Murder At The Mikvah (24 page)

“Damn it!” Ron shouted. He immediately lowered his voice. “I apologize, Father, but ever since the renovations, we go through this same bullshit every fall!” He took a deep breath. “Once you're all settled, I’ll see what I can do about getting the air turned off.”

There was a light tap on the door and two men shuffled in; one of them was Peter—Father McCormick recognized his distinct smell. It was remarkable how every individual, even families
,
had unique identifying scents. As with his hearing, Father McCormick's sense of smell had strengthened when his vision began failing.

Peter was led to the table where he slumped into a chair across from the priest, placed both elbows on the table, and buried his face in his hands, one which had an ace bandage on it.

“Hello Peter,” Father McCormick said gently.
Peter.
For the first time in fifteen years, the priest felt unsure saying the man’s name.
Was Peter really Peter?

It didn’t help that there was no response.

Ron shook his head in frustration. On the phone he had broached the possibility that Peter might be retarded or mute, but Father McCormick had quickly refuted that suggestion, insisting that Peter had all his faculties in place and functioned just as well as the next guy.

“Could I have a private moment with him?” Father McCormick asked. He figured if Peter was scared, then perhaps being alone with him, one on one, would make a difference.

Ron furrowed his brow. “It might be safer if the guard stays in here with you.”

“I assure you detective, I am in no danger.”

“Suit yourself,” Ron said. He paused and looked at his watch. “How about ten minutes?”

He reached up to the audiovisual recorder and switched it on. Then he walked out, pausing to look back through the small glass pane at the unusual scene behind him: an aging blind priest, a seeing-eye dog, and an alleged—seemingly retarded—killer. “Keep an eye on them,” he instructed the guard.

Father McCormick waited to hear the click of the door before moving his seat closer to Peter. Samson too seemed ready to make her move. She sat up promptly and wagged her tail enthusiastically. Tentatively, she hunkered over to Peter and nudged him with her nose. After a minute of no reciprocation, she gave up, returned to Father McCormick’s side, and lay down with a sigh.

“Peter, my boy, this must all be so frightening…”

No answer.

“Peter, I’m here for you…” Father McCormick said slowly. “I want to help.”

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! The moan from Peter’s mouth came just as the steady hum of air shut off with a low groan, giving it an animal-like quality. Then Peter began thrashing his head back and forth in his hands. It was as though he was consumed by despair, but totally disconnected from reality.

Father McCormick's heart skipped a beat. “Peter!” he snapped, taking care to keep his voice low. He didn’t want to attract the guard's attention.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

Peter began flailing his limbs around, stopping only when he fell with a thud from his chair on to the floor.

Father McCormick stood up and made the sign of the cross. He reached down, and touching the crown of Peter’s head, recited a quiet prayer to Saint Benedict Joseph Labre, the patron saint of mental illness. Instantly Peter quieted. Willing himself to see past the general shadows before him, Father McCormick wondered: was Peter on drugs? Was he drinking again? Could the tests have missed something?

“Peter?”

But even if he were on drugs, he would be able to speak, to say
something
.

The guard poked his head in. His brow furrowed as he glanced at Peter sitting motionless on the floor. “Everything okay in here, Father?”

“Yes… fine. I need just another minute or two.”

“I'll be right here if you need me,” the guard said, pulling the door closed.

Father McCormick sat back down.

“I hate you! I hate you!… I'll kill you!”

The words came out of nowhere and startled the priest. He had never known Peter to use threatening language. Samson sat up and started whimpering.

“Peter…”

Peter jumped up, unclenched his fists, and lunged toward Father McCormick. “I'll kill you… I'll kill you…!”

Instantly the guard bounded through the door and intercepted Peter, shoving him off course. Peter screamed in agony as the guard yanked his arms behind his back, twisting his already injured wrist.

Ron appeared in the doorway seconds later. “That's enough one on one time, Father, don't you think?” he said breathlessly.

