By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel (3 page)

“Did Donald tell you anything of my situation?”

“Only that it was a missing-person case, an unusual one that the police won’t handle. He said you would prefer to fill me in on the details.”

“Persons,” he said. “Missing persons. Four, in fact. My entire family.”

“Divorce?” She suppressed a sigh. Until recently Tess had disdained divorce work, picking and choosing her jobs. But she had lost several weeks of work this summer and could no longer afford to be fussy.

“No, nothing like that. I came home one day and they were gone.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Excuse me?”

“I assume your wife’s flight was legal and not suspicious, or this would be a police case.”

“The police agree it’s not their case,” he said, his voice so low as to be almost inaudible, and Tess realized that what she had taken for coolness was an attempt to keep strong emotions in check. “Me, I’m not so sure. I went to work, I had a family. I came home, I didn’t. I certainly feel as if something has been stolen from me.”

“Was there talk of a separation? Had you been quarreling? It’s just hard to imagine such a thing happening out of the blue.”

“But that’s
exactly
what did happen. My wife left with my children, with no warning, no explanation. She simply disappeared the Friday before Labor Day, right before school started and just as my business was picking up.”

“Early September is your busy season?”

“No, but many of my customers get their furs out of storage in the month before the high holidays, just in case.”

“Would the Orthodox wear fur to shul on Yom Kippur?” Tess had no idea where her mind had dredged up this odd fact, but she felt as if she had just pulled off a sophisticated thought in a foreign language. Score one for her.

“Not all my customers are Orthodox. They’re not even all Jewish.”

Point lost. Tess had envisioned a sea of glossy hats in a synagogue, but maybe she was thinking of some long-ago church service her grandfather had dragged her to. Or perhaps she wasn’t having a memory so much as she was replaying a movie version of someone else’s memories. Probably Barry Levinson’s. A lot of people in Baltimore had Barry Levinson’s life lodged in their heads and had begun to mistake it for their own.

“It’s never cool enough to wear a fur in September, not in Baltimore.”

“Yes, but hope springs eternal.” He offered Tess a crooked smile. “I guess that’s why I’m here.”

She bent her head over her desk, focusing on the lines of the legal pad in front of her, counting on Rubin to get his emotions under control if she didn’t look straight at him. Tess was sure he didn’t want her to see him cry. She was even surer that
she
didn’t want to see him cry. Men crying creeped her out.

“If your wife took your children without your permission, isn’t that a kidnapping? Can’t the police go at it from that angle? Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to have the work, but the police have far more resources than I do.”

“I know, and that’s why I started with them. But…it’s amazing. If you’re married and your spouse leaves you, taking your children, you have no real rights. I’ve been told that I have to get divorced in absentia and petition for custody. Only then will I have any rights to assert. And that could take up to a year.”

“Oh, there has to be some way to expedite a divorce in this case. I can’t imagine the state would hold to the one-year rule in such a case.” Maryland did have odd marital laws, Tess knew. It was all too easy to get married here — it was one of the few states that didn’t require a blood test, which years ago had made Elkton a destination for impatient New Yorkers — but relatively difficult to get divorced. A legacy, she had always assumed, from its Catholic founders. Marry in haste, live in purgatory.

“You don’t understand. Even if I divorced my wife under Maryland law, it wouldn’t count, not to me.”

“Why not?”

“I would need a
get
from a rabbinic court as well. Divorce may be granted easily in the world at large, but my faith insists that a couple make every attempt at mediation and reconciliation before giving up on a marriage.”

“But I assume your wife’s actions would satisfy even a — what did you call it? — rabbinic court.” Tess had an image of an appeals court, only in slightly different robes and with the bushy beards, side curls, and large-brimmed hats of the Hasidim.

“Perhaps, but it would not satisfy
me
. How can I give up on my marriage when I don’t know what went wrong? You have to understand she gave no sign, absolutely no sign, that she was unhappy in any way. How could she be on the verge of something so drastic and provide no clue?”

