Murder At The Mikvah (43 page)

In the living room, Judith was shaking her head in disbelief. “How could I have been so completely wrong about everything?” She took the tissue Lewis offered and blew her nose. “I honestly thought Lauren was interested in Yehuda! But even worse… I was convinced she was a murderer! What the hell's the matter with me?” She held her palm to her forehead. “Am I losing my mind?”

Lewis took a deep breath. “Are you asking me rhetorically, Judith? Or would you like to hear what I think?”

She sniffled. “I need to know if I have some kind of mental illness! Or maybe I have a brain anuyerism?”

He smiled sympathetically. “I can assure you, your brain is functioning just fine.” He was quiet then, contemplating something in his mind. “Can I get personal with you Judith?”

She nodded slowly. “I'll even promise not to attack you.”

He couldn’t help but smile at her attempt at levity. “Very well,” he said, “I wondered about the woman who had the affair with your husband. What memories do you have? Could you describe her to me?”

Judith stared at him blankly. She couldn’t fathom what something that happened over thirty years ago had to do with her delusions about Lauren, but the memory of Marigold burned so brightly in her mind, it was an easy enough question to answer. “She was a pretty girl, but kind of plain… dressed down, never wore jewelry…”

“Go on.”

“She was taller than me by a few inches—maybe Hannah's height.”

“Hair color?”

“Dark brown. She always wore it in braids.”

“How old was she when the affair happened?”

“Oh, I don't know—twenty-five or twenty-six.”

It was just as Lewis had suspected. “Judith,” he began, “I'd like you to think of someone else who matches that description.”

Judith shook her head. “I don't understand any of this Lewis! This is ridiculous! First you ask me about the woman who destroyed my life and now you want me to come up with someone who… ” Suddenly Judith stopped speaking. Her eyes widened as she made the connection. “Oh God… Oh God, Lewis…
Lauren?
It was suddenly clear as day. “You mean I was…”

Lewis nodded.

Judith's hand flew over her mouth. “Then I
was
temporarily insane!”

Lewis wrapped his arm protectively around her. “You never finished grieving Judith. The pain has been with you all these years.”

She grabbed a handful of tissues and blew her nose again. “I've been so busy… I never had the time…”

“Or perhaps you've kept yourself busy for a
reason
.”

Judith looked at him, her eyes bloodshot. “I've buried the pain, haven't I?” She took a deep breath trying to absorb what she knew to be true. After a minute she asked him, “Tell me honestly, Lewis, is it too late for me?”

“Never,” Lewis said firmly. “It's never too late to reclaim a life.”

 Sixty-one

“If you have something to say to me, then just say it already!”

It was a mere six-mile drive back to the township building and John had been silent the entire time. After the fiasco back at the Orenstein's house, Ron was fully aware of the long hours of work awaiting them. Okay, so if John wanted to tell him off, so be it. Ron knew he deserved it. He took full responsibility for mishandling the case.
From day one
, he had told John.
It was on me from that very first day, and I screwed it up.
And now, he would say it again, if it would get John to stop all this silent treatment bullshit.

John turned his head in Ron's direction and Ron braced himself.

“It was something the rabbi's mother said… got me thinking.”

Ron could hardly believe his ears. “Judith Orenstein? You were thinking about Judith Orenstein this entire time?”

John nodded. “I remember it exactly. She said, 'Girls lose their minds when it comes to men, especially men they can't have.'”

Ron relaxed. For the moment, at least, he had caught a break. “Yeah well, so much for her theory about Lauren Donnelly, huh?”

“It got me thinking about that girlfriend of Peter's,” John said.

“Lydia Richter?”

“Yeah.”

“What about her?”

“There was something she said…” John tapped his forehead, clearly frustrated. “I just can't remember it…”

Ron smirked. “I don't believe it! John Collins having memory problems? With those perfect genes of yours? Who'd have
thunk
it?”

Five minutes later, they were back in Ron's office. “Here it is,” John said, rummaging through the case file. He located the transcript of Lydia Richter's interview, took a seat and read through the entire conversation. “Okay, right here,” John said, tapping eagerly at the paper. This is what I was looking for! One of the last things Lydia Richter told you was that Peter didn’t want her as a girlfriend. She said she wasn’t pretty enough.” He looked up at Ron. “Then
you
asked if Peter had actually
said
she wasn’t pretty enough. She told you 'no'… but then, she said something else.”

Ron motioned with his hands. “Go on.”

“She said, 'Peter likes the girls at St. Agassi better.'”

John looked elated, but Ron was unimpressed. “That's it?” he asked

“Almost,” continued John, “You then asked Lydia specifically
which
St. Agassi girls she was referring to.”

Ron nodded. “Okay. Right. I vaguely remember. Go on.”

John's voice was serious. “Lydia responded, and I quote, 'the ones that came at night—to the spa.'”

John smiled, victoriously; but Ron still didn’t follow. Sure, Peter was innocent of the crimes committed at the mikvah, but there was no disputing the fact that he
had
spied on the women. Therefore, it was a reasonable inference that he might have developed a crush on one or two of them. It was also possible that he had mentioned these “crushes” to Lydia Richter, especially if he wanted to get her off his back.

John threw the paper on the desk. “Don't you get it Ron?”

“Get
what
?”

“Lydia said Peter liked the women who came the
spa
.
The spa
! Tell me: why would she call it that? How is it that Lydia Richter would even have a
clue
what went on inside that building?”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know… Maybe she used the mikvah herself?”

John's shoulders dropped. “Come on! She's not even Jewish!… or married,” he added.

“Okay, so maybe Peter
told her
it was a spa?”

John shook his head. “No. Peter didn’t know what it was either. Before the night of the attack, he had never been inside.”