But Father McCormick was too shocked to respond. He reached into his pocket for his rosary beads. “
Hail Mary, Mother of Mercy… Hail Mary Mother of Mercy…
”
The severity of Peter's situation was now shockingly clear. Not only was Peter being held for murder, but his behavior was irrational, his speech unintelligible. Father McCormick thought again of the question he couldn’t answer:
what was Peter doing at the crime scene?
Suddenly an even larger issue came to mind: If Peter
himself
couldn’t tell them what he was doing there that night, then how could he—how could any of them—offer a credible defense? Father McCormick rubbed his temples. He couldn’t fathom what business Peter would have at a Jewish mikvah. Actually, as far as he knew, Peter hadn't even
known
it was a mikvah! Or what a mikvah was for that matter!

Maybe Father McCormick
had
been duped. Maybe Peter
had
played a part in this terrible, terrible crime. But how was that possible? Peter wasn't a killer! Or
was
he? Father McCormick's head was spinning; he didn't know
what
to think anymore. The only thing he knew for certain was that he couldn’t turn his back, couldn’t look the other way. The fact was, Peter—or whoever he really was—had no one. There were no lifelong friends; there was no family upstate. Peter was completely and utterly alone. Father McCormick understood what was at stake. A man's life was on the line. It was up to him to save Peter, or at the very least, discover the truth.

 Thirty-one

Judith marched into the kitchen and tossed her keys on the counter. “My granddaughter tells me we're having guests tonight,” she said in Lauren's general direction. She plopped down at the table without bothering to remove her coat. “So, tell me… who's coming?”

Lauren sighed.
Hello to you too Mrs. Orenstein.
“The Henners,” she said, forcing a polite smile. “Have you met them?”

It was an innocent enough question, but still one that yielded the slightest prick, like a paper cut. Judith didn’t visit frequently, so Lauren probably assumed she didn’t know many of the local families.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Judith said, smoothing her wool slacks. Then she looked up, unhappy at the sight of Lauren's apron. It was Hannah's of course—rainbow colored with deep pockets. “Elise and Evan have three children… such a lovely family!” She smiled smugly at Lauren.
There!

“Elise’s father, Lewis Danzig is also coming,” Lauren said, taking no notice. “He just returned from overseas. Something to do with the military, I think.”

Damn.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Judith said, studying her fingernails. “Because I haven't had the pleasure of meeting him yet,” she added.

But Lauren didn’t seem to care either way.

“Whose idea was it to have guests anyway?” Judith asked. The question was posed in a neutral tone, but Lauren didn’t want to take any chances. It seemed Judith was so darn critical of everything she did lately, why set herself up?

“I don't know,” Lauren said, looking away. The truth was that it
had
been her idea—part of a larger suggestion she made to Yehuda a few days ago. She was no expert, she told him, but wasn’t it important that the kids maintain as much of a regular routine as possible? Before Hannah's hospitalization, Lauren couldn’t recall one Shabbat that went by without the family having guests at their table. If he ever decided to resume that weekly ritual, she assured Yehuda, she was more than willing to take care of all the necessary preparations.

Judith closed her eyes and leaned back. “What an exhausting day. I could really use a cup of coffee.”

Lauren took this as her cue to put the kettle on. She pulled a jar of
Folgers
from the cabinet.

“Oh… don't tell me there’s only instant,” Judith moaned.

“Sorry, that's all we have.”

“Well that just won't do…”

Lauren just shrugged and turned off the kettle.
Whatever.

“Would you be a dear and run out to
Starbucks
for me?” Judith asked. Without missing a beat, she stood up and pulled off her coat, making it clear
she
wasn’t the one going. “Oh and maybe you could hang this up on your way out.”

Lauren took the coat in disbelief. The woman actually expected her to drop everything and drive to Starbucks? For God's sake, she was in the middle of cooking tonight's dinner! The chicken was roasting in the oven; the soup was simmering on the stove, not to mention the five-pound bag of potatoes needing to be peeled, and the colander of vegetables draining in the sink waiting to be chopped.

“The chicken still has another fifteen minutes,” Lauren said.

