The Witch and the Borscht Pearl

by Angela Zeman

  “Not much to tell. Nobody knew she’d come to town. We laid low, to stay private. She checked in at the Wyndham Bay Inn, but ended up staying with me most of the time until the party. Had a lot of lost years to make up.” Pearl gazed at Bella and her eyes glistened.

  “She’d changed. Thanks to Bernie and you, I’d changed. I didn’t want any more dishonesty. Life might be a bit more painful, but I was tired of fooling myself. I had a lot of understanding to catch up on. And forgiveness. Oh, not for her stealing Stanley away. Like I said before, if it weren’t for Bella, there’d have been no ‘Pearl’. I might never have found Bernie.

  “If she could forgive me for not reaching out to her all these years, I could forgive her for the same. It was so good, it was almost like God was bolstering me for what was to come. And what came was Stevie Graham. Poor kid, he was more petutsed than I was about those thefts.

  “But I just couldn’t turn Solly in. He’d gone wrong in the end, but now I knew—we could all go wrong. Maybe in my new ‘understanding’ I kind of went overboard.” She sighed.

  “That’s what the necklace theft was all about,” said Mrs. Risk.

  Pearl nodded. “I left it out on my dresser. I didn’t worry, it was in my house, everybody there had been my friends for decades. Arlene, the caterer, wouldn’t steal a carrot stick.” She shrugged. “Bella was supposed to hide it in her handbag and take off. But as you probably figured out, somebody else stole it for real. The thing is, we were so preoccupied with Solly. I assumed Bella had done her job and we never discussed it. She thought I’d decided it was safer to hang on to it myself and just say it was gone.

  “Anyway, the plan was, I’d ‘discover’ the theft and proclaim Bella as the thief, except I wouldn’t press charges because after all, she was my sister. We figured that was reasonable.” She shrugged. “We put the word out that I hated her and ditto right back, and she went after Solly. Romantically speaking, that is.”

  Bella gave a wry smile. “I’d had much experience in this. He’d been wounded by my sister and his thinking was twisted. Like a ripe plum, he fell into my hands.”

  Mrs. Risk said dryly, “I understand that he leaped into them.”

  Bella shrugged.

  Pearl said, “Please understand: she didn’t want to do it. She thought I should put him in jail. But I owed him everything.” Pearl’s expression was anguished. “You just don’t know what he did for me, those years before Bernie. He put my world together, and taught me how to make it work.”

  Bella spoke up suddenly. “We made an agreement. If the plan did not succeed in a reasonable time, she would call the police. It was on that basis that I said yes. But then he asked me to marry him.”

  Pearl said, “When Bella told me about the engagement, she wanted to stop then. She hadn’t been able to get anything but the most harmless statements out of him and she was upset that he had developed such a—a devotion to her. But I pushed. I promised that if he didn’t confess soon, we’d go ahead and blow the whistle, if she’d just keep it up. She didn’t want to, but …”

  Mrs. Risk said, “But she did. To please you. And then he died.”

  “Yes. He died,” said Pearl. A tinge of blue appeared around her mouth. “We talked it over and decided our plan looked too much like a good motive, so we kept quiet about it. I never would’ve hurt Solly, that was obvious to us, but we worried that it wouldn’t seem so obvious to the police. And then Bella didn’t know she was going to inherit—”

  “She knew,” I interrupted. “Solly informed her in early November. The police’ve found out that she knew, too.”

  Pearl looked puzzled. She faced Bella who couldn’t quite manage to meet her eyes.

  “Not to belabor the obvious,” put in Mrs. Risk, “but you may have been assuming that Bella was keeping quiet to protect you. It may have been herself that she was protecting.”

  Pearl said softly to Bella, “Is that why you haven’t been talking to me? Is that why you wouldn’t move in with me, stay with me through all this? I thought you were just keeping to the scheme we set up.”

  I couldn’t let Bella off the hook. “Did Bella ever tell you about her police record as a con artist? That’s one of the reasons she’s a suspect. That, and because she lied about knowing the contents of Solly’s will. Pearl,” I urged her, “I wouldn’t wait much longer before telling the police about your plot. Their experts are digging into Solly’s finances right now. They’ll know the truth before long, because they’re good at their jobs.”

