By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel (16 page)

Uncle Donald normally spoke with a slight Baltimore accent, an almost Cockney-like inflection distinguished by its odd-shaped
o
sounds. But as he warmed to this topic, he began to sound more and more like his immigrant forebears. It was only a matter of time before Yiddish broke out. Tess decided to mollify him.

“What did your men’s group do?”

“We visited Jewish inmates once a month and led them in an informal service. And we observed major holidays. Passover was my favorite.”

“How do you do Passover in prison?”

“Well, they can’t leave the door open for Elijah and there’s no wine, but they chant ‘Next year outside’ instead of ‘Next year in Jerusalem.’ Very touching, actually.”

“I didn’t know you cared about religion. You never talk about it.”

“Jews don’t proselytize,” Donald said. “Your parents decided to raise you with virtually no religious education, so who was I to interfere? Besides, I’d be suspicious of anyone who did so-called good works, then ran around talking about it. Sort of misses the point.”

“I wouldn’t say I was raised
without
a religious education. Dad told me his version, Mom told me hers, and I was free to make my own decisions. I opted for being a nonobservant Jewish Catholic who believes in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny but can hang with the bitter-herb crowd at a seder. Remember last year? I kept the horseradish in my mouth longer than anyone except Crow, and he has an asbestos tongue from his time in Texas.”

“He’s a nice boy. How’s his mother doing?”

“Fine, all things considered. They’re Episcopalians, by the way. I mean, as long as we’re taking inventory of who believes what.”

“Do you believe in God, Tesser?”

Tess squirmed on the molded plastic chair, which had probably been in the Kibbitz Room since President Jimmy Carter’s visit, which was featured on the wall above her in a series of newspaper articles, some framed, some shellacked to pieces of wood. She didn’t want to talk with her uncle about her love life, but she was even more reluctant to discuss religion.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not? So did Rubin get involved in this group because his father-in-law was in prison?”

“Oh, no. He met Natalie at the prison because her father was one of the men in our group. You see, she sought Mark out, very keen that her father embrace his faith, eager to know what she could do to help. She had found great comfort in Judaism after her father’s arrest. But Boris Petrovich…well, Boris couldn’t have been less interested in the program. I think he signed up because it was a nice diversion and we brought in good food. The man knew nothing about his own religion.”

“Not unusual for a Soviet Jew. In fact, I’d say Natalie’s the odd one, from what I know, choosing to live an observant life after almost twenty years of being wholly ignorant of Judaism.”

“True, but Boris always seemed to be working some angle.” Uncle Donald frowned at the memory. “It’s a funny thing, charitable work. You might not go in expecting people to be overwhelmed with gratitude, but you think they’ll be polite at least. Petrovich was a bit of a jerk, a schemer through and through, whether he was asking for an extra macaroon or wheedling one of us to write a letter to get some privilege reinstated. But the daughter — the daughter was nothing but lovely.”

“She wasn’t part of the group, though? Rubin met her through the prison connection?” So there went the touching little story about the Carvel stand, a lie through and through.

“Yes. I admit I thought it was one of Petrovich’s schemes at first. He may not have known how rich Mark was, but he had him pegged as a mark, a prosperous prospect. Hey — try saying that three times fast. Prosperous prospect, prosperous prospect, prosperous —”

“You’re the king of the tongue twisters,” Tess agreed.

“Anyway, Natalie contacted Mark about her father, and they ended up getting married. Then Mark dropped out of the program, saying he didn’t have time for it anymore. That was at least eight, nine years ago, so maybe that’s why he didn’t mention it to you.”

Tess rescued a few pieces of fallen corned beef from her plate.

“Only here’s the part that’s bothering me, Uncle Donald. Rubin’s the one who keeps saying he thinks his wife disappeared for some reason she can’t tell him. So why withhold the information that her daddy is a convict who killed a man?”

“Well, for one thing, people sometimes forget that others don’t know what they know about themselves. Maybe he thought I’d tell you about Natalie’s father. Besides, Mark’s always been…an elliptical man. Formal and reserved. I think it comes from spending a lifetime of telling overweight women that they don’t look fatter in a fur coat.”

“His mother-in-law suggested he’s not always truthful.”