She probably gave you a million clues,
Tess thought, but kept the observation to herself. In her experience, men were capable of going to great lengths to ignore the evidence of women’s unhappiness. It was how men survived, by not inquiring too closely about the melancholy some women carried with them. If they ignored it, maybe it would go away.

Sometimes it was the woman who went away instead.

“Mr. Rubin…” She paused, but he did not invite her to call him Mark, so she forged ahead. “The very nature of my work requires me to ask rude, intrusive questions, not unlike the kind that doctors and lawyers ask, so I’ll beg your forgiveness in advance. Did you have a good marriage?”

“We had a
wonderful
marriage.”

“No disagreements, no tensions?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. There was a slight age difference….”

So that’s where the dog was buried, as her Grandma Weinstein might say. “How much?”

“Twelve years. I married relatively late, at thirty-one.”

Funny, Tess was thirty-three, and she considered that a damn early age for matrimony.

“You’re…what?” She checked her notes. “Forty-one. So she was only nineteen when you married?”

A slight defensiveness crept into his tone. “Yes, but Natalie was an unusual woman, more mature at nineteen than most women are in their thirties.” Was it Tess’s imagination, or did he glance at her neon
HUMAN HAIR
sign just then? A gift from her boyfriend two Christmases ago, it complemented the “Time for a Haircut” clock nicely.

“How old are the children?”

“Isaac is nine, the twins are going on five. We wanted more, but it was not to be. I had hoped to have a houseful of children.”

“And your wife?”

“Of course I want my wife in my house. That’s why I’m here.”

“No, I meant…did your wife want a lot of children, too?”

“Absolutely. It’s our way. It’s what God wants.”

Mark Rubin’s very certitude seemed a bad sign to Tess. It was bad enough to claim you knew your wife’s mind, another to assume you knew God’s as well.

“She had absolutely no reason to leave?”

“None.”
The reply was too firm, too automatic. He wasn’t allowing anyone to question this fact, beginning with himself.

“What about addictions? I’m not talking just about drugs or alcohol, but gambling or other compulsive behaviors, such as eating disorders. Even shopping.”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Does she spend a lot of time on the Internet?” A new wrinkle in divorce cases, stealth adultery, which didn’t reveal itself until the person ran off to be with his or her virtual love. Installing spyware was one of Tess’s first steps in any case where a spouse suspected another spouse of fooling around.

“She barely knows how to use a computer. Our oldest son had to set up her e-mail account.”

“And there was no” — she took a breath and plunged ahead — “no violence in the household?”

“No.”
Here, at least, he was utterly convincing.

“It’s just that it’s very unusual for a woman to up and leave, taking her three children. Does she have a job?”

“No matter my circumstances, I would never allow — I mean, I would never expect my wife to work outside the home.”

“Then how would she support them? Does she have her own money? Family?”

A slight hesitation here. “Not one that she can rely on. Her mother is still here in Baltimore, but she and Natalie have been estranged since her parents’ divorce, back when she was a young teenager. Her father’s completely out of the picture now, has no contact with her at all.”

Tess wondered if Rubin’s marriage had been an arranged one, then wondered if the Orthodox still used arranged marriages. Her upbringing had been bicultural primarily in the culinary details. The Weinsteins went out for Chinese and held backyard crab feasts, rationalizing that anything eaten outside wasn’t really
treyf
. The Monaghans had lesser palates, but they loved the Sour Beef dinner put on by the ladies of Good Counsel every autumn. On St. Patrick’s Day, they drove for lean corned beef to what Tess’s paternal grandfather called Jewtown. Pop-Pop Monaghan had called the neighborhood that to the day he died, literally. In his bed in the old house on Wilkens Avenue, he had reached for Tess’s hand, mistaking her for his only daughter, Kitty, the youngest and best loved of his seven children.

“Well,” he had said, “Patrick married a Jew. What do you know about that, Kitty? A Jewess from Jewtown.”

There was no meanness in his tone, no censure. He was just calling a spade a spade, a Jew a Jewess. As for Jewtown — well, that designation had appeared on some local maps well into the 1930s, and Pop-Pop Monaghan’s worldview had pretty much jelled by then.