  Pearl’s face twisted and she gazed oddly at her sister. When Bella, who gazed back with an imploring expression, opened her mouth to speak, Pearl hushed her with a gesture. She then turned and said fiercely to Mrs. Risk and me, “Get out. Both of you. You’ve given me more ‘help’ than I can stand, and I don’t want to ever see you again, either of you.”

  Mrs. Risk took a half step forward, saying, “Pearl, please, don’t let your fears cloud your thinking.”

  But Pearl raised a hand, warding her off. “Leave me alone, do you hear me? Leave us alone.” Pearl’s face had no color left in it, as if her rage had left her bloodless.

  The pleading in Bella’s eyes urged us towards the front door.

  “Come, Rachel,” Mrs. Risk said, her tone full of misgiving.

  We were nearly outside when a subdued Mrs. Risk turned and said, “Call if you need or want me. At the very least, I’ll be there for you at Krasner’s, Pearl.”

  From inside the dining room Pearl’s voice rang out, shaking and intense, full of tears. “Don’t you dare show up there. I never want to see you again. And leave my friends alone.”

  One of those friends must’ve stolen her necklace, would she remember that too late? What else had her friends done? Killed Solly, setting her up to take the rap? We left.

  23

  “WHAT DO YOU SUPPOSE will happen Saturday night at Krasner’s?”

  Charlie had finally asked it—the question foremost in our minds.

  Creamy plump candles of different heights blazed in clusters from the twin oak side boards, the top of the corner china cabinet, and from spaces among the now empty serving bowls on the linen-draped table. An enormous fire crackled and leaped cheerfully in the grate directly behind where I sat at Mrs. Risk’s polished oak table. Earlier, while still unsmudged by buttery fingers, her collection of lovely old crystal and silver had glimmered, bright with reflected flames, in the candlelight. Unfortunately, the frame of mind shared by us twelve celebrating Thanksgiving with Mrs. Risk wasn’t nearly so bright. The flames around the room fought valiantly to lift our spirits and ward off the dreariness of the rain that pounded at the windows. In spite of it all, we sat, logy from the finished meal and moody.

  Before Charlie had expressed what preyed on our minds, Detective Michael Hahn had asked us each to name what we were grateful for. The real Thanksgiving question we’re meant to dwell on. My answer had been Daniel, no question. Privately, I was also thankful to be sitting here for the third Thanksgiving in a row, rather than resting six feet under in the cemetery of my dead husband’s choice.

  “What’s the matter, Rachel? Someone step on your grave?”

  I blinked at Black Dan Harrington, but he’d already turned to his wife to discuss the pies waiting in the kitchen.

  The LeFarge twins, Byron and Allyn, the famous artists—particularly Allyn, who’d painted my portrait that hung in my shop—had joined us. Neither were married. In their early forties, they were small, with thinning hair, and looked more like kindly bus drivers than artistic types. The rotund Byron chased women with a steadfast commitment to non-commitment. Allyn, thinner and an indifferent dresser (unlike his brother who was tremendously vain of his wardrobe), also adored women but with a different perspective. He longed intensely for a wife and tended to get teary at weddings. However, Allyn’s anal housekeeping and his devotion to art above all else kept him as single as his brother.

  They were terrific fun, knowing everybody and always up on the
latest gossip and events, which they would relate to keep us laughing … usually. Today was not a typical day.

  Of course Aisa Garrett had come. Slight, balding, and, now that he was retired, bronzed from blissful hours spent fishing, although he rarely caught anything, or cared to, either. He owned North Shore Industries Corporation, Wyndham’s biggest (and only) industrial institution. North Shore sold heating oil and propane gas to most of Suffolk County. NSIC’s taxes supported Wyndham’s excellent school and our few cultural assets.

  It was my estimation that Aisa was Mrs. Risk’s oldest and dearest friend. After me, he was her favorite accomplice in her exploits. From hints picked up during late night conversations, I figure that if he wanted to, he could explain many, if not all, of the mysteries that surrounded Mrs. Risk. But so far he didn’t want to.

  A childless widower, he had last year hired a new manager for his corporation (having sent, at Mrs. Risk’s instigation, his former manager to jail for various crimes, including attempted murder of himself). The new young manager was Irish to the bone, a great piano player, and a prolific producer of children. His boisterous family was admirably fulfilling Aisa’s longing for grandchildren, so we’d been seeing less and less of Aisa in the last few months.

