The Bar Mitzvah Murder (18 page)

26

It was early evening when Marnie called. I had gotten back to Elsie's in the afternoon and spent an hour telling her about our wonderful trip. My narrative was frequently interrupted by Eddie, who had his own stories to tell. The one of his packing Dead Sea mud all over his body made Elsie laugh till she lost her breath.

“I hear you visited Harold Singer,” Marnie said when I answered.

“Yes. I checked out a charity mentioned in the will and then I went to see him.”

“Which charity?” Marnie asked.

“A home for abused women.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that one. Gabe was very moved when he heard about it. They do good work there.”

“It looks that way.” I waited, wondering why she was calling.

“You know, Chris, I don't think what you're doing is going to go anywhere.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I went through the list of beneficiaries and they all seem legitimate.”

“That's what the lawyer said.”

“And the charities—Gabe had so many he cared about. Whatever they do, he thought they were worthwhile, and it's not up to us to fault his judgment. You're not going to find anything there.”

“So you're asking me to stop looking for his killer?”

“No, of course I'm not doing that. I'm just saying I don't think you'll find it by calling Gabe's secretary or his alma mater.”

“OK,” I said, not sure what she was suggesting.

“But if you do learn anything—”

“You'll hear from me.”

I felt unsettled after our conversation. Why had she called? It seemed her intent was to tell me to stop looking into Gabe's death, but she had not wanted to say that in so many words. I have conversations from time to time in which I sense that the person I'm talking to is trying to get me to say what the caller doesn't want to say himself. It's as if it will come out better if it's my suggestion or my theory or my conclusion.

Marnie wanted me to back off the investigation. She knew something today that she hadn't known when I saw her last week. I opened my copy of the will and looked again at the list of beneficiaries, both individuals and organizations. The lawyer had pretty much vouched for the individuals, and they certainly seemed like people Gabe knew well. There were a few charities I hadn't contacted personally. Maybe if you could buttonhole Gabe at a party and get him to send a check, you might be able to deceive him about the work the charity did, although from what I had heard about Gabe, I thought he probably had someone check out these organizations before he gave them gifts. Tomorrow I would pursue the ones I wasn't so sure of.

When we were having coffee and Elsie's wonderful cookies after Eddie went to sleep, I asked Jack something that was bothering me: “If you were an estate lawyer and had made handwritten notes while talking to a client, would you throw out those notes after the will was finalized?”

“Hard to say. Since I'm not an old hand at being an estate lawyer, my instinct would be to keep them. They don't take up much room, a sheet or two of paper. But I can see tossing them when you don't need them anymore.”

“I was just thinking that if there were ever any questions about beneficiaries, it might be helpful to go back to the original notes.”

“Sure, and that's probably why lawyers keep all that stuff. Someone objects to an heir getting so-and-so much, you go back and say, ‘Look, here's what he said when he came to my office seven years ago.' ”

“Gabe's attorney's original notes aren't in the file and I thought he looked a little uncomfortable about it. As if he thought they should be there and he was surprised they weren't.”

“You saw him today?”

“I wanted to ask him about the people and organizations that are inheriting Gabe's money.”

“And?”

“He looked over the list and thought everything was OK.”

“But he didn't have his original notes to compare the will with.”

“No.”

“Could mean something, but I don't know what.”

I left it at that. A couple of hours later, when I was walking up the stairs to our bedroom, something struck me. The note in Marnie's safe. Maybe she had figured out who had written it. And maybe she was afraid that if I kept poking around, so would I.

The next morning I called the teacher who had taken over my classes at the college and got a report on how things had gone. I had hastily e-mailed him, via Jack's computer at the Jerusalem police station, to ask him to fill in for one more class after we delayed our homecoming. He didn't seem at all bothered by the additional work and volunteered that teaching mysteries was a fun job.

I got my lesson together and then took the phone into the family room with my papers. There was something called the School of Good Friends that I had not reached the other day, so I called them now.

The woman who answered described herself as the secretary to the principal and said he could not be interrupted at the moment.