“If you hurry, you'll be back by then,” Judith said, grimacing. “And if you're not, I'd be happy to take it out for you.”

Gee thanks
. “Great,” Lauren muttered. She slipped the apron over her head and smiled faintly. “I'll be right back.”

“Cream, no sugar,” Judith called after her.

Five minutes later Lauren returned to the kitchen to find Judith standing at the sink. The colander full of vegetables was on the counter and she was chomping mindlessly on some raw broccoli.

“That was fast,” Judith said, before noticing Lauren's empty hands.

“I didn't go,” Lauren said. “My car wouldn’t start.”

Judith sighed dramatically. “Well, I suppose I could go myself…” She tapped her fingers rhythmically on the counter. “Oh, why bother? Instant's not so terrible, is it?” She crossed the kitchen to retrieve a mug for herself. Glaring into the cabinet, she asked, “What in the world are these plates doing here?” She turned and stared accusingly at Lauren. “This is where Hannah keeps the coffee cups!”

“Oh, I just… I rearranged a few things,” Lauren said, biting her lip.

Judith marched from cabinet to cabinet, opening and slamming doors. Cans of soup filled the space where the meat plates had been. Both the meat and dairy dishes were now stacked on the far side of the kitchen, closer to the table, formerly home to the Tupperware and paper products. With some effort, Judith finally located the mugs in a short cabinet above the sink. “And where, pray tell, are the dairy spoons?” she demanded, staring blankly into an empty drawer where they should have been.

“Over here,” Lauren said, waving a spoon like it was a flag of surrender.

Judith shook her head and mumbled something under her breath. The room became uncomfortably silent for a few minutes. Even the soup seemed to have stopped simmering.

“So, uh, is there enough closet space in your room?” Lauren burst out suddenly. She was eager to break the silence.

Judith had a look of total disgust on her face. “Closet space? What are you talking about?”

“In your room—the guest room,” Lauren clarified. “I guess you haven't been upstairs yet… so, uh, when you do… take a look and let me know.”

Judith grabbed a carrot from the colander and started munching, still confused, as Lauren continued.

“I moved most of my clothes into Rachel's room,” she said, “but I did leave a few items hanging in the guest room closet.”

“You stayed over last night?” Judith asked, still trying to figure out what Lauren was talking about.

Lauren crinkled her forehead. “Well, yes…”

“I hope you changed the sheets,” Judith said.

Lauren felt like she had been punched in the stomach. The kettle whistled and she turned to pour the hot water.

Judith shrugged. “I assume your cat sleeps with you, that's all.”

“Oh, they're changed,” Lauren said.
Don't worry you can't catch what I have.

“I'm sure it’s fun for the children… having overnight guests,” Judith continued as she grabbed the cream from the refrigerator. “Of course, no overnight guest could possibly replace their
mother
.” She took a seat at the table. “So how often exactly do you stay overnight?” Judith asked as Lauren set down her cup of coffee, “here in my son’s house?”

Lauren stepped away from the table. “Wait,” she said, holding up a hand.

Judith daintily spooned sugar into her cup. “Something the matter?” she asked nonchalantly.

Lauren shook her head. “I'm sorry… it's just that I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“About the move.”

“What move?”

Lauren touched a finger to her chest. “Mine.”

“What in the world are you talking about Lauren?” Judith demanded. She was losing patience.

“I moved in three days ago,” Lauren said in one breath.

Judith looked stricken, as though she'd been shot. “Moved in?
Why
?” She straightened up and cleared her throat. “I thought my son had plenty of help from the community,” she said, folding her arms. “I
did
see Janine’s spreadsheet after all.”

Lauren slipped on a pair of rubber gloves at the sink. “Yeah, well, Janine did a great job organizing the volunteers, especially getting so many women from Hannah's classes to pitch in.”

“Then what was the problem?” Judith stammered. She watched as Lauren reached under the sink for the dish soap. Apparently this was the one item the girl hadn't relocated.

“The problem was having different people in the house all the time! It was stressing the kids out.”

