “I had a hard time running in that slippery mess, and you know what I mean, babe. You skated all over the place yourself.” He eyed me sympathetically, as if he could see my hurt pride.

  “Well, next time,” I began, but Mrs. Risk interrupted.

  “Dear, weren’t you listening earlier? He won’t be back.”

  “Why not? You said he was desperate.”

  “Not any more,” said Charlie.

  “Why not?”

  “Didn’t you hear that noise he made when he stopped the second time?”

  “Sure. When he fell. He stubbed his toe or something.”

  “Uh, uh,” said Charlie with finality. “That was a clear shout of triumph. He found it.”

  “Found what?”

  “Whatever he was looking for, you chased him right to it and he found it.” The way he tactfully looked away at that moment told me he felt sorry for me.

  I bounded to my feet, stricken, ignoring the slash of pain that resulted. “You’re saying it’s my fault he was successful!”

  Mrs. Risk exclaimed, with a warm forgiveness that wounded me more than Charlie’s accusation, “Of course not. How could you know? The worst you did was to not … think.” With a waft of her hand, she flapped me back into my seat. I sat, devastated, but secretly breathless over the sharp increase in pain.

  She continued, “We must deal with this new development. Who is this person? What does this event, tonight, have to do with Solly’s murder? What had he lost, which is now found?”

  “We’ll find that out soon enough,” I said hollowly.

  “What do you mean?” asked Charlie.

  Mrs. Risk said, “She means, and I agree, that the object could have a bearing on something the person wants to happen. We’ll either be seeing this lost item before very long, or be missing it because of its absence. I hope we recognize it at the time.”

  Charlie’s eyebrows jacked skyward but he said nothing.

  The fire had burned down, so he added a log. He sat back. “Somebody spied outside of Bella’s window the night after the murder, right? That’s in East Hampton. And somebody’s been foraging around the cemetery, which is in Queens. So let’s say this is the same person.”

  “We could say so, but it isn’t necessarily true,” murmured Mrs. Risk. “Rachel, that car, was it the one we chased in East Hampton?”

  I thought a second, remembering, then shook my head.

  “Okay, the guy got a different car,” insisted Charlie. “Point is, he couldn’t live too far away. On Long Island, probably. That narrows down the suspects, doesn’t it?”

  I shook my head again. “How far’s too far? Staten Island? Manhattan? Jersey? Even Connecticut’s fairly close. How desperate is more to the point. If a person was desperate enough, he’d go as far as necessary.”

  “Rachel’s right again, dear.” She beamed at me.

  I settled more firmly into the cushions of my chair, feeling better now. “Three nights in a row at a cemetery, even after being commented on in the newspaper—that’s pretty desperate.”

  “How do you know he’d read the newspaper, Rachel?” asked Charlie.

  “That’s true,” I admitted. “I wouldn’t have read it without her pushing.” I gestured with my thumb at Mrs. Risk. “Well, still. That’s pretty determined, I’d say. So he could live anywhere.”

  “Or she,” said Charlie.

  “Or she,” I agreed. “You know, the object had to be something easy to know by feel, in a muddy lawn in the dark. Like if you stepped on it. And it had to blend in well with the brown grass. We sure didn’t see anything when we were there yesterday, and it was daylight.”

  Mrs. Risk abruptly stood and began her three-stride pacing. We watched her in silence. Her thin body seemed to quiver in its intensity, all its strength focused on her thoughts.

  And just as abruptly, she stopped.

  “Rachel, you’ll spend the night.”

  Dizzy from the rapid change of subject, I said, “I, uh, suppose so.”

  “We’ll take care of your wet clothes in the morning. You can sleep in my bed, I’ll take the couch.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I won’t be sleeping anyway. You might as well enjoy a real bed.” Her expression was drawn and grim.

  Charlie stood. “I’ll be doing rounds in less than four hours. Think it’s time to leave.”

  “Thanks for your help,” began Mrs. Risk.

  “Yeah,” I put in, grinning. “You added to the ambiance.”

  Pointedly ignoring me, he said to Mrs. Risk, “Hey, I’d say just call me anytime, but you will.” His cheerful grin revealed a complacent attitude about being at her beck and call that would have irritated me a few days ago. Now, silently I watched them chatting affectionately at the door. I felt tears well, but swiped them away, disgusted at this sign of weakness. Without saying goodbye, I turned away to go to bed.