“Can you tell me a little about the school?” I asked.

I heard her expel air from her mouth in an annoyed manner. “Can I send you a brochure, ma'am?”

“I think I'd really like to see the school myself.”

“Do you have a child who's planning to attend?”

“Not at the moment.”

“We have very strict guidelines for our students.”

“I would hope so,” I said. “But I'm also interested in the school itself.”

“I can give you an appointment next week.”

If she was trying to discourage me, she was doing a good job. I didn't think I'd want my child in a place with someone like her in the front office. But as I was a person interested in whether the school had a building with classrooms and toilets, she was simply making me more suspicious by the minute. “Fine,” I said. “How would Monday be?”

She turned a page. “Tuesday's better. Ten A.M.?”

“Thank you. I'll be there.” I gave her my name, address, and phone number and hung up. Then I wrote a big red question mark next to the name of the school.

I then called the Double Eagle organization. For the second time, an answering machine responded. I didn't leave a message. Instead, I called Marnie. Perhaps she knew these two beneficiaries and could tell me something about them.

The housekeeper answered the phone. When I asked for Marnie, she said, “Mrs. Gross has left for a short trip.”

“Oh.” I was taken by surprise. “I just talked to her last night and she didn't mention that she was leaving.”

“I'm sorry. She left about an hour ago.”

“When will she be back?”

“I'm not sure. I can give her a message. She may call.”

I declined her offer and hung up, feeling very uncomfortable. Something had happened. I had touched a raw nerve or Marnie knew who had put the diamonds in her safe or both. For all I knew, Marnie was home, having given instructions that she did not want to talk to me. Or she was away, perhaps to think over what she knew or suspected about the murder of her husband.

I looked at my watch. I still had most of the day ahead of me. I called Elsie, who had said she'd pick Eddie up at school, and I took off, armed with maps and addresses. My first stop was the School of Good Friends. This one was just north of the New York City border. I found the street and drove down it slowly, a residential street with people of different races walking themselves, their children, and their dogs. The school was on a corner, a brick building one story high with doors to each classroom. It was comparatively new and the grounds were clean, including a play area that contained equipment in happy colors for children.

I inched my way down the block and turned the corner to see the other face of the school. There were colored cutouts in many of the windows, and I could see children inside, some looking down at desks, some looking toward an invisible teacher. Satisfied, I found my way to the parkway and turned south toward the city.

The Double Eagle charity had an office in an old building on Tenth Avenue. I got off the West Side Highway at 79th Street and went down West End Avenue until I got to where I thought I was in the right area. East of West End most of the avenues are one-way and Tenth went north. I got on Tenth and found I had overshot a little, which was fine with me. I found a parking lot and left my car. I was getting hungry, having passed my usual lunch hour, but I decided to find the address before thinking about food.

The building was the usual five-story walk-up and I found a sign for Double Eagle on the ground floor, so at least I knew they really had an office, not a mail drop. I walked up to the third and found the door, which was locked. The name Double Eagle was painted on the wood in gold letters, but there was nothing else except the mail slot. I knocked and got no answer. I put my ear against the door and heard nothing.

I went down the hall to the next door and knocked, then opened it. Inside, a man in shirtsleeves sat at a messy desk, a bunch of papers in front of him and scattered all over the rest of the desk. He was holding a fat pen in one hand. Nearby was an empty crockery coffee mug.

He looked up at me. “You lookin' for me?”

“I'm looking for whoever works at Double Eagle.”

“They don't come in much.”

“Do you know their names?”

“Not offhand. It's a man sometimes, a woman sometimes. She's young. I guess he's young, too, if I think about it.”

“And you don't know who they are.”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“Do you have the landlord's name?” I asked.

“You mean the guy we pay rent to?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know if the landlord exists, but I send the rent to a box number. Wait a minute.” He opened a drawer on the right-hand side of the desk and rummaged around. “E. Bolton Associates. That's who I make the check out to. But it's a box number. I don't guess he lives in that box.”

