Heart of Stone (20 page)

“What was it that really came between Karl and Simon?” I asked.

Isaac shrugged and took another slug of whiskey. “They were so close,” he said. “At City College, they signed up for all the same classes. Political science and history. They thought about law school for a while. They wanted to change the world, lead the Red revolution in America.”

“City College was a hotbed of radicalism, wasn't it?” I asked.

“And Simon and Karl were leading the charge. They used to haunt the cafeteria, making speeches and arguing with everyone. It was a different time. The war had just ended, and both were toeing the party line. They felt that the time was ripe for the expansion of socialism. They cheered Stalin's grab of Eastern Europe at the close of the war.”

“So they were best of friends,” I said. “Comrades. What drove them apart?”

“People change,” he said. “Later, Karl was disillusioned by the Soviet invasion of Hungary. But Simon couldn't bring himself to criticize the USSR for anything. He thought that was a betrayal of socialist ideals.”

“But that was after their rift,” I said. “Hungary was fifty-six. Karl left in fifty-four.”

Isaac was about to answer when a gust of wind rattled the window, and we both started. I saw something duck away behind the glass. I shrieked. Isaac insisted it was the shadow of a waving branch, but my crawling skin told me otherwise. I was sure I'd seen the shape of a head.

We both rose from the bed. I slipped into a robe, and Isaac pulled his trousers on. A glance through the window revealed nothing, so we ventured out onto the porch, iron poker and flashlight in hand. I scanned the campgrounds and bordering woods with the light for five minutes, as Isaac held tight to the poker. There was no one.

WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 23, 1961

I was awakened at nine by a knocking on my door. Isaac was gone, having left just after dawn. So it came as a surprise to find him standing there again on my wooden porch.

“Get dressed, Ellie,” he said. “I need you to come over to Arcadia. Karl's mother is here. She arrived about an hour ago.”

“What's that have to do with me?” I asked.

“She's saying crazy things. Insisting that Karl was pushed off the cliff. She says it was Gayle.”

“I still don't see what I'm required for.”

“She wants to talk to you because you saw the body. You took photographs.”

Esther Merkleson was by herself in the Great Lodge, quite composed from what I could tell. No mad look in her eyes, no histrionics, no foaming at the mouth. She sat up straight in one of the armchairs, holding a small pug on her lap. Isaac escorted me in to introduce me to the grieving mother. Once a famous playwright and actress on the Yiddish stage, Esther Merkleson now looked like the perfect
bubbe
. Simple and dignified in a plain black dress, she wore her graying hair in a sensibly short cut. She was in her early sixties. But as modest as her appearance seemed, her eyes told a different story. This was a woman who took no prisoners.

“Mrs. Merkleson, this is Ellie Stone,” said Isaac. “She's the girl I was telling you about.”

“I remember Eleonora,” she said, her Rs rolling in the back of her throat; her vowels were clean and precise. “You were a smart and spirited young girl. And so pretty.” She pronounced girl “goil.”

“I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Merkleson,” I said, extending a hand to her.

She lifted the dog off her lap and placed him gently on the floor. “You sit quietly, Leon,” she said to the pug and took my hand. Her fingers were cold and dry.

“Hello, little Leon,” I called to the dog, reaching down to him. He sniffed the tips of my fingers then turned away and ignored me.

“Tell Ellie where Leon's name came from,” said Isaac to Mrs. Merkleson.

“I named him after Trotsky,” she said, petting the dog on the head. “A little out of date, but I was feeling nostalgia when I got him.”

Isaac threw me a naughty smile while she was gazing adoringly at the dog.

“Isaac told me that you saw Karl on the rocks that day,” she said, turning her attention back to me. I nodded. “I would like you to tell me everything you saw. What he was wearing, how his body was positioned, how far he was from the water. Everything you can recall.”

I stared at her. I didn't know where to start, or if I should even start at all. Was she a masochist? Or simply deluded that she could divine what had happened in the last moments of her son's life from my description of his corpse, as if she were reading tea leaves.

“Isaac said you have photographs,” she added. “I want to see those as well.”

“The photographs are difficult to look at,” I said. “And I'm afraid there's not much to glean from them. They're small and black-and-white.”

She stared me down. Her eyes, sharp and demanding, commanded me, as if I were in her thrall. I told her I'd bring her the contact sheets later that afternoon.

Over the next twenty minutes, I gave her the details she'd requested. Her son's body had been found in his underwear, with an expensive watch on his wrist. I said I'd thought it strange that he was wearing a leather wristband for swimming, and she pursed her lips together and harrumphed, as if I'd just proven her suspicions true. I described the bruises on his torso and thigh, and that I'd assumed he'd bounced and rolled after impact. He was about four feet from the edge of the water.