  18

  “UP, RACHEL. I DREW a bath. I want you to soak that bruise in some hot water and herbs.”

  I opened one eye to view the new day. Mrs. Risk’s face, twisted with concern, hovered alarmingly close to mine. She flipped back the blankets. I shuddered and scrabbled to get the covers back.

  “Oh, no, none of that. We have much to do today. And your shop will soon be flooded with customers who postponed ordering flowers because of the weather.”

  Money. My eyes opened. “Why, is it nice out today?”

  “Gorgeous.”

  I sat up and swung my legs over the side. Her bed, like everything else in her place, was scaled down cottage-size, but heavenly to sleep in, like a nest. “I love your bed.”

  She straightened up, pleased. “Do you? I’ll make you one. Stand up, dear. See how your ribs feel.”

  Make me one? I stood with tentative care, waiting for the stabbing pain. I was rewarded with a minor twinge instead. I lifted my arms above my head and stretched. Soreness there, but not nearly as much as I expected. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Herbs in the mattress helped you sleep deeply. And the potion I rubbed into your side last night drew out the soreness. I’ll give you some to take home. Rub it in before bed, and in a few days you’ll never know you hurt yourself. Luckily, you’re very tough, or you would’ve broken a rib.”

  “I fell across a tombstone, you know.”

  “I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me.” She led the way to the bath. Without further talk, I stepped into the steaming water. I sank up to my chin. An elusive odor of sun drenched meadows filled my nose. I inhaled and closed my eyes.

  It seemed like only seconds later, and back she came to thrust a towel at me. “Out,” she said, and left again. I stepped out of the now cool water, toweled myself quickly, and pulled the robe on.

  In the kitchen on the table lay a plate, with silverware. “There’s still some of that pumpkin seed bread you made Michael. Try it toasted, if you like.”

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I did. I also washed and dried your clothes.”

  “Wow, you’ve been busy. Thanks.”

  Her jam was blueberry, homemade by our caterer friend, Arlene—the best in the village. I scooped some onto a plate. “Thanks for the breakfast, and the doctoring, too.”

  She wiped her hands, pulled out a chair, and sat down across from me. Her eyes were opaque and distracted.

  “Have you reached any conclusions?” I asked, finally, reluctant to bring up Pearl’s problem, but
that’s why I was here, after all. I licked blueberry from around my mouth.

  “Not conclusions, really. Only more questions. Like, what’s in Ilene’s history, the source of her loyalty to Pearl.”

  “What could that have to do with anything?”

  “Possibly nothing, I admit. But extending herself so completely for anyone is dreadfully out of character for Ilene. And anything that makes a person act against his or her nature might be important.”

  I nodded. “I can buy that. That’s it?”

  “No. I’d also like to find out if Bella knew about the will’s contents ahead of time.”

  “How on earth can you find that out?”

  “We can start by asking Vivian, if we can find her. I’d like a good long talk with her. I think she wouldn’t mind—she seemed willing enough to babble on to us after the funeral, unlike the others.” She stopped, shrugged, tight-lipped.

  “What?”

  “Oh, whenever I call any of Pearl’s friends, trying to make appointments to see them, or merely to discuss something briefly, they hang up on me.”

  I paused in the act of biting. “Zoë’s work.”

  She smiled wryly. “Undoubtedly. But never mind that. Also it might be profitable to find out how close Michael is to … to an arrest.”

  “You think he’s going to arrest Pearl soon?” Once again worries surged to the surface about Mrs. Risk’s possession of a substantial clue to Michael’s case.

  As if she read my mind, she said gently, “I hope you grasp the significance of that gold box I found in Solly’s desk.”

  Didn’t I ever! Concealing evidence was a crime! Dropping my gaze to the table, I said, “Significance? I think it doesn’t look good for—”

  “Michael and his minions are not witless, contrary to popular fiction. Consider, Rachel: I turned up the box and the invoice after a quick search in an obvious place. Michael’s detectives had already gone through that house. I wouldn’t insult him by asking if he went through Solly’s desk. Of course he did. So Rachel, dear. Why didn’t he find it?”

  I blinked. “He’d already searched the house?”