“Hold on,” Ron said. “Didn’t you tell me Robert Sedgwick thought it was some kind of spa too?”

John nodded. “But only after he
saw
it. We both did actually. That's the only context a non-Jew, or anyone not familiar with a mikvah would have.” He held out his hands. “You take one look at all the bathrooms and what looks like a Jacuzzi, and you automatically think
spa
. And just supposing Lydia
had
actually used the facility…”

Ron sat up. “Then she would have called it exactly what it was—a
mikvah
!”

“But she
didn't
,” John said.

Ron was visibly excited. “My God, John. You're right! Lydia Richter was
inside
! She had to have been! There's no other explanation!”

“I think it’s about time we see what Miss Richter has to say for herself,” John said, grabbing his coat.

Ron glanced quickly at the top of the transcript. “517 Meetinghouse Road. Hey, that's not too far from our buddy Mickey Landis,” he said.

“Or the mikvah,” John noted.

Ten minutes later they were pulling into the circular driveway of #517—a hardscape of red brick pavers.

“Nice house,” Ron said. “Lydia must live with her parents. There's no way Riley's Drugs pays for something as nice as this!”

Though sometimes that has nothing to do with it
, John thought to himself.

They stepped out of the car and admired the expansive plantation style house. Tall French windows adorned the front entranceway and white columns stretched to the second floor. A forty-something woman in black leggings sat in a rocker on the wrap around porch.

“Mrs. Richter?” John asked as they approached. It was just above freezing but the woman only wore a t-shirt.

“No. My name is Mandy Somers,” the woman said, rubbing her hands together. Her teeth were chattering.

“Hello Mandy,” John said. “Does Lydia Richter live here?”

Mandy nodded but didn’t move.

“Is she home?”

Just then a second woman walked out, about ten years older than the first. “Mandy! You know better than to be out here without a coat! You'll freeze to death!” She ushered Mandy through the door and turned to the detectives. “Can I help you?”

John flashed his badge. “We're looking for Lydia Richter.”

“Is there some kind of problem?”

“Are you her mother?”

“Mother?” The woman looked either surprised or offended. “No. I'm Connie Spellman. I run the group home.”

“
Group
home?” Ron asked, looking behind him. “I don’t recall seeing a sign.”

Connie shrugged. “We have eight young women who live here.”

Ron glanced over at Mandy as she walked inside. Connie apparently had a loose interpretation of the word
young
. Or maybe some of them had been here so long, they had grown out of young.

“The women who live here, they have special needs?” John asked.

Connie nodded. “They have mild to moderate mental retardation.”

“And Lydia Richter is a resident here?”

“Yes. She's one of our more mild cases—able to function very well in the world.”

“We understand she holds down a job,” John said.

“Yes, it's part of our vocational placement program. She's been at Riley's for over three years now. Lydia's very friendly. The customers love her.”

John glanced around the porch. “Is she here now?”

“No. She's at the market with one of the volunteers.” She gestured toward some chairs. “Please have a seat. May I ask what this is about?”

“We have a few additional questions for her.”

Connie narrowed her eyes. “
Additional
?”

“That's right; we interviewed her about a week or so ago…”

“You interviewed Lydia
here
?”

“No. Down at the township building.”

Apparently, this information was news to Connie. “How did she get there?”

Ron shrugged. “We didn’t ask.”

Just then a van pulled up and Lydia and two other women jumped out. One of the women appeared as though she had a mild form of down syndrome. Lydia's smile faded away when she saw the two detectives sitting on the porch.

“Lydia?” Connie stood up, her arms crossed. “I'd like a word with you.”

“I can't… I have to help bring these in,” Lydia said grabbing a brown bag from the trunk.

The woman who had been driving took it from her. “It's okay, Lydia. Darla and I will unload them.”

Reluctantly, Lydia made her way up the porch steps and took a seat next to Connie. Her hands in her lap, she avoided eye contact and licked her lips nervously.

Connie looked at her pointedly. “Lydia, did you meet with these detectives last week?”

Lydia nodded.

“At the township building?”

“Uh huh.”

Connie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “How did you get there?”

“I took the bus.”

“The bus! By yourself?”

“Yeah. I'm old enough.”

“That's not the point. We have rules here, Lydia. You know that. You are not to travel alone!”

“It's a dumb rule.”

“You may think so, but you agreed to abide by it when you moved in.”

“My parents agreed,” Lydia mumbled.

“And how long ago was that?” John interjected.

“Five years.”

Lydia looked around nervously like she wanted to make a run for it.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Well, I'll have to think about it,” Connie said. “This is a very serious offense.”

There was a tap on the window. It was Mandy. She was laughing and cupping her hands against the glass, saying something that they couldn’t make out, but evidently Lydia could.

“Shut up Mandy!” Lydia hissed. She waved her arms. “Go away!”

Connie looked back and forth at the two women trying to discern what was going on. “Excuse me a moment,” she told the officers.

Inside, Connie took Mandy by the arm and led her away from the window, deeper inside the house, and out of sight. Lydia averted her eyes from the officers and started nibbling her nails, nervously.

“We have a problem,” Connie said, returning minutes later. She held a brown paper bag in the crook of her arm. “Lydia, I need you to go to your room immediately.”

“She's a liar! She lies!” Lydia shouted as she ran into the house.

“These questions you have for Lydia,” Connie began slowly, “they wouldn’t by chance have to do with these?” She gently opened the bag and scooped out a handful of small white tubes. “Mandy says Lydia
stole
them. Is that what all this is about?”

Ron looked at them, bewildered, but John recognized them immediately: samples of the same Israeli body lotion used at the mikvah.
Exact replicas of the ones that had been scattered on the floor next to Estelle Ginsberg’s dead body.