“Probably not. Can I have the whole address?” I copied it down. “Do you remember the last time you saw this man or woman?”

“No idea. They owe you money or something?”

“Not exactly. They're inheriting and I have to check them out.”

The man laughed loudly. “That's the oldest trick in the book, telling a guy he's got money coming so he'll give you his address and you can figure out his assets.”

“In this case it happens to be true,” I said, a little miffed at having been tarred with that particular brush.

“Well, good luck. I ever see them, I'll tell them you were lookin'.”

I didn't think there was much chance of that, but I said, “Thanks,” and went back downstairs. I stood on the street trying to think. They had an office and a telephone and an answering machine. Was there anything else behind that locked door? I had the image of a phone on the floor and an answering machine next to it. Was it possible?

Maybe I knew someone who could tell me.

27

The garage had a pay phone and I called my old friend Arnold Gold, the lawyer.

“Chris, you're back from Israel.”

“I'm back and I'm at a pay phone and I don't have much change. Can I ask you a question and I'll talk to you from home?”

“Fire away.”

“I'm trying to check up on a charity called Double Eagle. How can I find out the names of the principals? I've just been to the office and it's locked. I've called a couple of times and they answer with a machine.”

“OK. Someone here worked for the Department of State where the charities register. Don't you guys have a computer yet?”

“The short answer is no. The longer answer is Jack's getting one any day now.”

“You can find these things out when you get it, but I'll have an answer this afternoon and I'll leave it on your machine.”

“Thanks, Arnold.”

“We haven't seen you for a long time.”

“Maybe this weekend.”

“Sounds good.”

The phone gave a warning click and we said our quick farewells. I paid for the car and headed home. When I got there, eventually, there was a message from Arnold on the machine. I called him back.

“Hello, Chris,” he said jubilantly. “My right hand here has found your duly accredited charity, Double Eagle, on the Internet. The person who runs it is named Gary Helfer and the address is on Tenth Avenue in the big city, as you apparently know. I have no other information on him, but it looks as though he's in good stead. The purpose of the charity is to aid victims of Tay-Sachs disease. You know about that?”

“I've heard of it. It attacks children of a very narrow ethnic and geographical area.”

“You are right on. It's Jewish children from Eastern Europe. If both parents carry the gene, there's a high probability the child will be born with it. Generally, these poor kids live only about three years and they're not very happy years.”

I felt a chill pass through me. “It sounds like they do something good, but tell me, isn't there an organization to sponsor research for this disease?”

“I'm sure there is. These folks give assistance to the families.”

“Is there a record of their having given such assistance?”

“There is. Not a lot of it, but I don't have the books in front of me.”

“How long have they been around, Arnold?”

“Let's see. I think she's got it here. Yes. About three years.”

“Three years.”

“Are you in a position to tell me what you need this information for? Do I smell a homicide in your life?”

“A very sad one, Arnold. You know my friend Mel?”

“We've met. I think you told me you were going to be in Israel at the same time she was. ‘A happy coincidence,' you said.”

That sounded like me. I explained quickly what had happened, what we had learned, and where I now found myself, looking into beneficiaries to see if I could find a discrepancy in their claims or some hint of wrongdoing.

“This looks pretty clean,” Arnold said after commenting at some length on the homicide.

“The office building is so shabby.”

“Maybe that means they're spending very little on administration and a lot on real charity. A lot of organizations don't, you know.”

“I've heard. The problem is they don't seem to be there. The man down the hall barely knows who they are.”

“Maybe they come in to pick up the mail and write the occasional check.”

“It bothers me.”

“I know you want me to say they look dirty and maybe you've found what you're looking for, but I can't. Ask Jack to look up this guy Helfer. Maybe he'll find something.”

“I'll do that. Thanks, Arnold.”

“And the invitation for this weekend is solid. I called Harriet and she said you should come.”

“I'll have an answer for you after I see Jack tonight.”

“Make it a good one.”

I laughed. I was sure Jack would say yes. Jack and Arnold had become increasingly close as Jack finished law school, took the bar exams, and started to do legal work for NYPD. I think of Arnold as my surrogate father, but he's been almost that to Jack in some important ways.