“Really?” Judith looked and sounded doubtful. “How can you say that? The volunteers were from the community, friends of the family, students of The Jewish Learning Center! There weren’t any strangers in this house!”

Lauren began scrubbing a broiling pan, avoiding Judith's eyes. She couldn’t very well say what was on her mind, and—though he hadn't said so outright—what she believed to be on Yehuda's as well.
Some of the volunteers weren't the best influence on the children
. “I don’t want to sound disrespectful Mrs. Orenstein, but I think Yehuda and I have a good idea what the kids need.”

Judith couldn’t believe her ears. Did Lauren just use the phrase
Yehuda and I?
She laughed mockingly. “Well, Lauren, it goes without saying that
my son
would know what his children need. But
you
? How could you possibly have a clue? You're not their mother.”

“I know that,” Lauren said softly.

“Do you?” Judith demanded. She threw her arms out as if to point out the changes in the kitchen. “Then stop acting like you are!”

Lauren felt her face flush and her pulse quicken. How could Judith spew insults out so casually? After all she had done—was doing—for her family! If the woman had any decency, she would have taken a leave from that all-important job of hers to look after them herself. Lauren couldn’t believe this was Yehuda's mother! So much for “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”! As far as Lauren could tell, Yehuda had fallen to a completely different
orchard
! Maybe the best thing to do was to respond to Judith in her own language—assertive bordering on bitchy. Lauren shut off the water with a thud and looked up.

“With all due respect Mrs. Orenstein,” Lauren said firmly, “I’ve spent more time with your grandkids this past year than you have during their entire lives.”

Judith’s eyes widened. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” she retorted, hands on her hips.

Lauren sighed. “Look, Mrs. Orenstein… I'm sorry. I know that sounded harsh… it’s just that I think I’m a better judge of their emotional states right now.”

“Oh, is that so?” Judith said, obviously still angry.

Lauren had no choice but to spell it out for her. She removed her rubber gloves, placed them on the counter, and took a deep breath. “Let me ask you something: By any chance did you know that Yitzi’s been having accidents?”

Judith stared at her like she had a few screws loose. “What on earth are you talking about? He’s been potty trained for over six months!”

“Yes, well he
was
potty trained, but now he's having accidents.”

Judith narrowed her eyes and was about to say something when Lauren cut her off. “And Eli… did you know Eli has night terrors?”

Judith looked down at her hands but didn’t say anything as Lauren continued. “He wakes up, almost every night drenched in sweat.”

At that point, Judith looked up and shook her head. “No. You're wrong! I've been here every single weekend and not once have I heard him…”

“Could that be because either Yehuda or I have gotten to him before you woke up?” Lauren suggested gently.

Judith stood up and moved to the window, her back to Lauren, she hugged herself tightly. She wasn’t sure if it was anger or shame that she felt, but whichever it was, it was humiliating. And to hear all of this from a complete stranger! She would not let Lauren get to her. She would not show vulnerability.

“And then there's David,” Lauren continued. She had purposely saved this one for last, but seeing that Judith was already getting the point, softened her voice. “David worries himself sick about getting your approval.”

Judith swung around and pointed at herself in disbelief. “
My
approval?”

Lauren nodded. “Yes! Don't you see it? He thinks you hate him!”

Judith stared at Lauren accusingly. “And where would he get a crazy idea like that?”

“He says you think he's a baby because he can't tie his own shoes.”

“But why? Why would he think…” But suddenly she remembered. The comment she had made to him about needing help with his shoes—something about Nehama learning to tie hers before he could do his. But it was meant as a
joke
.

Judith placed both elbows on the table and rested her head against her open palms. How foolish she had been! David was exactly like Yehuda was as a young boy—extremely sensitive. She should have known better! Known that he would take her comment to heart! What could she do to make it up to him? She would apologize and make sure to never make that same mistake again. Sadly, it was all she could do. She was powerless to change the past.

“The well-being of the children is the reason Yehuda suggested that I move in,” Lauren said, pulling Judith back from her private thoughts.

Judith swallowed
. Yehuda suggested it?
“But… But what about your classes?” she stammered.