“I know,” Tess had replied, trying to find something that would be neither rebuke nor agreement, “that he loves her.”

“Love,” her grandfather scoffed.

Some men might have been smart enough to exit on a line like that, but Brian Monaghan, a belligerent Irishman to the end, wore out his welcome, coming back from death several times in that last day. Finally life seemed to tire of
him
and shuttered itself against his return, like a tavern giving someone the bum’s rush.

But her Monaghan side was of no use here. Today Tess needed to rely on her Weinstein genes if she was going to find any affinity with this prickly man who clearly had the wherewithal to help her out of her financial slump.

“Do you have any leads at all? A vehicle, a name she might use, a place, a friend she might reach out to, a list of long-distance phone calls from before she left?”

“All our cars are in our garage, untouched. My guess is she’d revert to her maiden name, or some form of it. Natalie Peters.” Tess idly wondered what the surname was before it was changed. Her grandfather had been too stubborn to consider such a thing, and he was proud of having the Weinstein name on his stores until the day they sank into bankruptcy. “As for family or friends, it’s only her mother, and, as I said, they have no relationship. I think she lives up on Labyrinth Road. Vera Peters.”

“Still, it’s a place to start. Now, has Natalie drawn on any accounts — checking or savings — since she’s been gone? Used a credit card?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“And the police didn’t find that suspicious? That’s usually a sign of…well, it’s certainly something they look at.”

She had not wanted to say,
It’s usually a sign that a person is dead.

“They know what you know, and they still don’t think this is a matter for them. They have these, too.”

He took a folder from his briefcase and brought out three photographs. The first could have been a miniature Mark Rubin, a boy with the same dark eyes and hair, although not the somber expression. He beamed at the camera, a little self-conscious, but clearly happy at whatever moment he had been captured. He was holding a plaque, so perhaps it was an awards ceremony.

“Isaac, my oldest.”

The next photo showed a boy and girl of the same height. Their hair was several shades lighter than the older boy’s and their features sharper — narrow eyes with a hint of a tilt, prominent cheekbones that gave them a foxy look. They must favor their mother.

“The twins, Penina and Efraim.”

He was shy about sliding the last photograph to Tess, or perhaps just reluctant to surrender it. The woman in the picture was gorgeous, an absolute knockout, with the lush lips and heavy-lidded eyes of a movie star. Not just any movie star but a specific one, although Tess couldn’t pull up the memory. Ava Gardner? Elizabeth Taylor? One of those smoldering brunettes from the studio days. The dark hair was perfect, cut and shaped into curls that looked too natural to be anything but labor-intensive, and the makeup had the same deceptively simple aspect. She had taken less care with her clothing, content with a simple cardigan that was buttoned to the top, the wings of a white collar visible above the dark wool.

She also was the unhappiest-looking woman Tess had ever seen, a woman whose very expression — the dark eyes, the set mouth, which really was the shape of a Cupid’s bow — bespoke a secret burden. But Mark Rubin looked at the photo as if all he could see was the beauty.

“Your wife — did she have a history of psychiatric problems?”

“Of course not.”

“Why ‘of course not’? There’s no shame in having emotional problems.” Tess didn’t bother to tell Rubin that she had just finished her own course of court-ordered therapy. It was simply too long a story. “It’s all chemicals, just another organ in your body having problems.”

“I know
that
.” Still too sharp, too defensive. “But chemicals are not the issue here.”

“What about organs?”

“Excuse me?”

But that was as close as Tess would get to asking Mark Rubin if he and his wife had a fulfilling sex life.

“So there were no problems, and you don’t have a clue why your wife left, and you’re not even sure she wanted to leave, yet you don’t think there’s foul play involved?”

“Sometimes — I mean, I have no evidence of this — but sometimes I think maybe she left to protect me from something.”

“Such as?”

“Nothing that I know of. But I can think of no other reason she would leave. Whatever she does, she always puts her family first.”

“Is there anything to support this, um, idea?”

“No, not really.” His shoulders, which he had been holding so straight and square, sagged. “I honestly don’t know what is going on.”