I gave Jack the name of the supposed administrator of the charity that evening, and he promised to check up on it the next day. Wednesday was my teaching morning, so I didn't have much time for anything else. My students all appeared rather glad to have me back, and I wondered if my replacement had run a tighter ship than I, but I wasn't about to ask.

We had a good class, which started a bit late, as they seemed really interested in my trip, or perhaps they thought the delay was in their best interests. When you teach, you can't help thinking such things. We were coming to the end of the fall semester, and we spent most of the class reviewing the books we had read and analyzed since September. At the end of the class, several students came to ask my advice on the term paper I had assigned, and I stayed on to talk to them. When we were all done, I had my usual good lunch at the college cafeteria and bought an apple pie, still warm and smelling temptingly of cinnamon, to take home for the rest of the family.

I found a message on the machine for me to call Jack, and I did rather eagerly, hoping he had some information on Gary Helfer.

“Hit pay dirt,” Jack said.

“He's got a record?”

“Yup. Small-time stuff, but running a fake charity looks to be just up his alley. I tried the phone number you gave me and got the answering machine again. Guess he doesn't spend much time in his office. But I've got a home address for you.”

“That's great.” I reached for a pencil and the back of a used envelope. “OK.”

“You can't go alone, Chris. I'm really nervous about this guy. He could be the killer. Either I'll go with you or I'll get someone on the job to go. And I've got something else here. What was the name of that old guy you talked to a couple of times?”

“Simon Kaplan.”

“He's on the board of directors.”

“Simon Kaplan knows Gary Helfer?” I felt a little dizzy. “He told me he was a friend of Gabe Gross.”

“People have been known to lie, dear wife.”

“That's some lie. He's one of the bad guys, not one of the good ones.”

“Could be. But remember, you haven't established anything yet.”

“No, but when something like this happens, I get a good feeling that things are coming together.”

“Exactly why I don't want you going to Helfer's house alone. I'll bring everything I have home for you to look at.”

“Jack, there has to be a connection between this Gary Helfer and Marnie Gross. I think she's sorry she told me what she did—”

“What you didn't tell me.”

“Right. And she's left town. Or so her housekeeper says.”

“Interesting. Why don't you ask Hal what Marnie's maiden name is?”

“Just what I was thinking.”

I couldn't do it right now because Mel was teaching and she wouldn't come home for a couple of hours. So I sat down and corrected the exercises my class had turned in and worked out my lesson plan for next week. By that time everyone was coming home from school and I had cleared my desk.

“Good question,” Mel said. We had walked over to her house. “Mind if I ask you why you want to know?”

“A name has come up and I want to know if there's a connection to Marnie.”

Mel looked distressed. “Marnie's OK, Chris. Really.”

“I didn't say she was involved. Do you know her maiden name?”

“I think it was something like Gilbert. Yeah. That sounds right.”

“You sure?”

“I'll ask Hal when he comes home. He'll remember. But I remember meeting her the first time and Gabe called her Marnie Gilbert. Is that good or bad?”

I laughed. “Bad, actually. I was hoping for something else, but let's see what Hal says.”

We left it at that and talked about other things till it was time for both of us to get dinner ready. In the evening, I looked at the material Jack had brought home. There, in black and white, was the name Simon Kaplan. Simon Kaplan was or had been a diamond dealer, and diamonds had been found in Marnie's safe. Had she lied to me about knowing him? Was it possible she was in on the murder of her husband? I hoped not. It wasn't the kind of thing I wanted to discover.

Hal called about nine o'clock. “You wanted Marnie's maiden name?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know it. Gilbert was her married name.”

“She was married before Gabe?”

“Definitely. Tell you what. I'll research it for you tomorrow. I know where she was married and I can find out. In order to get married in New York State when you've been married before, you have to show proof that you're divorced or that the marriage was annulled.”

“So her maiden name should be on the record.”

“Should be. I'll find out tomorrow.”