“Really?” Donald picked up a pickle from his plate and sucked on it before taking a bite. “I never had that sense. He’s extremely reticent with most people, but he’s charming when you get to know him, funny even.”

“Rubin?”

“Not a jokester. No lamp shades on the head. But a very — I don’t know — dry wit. Like Mort Sahl.”

“More salt?”

“No, Mort Sahl. He was a Jewish comedian —”

Tess patted her uncle’s forearm. “I’m teasing you. I’m much better on the details of our cultural history than I am on the religious stuff. Why did Mark come to you when he needed a private detective? Are you two close?”

Uncle Donald shook his head. “Not particularly. He’s a wealthy businessman, living up in the county in some
Architectural Digest
house, with a wife and kids. I’m a state employee, with my little rental in Mount Washington. He says his prayers three times a day. I go to shul on Rosh Hashanah, fast on Yom Kippur, and try to find a relative to take me in on Passover.”

“So why did Mark Rubin come to you with this very delicate matter?”

But now she had offended him. “Your uncle is still known as a man who can get things done, Tesser. Maybe I can’t do things directly, but I know who to call.”

“He didn’t know I was a private investigator, then, he just asked for your help in finding a PI?”

“When he came to me, he wasn’t even talking about private investigators. He thought the police were putting him off, not taking him seriously, because…well, because, you know…” He made a strange, helpless gesture with his hand.

“I don’t know.”

“Because he’s Jewish. I mean, Jewish-Jewish, really Jewish, not just Jewish-surname-Jewish.
Different
-Jewish.”

“Oh, Uncle Donald, that’s paranoid beyond belief.” Tess had already forgotten how quick she had been to take the other side of this argument with Nancy Porter.

“Yeah? One detective even asked him if this was an arranged marriage or a mail-order bride.”

“So? There are still arranged marriages of sorts among the Orthodox, and there are mail-order brides from Russia, where Natalie was born. They were just doing their jobs, asking those questions.”

“Oh.” He chewed with intense concentration, as if the act of grinding his molars also helped his brain to work. “At any rate, when I determined that the police weren’t being obstinate, that they really couldn’t help him, I told him he needed a private investigator — and I knew just the person. The idea of a female investigator was a bit of an obstacle for him, but I persuaded him that you were more discreet than anyone else he could hire.” He wiggled his eyebrows in best Groucho fashion.

“Thanks, Uncle Donald. It’s nice for a family member to steer me toward a wealthy client for once. But if he doesn’t start being more forthcoming with me, I’m not sure how much I can help him.”

“Are there other things he’s not telling you?”

“I don’t know. Something. Maybe it’s just, you know…” She shrugged, unsure how to broach this topic with her uncle. “Maybe his wife wasn’t, um…fulfilled in their relationship.”

“Fulfilled? Oh, you mean sex. No, I never got that impression that was the issue.”

“So there
was
an issue?”

“I’m just assuming. She left, so something must have been wrong. Right? No one walks out on a perfect relationship.”

“One person’s perfect could be another person’s hell.” Tess took out a pad and pen. “What about the other men you visited, particularly in Jessup where Petrovich was held? Do you have a list of their names?”

“I don’t, but the organization might keep such records. I’m sure we had correspondence with the Department of Corrections, to get clearances and the like. Why?”

“A man’s wife and children disappeared. Now, I’m still betting she just took off, for whatever reason, but he’s adamant that there’s something more sinister involved. Looking at known criminals in his past makes sense. I also need to find out who his father-in-law killed, don’t I?”

“Oh.” He furrowed his brow. “You’re not mad at me, Tesser, for making this referral? It’s good money, isn’t it?”

“It’s great money. But one of the stinky things about my line of work is that the longer it takes me to solve a problem, the more money I make. Doesn’t that seem a little backward to you?”

“So you asked me here today to talk about Mark, this case?”

“Well, yeah. But to see you, too,” she added. “And to gossip about Kitty’s wedding.”

“But mainly to talk about work?” He seemed adamant about scoring this point, which was not Uncle Donald’s way. He was one of the few relatives who never tried to make her feel guilty.

“Yes, okay? Yes, I asked you here to talk about the Rubin case.”