  Black Dan Harrington’s business partner, Barton Peacock, was here for his first time. His wife had decided to visit her mother in Florida for Thanksgiving this year, which pleasure Bart had declined to share; also his two college-age children had gone skiing for the holiday with friends, thus abandoning him completely to Mrs. Risk’s hospitality. From the way he lifted his glass of red wine to examine its color against the firelight, he didn’t look like he was suffering.

  Bart was a wiry dark-haired man in his late forties who seemed to live in suits. He was much shorter than his bulky, heavily muscled partner (who habitually wore flamboyant short-sleeved silk shirts and chinos.) Although he usually moved and spoke so rapidly he seemed hyperactive, this evening he was sitting fairly still—possibly weighed down by all that turkey. He squinted as if pondering a deeply puzzling problem: “Red or white? The eternal Thanksgiving question. Whether ‘tis better to spice up the old bird and aspire to a loftier red, or to quaff a gentle white with the traditional unassuming sage stuffing.” Bart took a sip of his red and licked his lips. “I tried it both ways and still can’t decide. I don’t know. Let me try some of that gewürztraminer. There were oysters in the stuffing. Would that make a difference?”

  “Nah! Gevurtzt is too sweet for oysters,” said Black Dan, reaching across me to pass down a decanter of a different wine to Bart. “Trust me. An Irisher always knows his wine.” He waggled his rusty eyebrows in a teasing glance at his doubting partner.

  Dan’s wife, Jennifer, sat on Dan’s other side. He’d never sit anywhere but next to his adored wife. She was a gorgeous redhead who reminded me of a young Maureen O’Hara. Dan’s grizzled copper hair and her rich auburn had produced two fiery-topped little girls, ages 8 and 10, (who were spending the long weekend with their grandparents in St. Croix). Jennifer had made friends with Michael’s date, a moderately attractive brunette (with a Prince Valiant haircut). She was a dentist named Lacy who, on arrival, had said she didn’t like wine all by itself. She’d asked for a wine cooler, instead, bringing a hush over the assembled company, who knew Mrs. Risk’s feelings on the subject.

  “Would you prefer lemonade or apple cider, dear? Or may I bring you some ice water?” Mrs. Risk had inquired. On her face was the look of horrified concern she would’ve given someone stricken with a serious ailment.

  No, evidently Lacy preferred a bottled wine cooler. Or a wine ‘spritzer?’

  I tried, but failed to imagine Mrs. Risk diluting her treasured wine with soda water.

  After Mrs. Risk and Aisa exchanged calculating looks, they’d descended into her cellar together and had come up with the pale gold gewürztraminer, which they offered Lacy. Evidently, they’d decided to educate her palate rather than crossing her off. To some success. As Dan had said, it’s a sweet wine. She liked it.

  And of course, Ernie Block was here. He’s here a lot. How to explain Ernie. He’s one of Wyndham’s building contractors and a bachelor, well thought of around the villages. Running to baldness and a comfortably cushioned middle, he’d dubbed himself Mrs. Risk’s ‘protector’ last summer. On that occasion, he’d declared that he considers her (and I quote) one hell of a good-lookin’ woman who was as sharp as a tack. He added that he knew he, himself, wasn’t good enough for her, but if he ever found a man he approved of, he’d run him her way. He must’ve won her heart because he’s always welcome here.

  None of us had been able to pretend we weren’t troubled by Pearl’s situation. Only Lacy was unaware that before Pearl had said her last words to Mrs. Risk, she’d been slated to occupy one of these chairs today.

  The clatter of eating and drinking had ceased, leaving only the crackling fire to fill the silence after Charlie’s question.

  Lacy glanced shyly around and bit her lip. She had an overbite that I’d watched both Michael and Charlie stare at with interest. Men like overbites, ever notice that? I think it must involve some fantasy they have concerning kissing. I, myself, have perfect alignment.

  Aisa grunted, then stated firmly to Mrs. Risk, “Pearl’s being very foolish, barring you from Krasner’s.”

  “Who said she was staying away?” Charlie asked with a short laugh, tearing his attention away from Lacy’s mouth. This statement somehow instigated a general stir of chairs scraping back as their owners rose.