“And he was sunburned,” I said. “Quite badly.”

“Yes, Karl had very fair skin. He didn't like sunbathing. But what about the boy they found with him?” she asked. “The Kaufman boy. Where was his body in relation to Karl's?”

Our discussion had moved from morbid to ghastly. Yet Esther Merkleson seemed detached, unemotional, clinical in her approach to gathering the details of her son's death. I didn't want to tell her about Jerrold Kaufman's crushed skull, but I did. I told her that I'd nearly vomited over the two bodies.

“Where was the boy?” she repeated. “Closer to the water than Karl?”

Ugh. “He was closer to the wall of the cliff. Maybe ten feet from the water's edge. He was in the shade, behind some rocks.”

She thanked me once I'd answered all her questions. I asked her where her suspicions lay. She didn't hesitate. She looked me in the eye and said that Gayle Morton had killed Karl as surely as I was standing there.

“That horrible girl tracked him here, stalked him for two days, and pushed him over that cliff,” she said with three bobs of her head to punctuate each step of Gayle's plot.

“How can you be sure of that?” I asked. “The clerk at the motel said that your daughter-in-law checked into Karl's room on Friday afternoon or early evening. That means she was with him, not stalking him.”

She shook her head vigorously, gathered little Leon in her arms, and stood in preparation to leave. “I spoke to my son Friday night,” she said. “He called me from a pay telephone in the village after midnight. He told me he was leaving that awful girl for good. And he never mentioned that she was here on the lake. In fact, he said he'd left her in Los Angeles on Tuesday. I cried with joy. Then I asked him to give me the number of his hotel so I could reach him. He said not to call him there. He hadn't been there in two days and wasn't planning to return there.”

“Why would he avoid his motel?”

“I don't know. He didn't say where he was staying. He said he was out of change, and he hung up.”

“Have you told any of this to the chief of police?” I asked.

“I met him this morning,” she scoffed. “A
shikker
and a
beheyme
. He was drunk at seven a.m. But he gave me the telephone number of the Kaufmans. I want to meet them later.”

“Chief Terwilliger doesn't believe there's anything unusual about Gayle's comings and goings,” I said. “I found out that she checked into one motel with her father on Thursday, then moved to Karl's motel on Friday. And back again to the first motel on Monday.”

“You're making inquiries?” she asked. “Why?”

“It started with Karl's clothing. His shirt and possibly a jacket were missing. And his wallet hasn't been found. He had no car, and then I heard his wife had been staying in two different motels. It just seemed odd to me, so I started asking questions.”

“So that awful girl's father was here too?”

“They're still here. At least they were yesterday afternoon.”

“You're a strange girl, Eleonora,” she said, her eyes studying me. “But I'm happy for your help.”

I asked her what she planned to do in Prospector Lake. She said the first priority was to claim Karl's body. I told her that Gayle wanted the body as well. Esther Merkleson shook her head determinedly and said that she would fight to her last breath to keep Karl's remains.

“I brought him into the world, and I'll take him out of it, too. I told that drunk Terwilliger this morning that I was taking Karl home. He won't dare stop me.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?” I asked.

She took a step closer to me and drew me in with her hypnotic gaze. “You like to ask questions,” she said. “What would you ask next?”

I didn't hesitate. I knew exactly where I would start.

“I would like to know what Karl was doing at the top of that cliff with Jerrold Kaufman,” I said. “Did they know each other? And why did they die together?”

“Yes,” she said and gave a short bob of her head to indicate that the matter was settled. “I'll be meeting his parents this afternoon. Perhaps you can ask some questions and report back to me later.” I said that I would. “And you'll bring me those photographs.”

“How may I help you today, Miss Stone?” asked Norris Lester.

“I was hoping you'd be able to clear up some questions I have about Jerry Kaufman,” I said, sitting in the chair across his desk from him.

He arched his left eyebrow. I knew it was going to be a tough sell. Why should he answer any of my questions, let alone ones about a poor boy who'd died? A boy to whom I had no connection.

“I'm trying to figure out what Charles Morton—he's the other man who died—was doing with Jerry on top of Baxter's Rock,” I explained.

“Why?” he asked. “What business is it of yours? You didn't know either of them, did you?”

Good question, I thought. “As a matter of fact, I've known Mr. Morton since I was a child,” I said, embellishing. “His mother asked me to help her find out what happened to her son. I thought this would be a good place to start.”

“‘What happened to her son'?” said Lester in his best mocking voice. “He tried to dive off the cliff and missed the water. What do you think happened?”

I could see that this interview was going to require all my skill. “Let me ask you this,” I said. “Did Jerry like diving?”

Lester frowned and declined to answer.

“Won't you bear with me for just a few moments?” I asked. “It certainly won't hurt Jerry to answer a few questions.”