He pushed his check across the table. “Then you pay for me and put it on your expenses,
mameleh
. I would hope you should know that by now.”

G
ood news, bad news,” Gretchen said over the unreliable line of a cell phone. It was 4:00
P.M.
, and she had already seen and conquered French Lick.

“They were here. In fact, they made quite an impression. One of the employees remembered the mother because her little girl had an accident in the playground — you know, in one of those ball rooms — and it got a little ugly. They yelled at the woman for letting her daughter go in there, knowing she wasn’t toilet trained, the mother said the girl was, that it must be diarrhea from the food, and it went downhill from there. They roared out of there, leaving no forwarding address and, its being McDonald’s and all, no telltale credit-card slip. Not that this woman ever uses a credit card. But it was definitely her.”

“If it was Natalie, she was telling the truth about Penina’s being toilet trained. The twins are five.”

“Okay, great, I’m glad to know who was telling the truth in the great poopie-diaper debate. Anyway, the manager told me they were clearly passing through. They were in some big old car.”

“And the car was…?”

“Green. Old. Didn’t notice the tag, just that it wasn’t local. One worker thought they had suitcases on the luggage rack when they pulled in, but another was adamant that the car didn’t have anything on the roof when it pulled out. So big, green, and old, not from Indiana. Think we can get state police to give us a roadblock based on that information?”

“Funny, Gretchen.”

“I’m sorry, but it
kills
me how unobservant people are. You know, our government’s been telling us since 9/11 that we gotta pay attention, that we’re their eyes and ears on the front lines of the war against terrorism. Meanwhile, the average Joe wouldn’t notice someone building a dirty bomb at the corner table in Starbucks.”

“But they were sure it was Natalie?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Apparently men remember that face. Which brings me to the most important piece of news —”

Gretchen’s cell phone picked this moment to go out. Tess waited a few seconds to see if Gretchen would wander back into a good cell, then hung up, knowing she would call again.

“Sorry. Anyway, I did learn something else, but it’s not going to make your client happy.”

“Yeah?”

“Natalie’s traveling with a man.”

Tess wished she were more surprised. “Description?”

“About as helpful as old and green. Thirties or forties, tall, blue eyes, dark hair, cropped short. Muscular, but not muscle-bound. No facial hair. Dressed in what the cashier called a cowboy kind of way, which apparently translates to jeans, boots, and a denim jacket in this part of the world. She said he was good-looking, but I’m not sure the McDonald’s cashier and I have the same taste in men.”

“Anything else?”

“No, it’s pretty much the land of generic one-syllable adjectives. Although Natalie probably would have been noticed even if her daughter hadn’t flamed out in the ball room.”

“Because she’s so pretty?”

“And she has dark hair. You don’t see a lot of brunettes in this part of the world.”

Tess hung up the phone and got out an atlas, an old one, but its version of the world was good enough for her purposes as long as she wasn’t tracking someone through Natalie Rubin’s country of origin, still listed here as the USSR.

French Lick was in southern Indiana, and it wasn’t on a major interstate. It was — Tess worked backward, using the mileage charts for Evansville and Louisville — almost seven hundred miles from Baltimore. The Internet provided the helpful information that it had a golf resort and something called the Antique Hair Museum.

But on what route did it lie, why would someone pass through there? That’s what had Tess stumped. If Natalie was heading west, why was she traveling so far from the interstate, and why had she made so little progress? Gone three weeks, she could have reached the opposite coast by now. Tess knew that movies often showed people trying to hide out in small towns, but it was a ludicrous plan in practice. A strange family would be more noticeable in a small town, not less. French Lick had only two thousand people, the nearby county seat of Paoli a mere twenty thousand. It was no place to hide, and no place to go, unless Natalie was a fervent Larry Bird fan paying homage to the basketball legend’s hometown.

This was one drawback to the SnoopSisters network. Gretchen had swept in and done exactly what was requested, with concrete results. She had gotten there faster and cheaper than Tess ever could. But this job-share arrangement was no substitute for seeing a place with your own eyes, for walking the streets, for getting lost and then found again. Tess often made her best discoveries as the results of wrong turns and tangents.