  “Let’s get the pies out here, shall we?” suggested Mrs. Risk. Jennifer Harrington began swiftly collecting plates, handing them to Dan, who, using his restaurant expertise, stacked them precariously on one arm. Ernie seized the heavy turkey platter and Michael gathered up serving bowls. Aisa stood and began peering down the throats of wine bottles and decanters. After some muttering, he took away a few, left a half dozen, and tottered off towards the cellar stairs.

  “Byron, dear, you must tell me how to serve your pie.” Mrs. Risk’s voice trailed off into doubt. Byron, who loved to cook but who also prided himself on never having read a cookbook, had brought a soggy-looking butterscotch pie he’d baked this morning. He hustled away to assist.

  I began removing clumps of spilled food from the linen tablecloth. Which left Charlie and Lacy pretty much to themselves. Charlie leaned on the back of my now vacant chair and began a conversation, which seemed an agreeable idea to her. I hoped Michael would object, but then, I could care less.

  Allyn sidled up to me, hands clasped behind his back. “How’s your shop? Has business increased since you hung yourself over your counter?” His eyes twinkled gently. I reached over and began re-buttoning his misaligned tatty brown cardigan.

  “It hasn’t hurt business,” I said, “which has to be a compliment. We’ll have to take a poll to see if people admire the painting more for my body or your—I mean, Byron’s—technique.” We laughed together. It was Allyn who’d painted my highly provocative portrait, but Byron’s name was on the canvas. Allyn loved to paint naked and nearly-naked women but Byron was given the credit, to safeguard Allyn’s reputation among the more stuffy art critics as a ‘serious’ artist. Byron and Allyn were identical twins, a fact they capitalized on shamelessly whenever Byron could diet to match Allyn’s waistline.

  I beamed and told him about Bart’s and Dan’s recent orders. “I’m not buying T-bills, yet, but a good future is a definite possibility now.”

  “Hmm.” His bushy eyebrows tilted up in the middle, over his little round nose. “I could mention your shop to some of my patrons.”

  “Not many of your Manhattan customers would be shopping Wyndham for flowers, would they?”

  “Ah, you must not have heard. I’m having a retrospective in Wyndham right before Christmas. For charity. The proceeds go to St. Boniface Hospital.”

  “No kidding.”

  “I’ll see if I can get a blurb about your shop on the progra
m. Suggest you as a perfect source of flowers to send to St. Boniface patients. Maybe the gallery will need some things for the show, too. Surely they’ll decorate.”

  “You’d do that?”

  While we talked, the table became slowly transformed from the dregs of a battlefield to a blooming dessert tray. Aisa reappeared with a crop of dusty little dessert wine bottles clasped lovingly to his chest and set to work uncorking. Mrs. Risk handed round another set of glasses, silver, and coffee paraphernalia and gradually we drifted back to the table.

  Like gameplayers we assumed different positions. I sat next to Allyn, leaving the path to Lacy wide open for Charlie, who immediately took advantage. Michael shifted to my other side, which put him next to Mrs. Risk.

  Bart settled between Lacy and Jennifer Harrington, from which position they began a cozy three-way discussion of hotels they loved. I guess Lacy travels a lot. Dentists must do well, financially.

  Ernie began a round of questions and answers with Aisa about wine. I hoped he realized he was risking spending the rest of the night listening. Mrs. Risk portioned out desserts and made pointed remarks correcting Aisa’s instruction. Ernie always beamed at Mrs. Risk in a knowing way, as if he knew every fault she ever had but would always consider her the most fascinating woman on earth. Ernie was no fool about anything—possibly even about her.

  “So you’re planning to show up at Krasner’s?” The question had been put quietly from Michael to Mrs. Risk, but I picked it up anyway and froze, listening.

  Charlie, having also heard, answered for her. “You know she is, why bother asking?”

  “Because. Because I’d like to know for sure,” came Michael’s uncomfortable reply.

  “You have something planned, don’t you,” I accused him.

  “She’s right. You do. What?” asked Mrs. Risk sharply.

  He looked miserable. “We’ve uncovered some new evidence—a motive, a very good motive for Pearl. In addition to being upset over Solly dumping her for Bella. I’m expecting certain documents Saturday—” he broke off. “I can’t really go into it.”