Copyright (c) 2015 Phyllis Zimbler Miller
All rights reserved.
That evening Rebecca and Josh, late due to the difficulty of finding a legal parking space in a residential area adjoining the UCLA campus, squeezed into a living room filled to capacity with people seated in folding chairs. Men and some women wore on their heads knit kipot or the provided black satin yarmulkes, and they all held prayer books in their hands.
Rabbinic intern Henry Brach began minchah – the afternoon service – although anyone could have led it. Rebecca tried to concentrate on the prayers rather than mentally looping through the circumstances of Helene's death.
Between minchah and the evening service of maariv, Helene's brother Fred, whose home this was, spoke a few words about Helene and her family. Elizabeth Silverstein whispered to Rebecca that Fred was a psychiatrist with an extensive practice among Hollywood types and his wife was a pediatrician on the staff of UCLA's hospital.
At the conclusion of the maariv service, a man standing at the back of the room caught Rebecca's attention – the angle wrong on the yarmulke he wore, perched on his head as if a dunce cap rather than placed tightly against the back of his head.
Rebecca squeezed past others to reach Detective Sebastian.
"I didn't see you at the funeral today," she said. "How nice you could make it here."
He nodded.
"I have a simple question to ask you," she said. "When Helene's body was found I overhead someone say there was a pile of dishes and glasses on a tray in the kitchen. Do you happen to know how many plates and how many glasses there were?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"I'm wondering if all the invited guests showed up as planned."
The detective glanced around before answering. "I counted the stuff myself and I see no reason not to tell you: 10 large plates, 10 smaller plates, and 10 wine glasses. No silverware or anything else on the tray."
Without waiting for her to say anything more, he turned his back and peered at a Chagall lithograph hanging over a rosewood serving table, presumably trying to blend in with the others. To help him accomplish this she would have fixed the angle of his yarmulke but feared he might go for his gun if she raised a hand to his head.
So 10 people – the number needed for a minyan – and the number she already knew expected to eat at Helene's sukkah.
Could the murdered have removed an 11th large plate, smaller plate and wine glass from the tray? How likely would the person have been to enter the house if he – or she – came across Helene already outside in the sukkah?
Rebecca became aware that Henry and Simon stood near her. "Who would want to murder Helene?" Simon said to Henry.
Henry fluttered his hands. "I didn't say anything about murder. It could have been an accidental overdose."
"Henry, get real. Helene was a very organized person. There's about as much chance of her taking an accidental overdose as you sprouting wings and flying."
Rebecca watched Henry grab Simon's arm and steer him through the mass of bodies. "Let's get some coffee," Henry said. "Now's not the time to talk about this."
Josh jostled Rebecca's elbow as she stood watching Henry guide Simon towards the dining room where an array of food items covered the table. "Let's go," he said. "I have a lot of reading to do."
"I want to hear what everyone's saying."
"Later, Sherlock," he said. "I'm tired."
Rebecca followed him out the front door, grabbing the handrail for the steep outside stairs while Josh pushed his kipa into his pants pocket.
She realized she would soon have another opportunity to eavesdrop on conversations. When the coroner released Richard's body, there would be another funeral and another shiva minyan.
***
Monday morning Rebecca got off the elevator in the Los Angeles World building. She held the day's paper half over her face, hoping to dissuade anyone from talking to her.
While there had been no mention of Richard's death in the Sunday paper, today's paper carried a brief article in the metro section. From the article she learned he had been stabbed in the back with a knife not found in his office. The good news – no mention of her name in his calendar for that evening. She wondered whether the police had withheld that information or her paper had decided not to mention this.
At her desk a cartoon drawing of a woman stick figure hanging from a noose greeted her. Snatching it up, she strode over to MacKensie Porter's desk and thrust it at him. "Why, Porter, an artist should always sign his work. That way, if he becomes famous at a later date, his earlier drawings will be worth more."
Porter, that toad, at least had the decency to blush. She turned on her heels and stalked back to her own desk, not giving him a chance to defend himself.
Yet moments later Roberta Evans, the guardian of the business section and person of financial editor Peter Tarrington, appeared at Rebecca's elbow. "He wants to see you now," she said.
"That figures," Rebecca muttered to herself. She put her purse in her desk drawer, flipped on her terminal, and grabbed the requisite reporter's notepad and pen.
Rebecca had been a reporter for the World since earning her M.B.A. in finance from The Wharton School. She had a summer internship here the summer between her two years at Wharton – recommended by a macro economics professor who had clout in certain circles. The financial editor who had then hired her for a permanent position had been a wonderful person whom Rebecca admired. Then when he earned a promotion to a higher editorial position at a sister paper, she had been saddled with trying to co-exist with Tarrington and his protégé Porter the toad.
Tarrington sat behind his desk in his private office along the outer perimeter of the business section. He motioned her to enter and take the traditional hot seat. She knew that, if this were about a story assignment, he would have sent her an electronic message. Being summoned to the inner sanctum usually meant deep shit was about to descend on the unfortunate recipient of the summons.
For a moment he said nothing. Probably figuring out how to fire her without leaving himself open to a discrimination lawsuit. She braced herself for the deceiving Southern drawl, which pretended kindness and understanding but only hid the sharp edges of a fierce temperament.
As usual his jet black hair had been combed carefully back from a high forehead, under which his black eyes drilled into her eyes. "You've got yourself mixed up in murder – I can't say I'm surprised."
Oh, dear, someone must have told Tarrington about her name in Richard's calendar.
She didn't reply, knowing there was no point.
"I'll kill you myself if you're guilty and disgrace this department."
He glared at her and she tried not to flinch. "But since this is America and you're presumed innocent until proven guilty, for now you can go back to your desk and do your regular work. And you can wait for the police to find you guilty, or not guilty, whatever the case may be."
At this point he was unable to completely hide the nasty smile playing at the edges of his lips. "Or you can resign your position and work on your own case."
Aha, he thought he had found a legal way to get rid of her.
Rebecca did not gasp or show any surprise. Yesterday she and Josh had role played what Tarrington would be likely to say if he found out. She had her answer ready to go.
"I understand the situation," she said. "I didn't kill either Helene or Richard, nor have the police arrested me for their deaths. I have nothing to worry about. If you'll excuse me, I'll go back to my desk and work on my assignments."
With that, Rebecca stood and started towards the door.
"Wait a minute!" came the roar from behind her back. "I'll tell you when you're dismissed."
Rebecca turned back towards him.
"You can leave now," he said, "and remember, it's your funeral."
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SINK LIKE A STONE is the second Rebecca Stone mystery novel. The first, CAST THE FIRST STONE, is available on Amazon as are two Rebecca Stone mystery short stories in TWO BIRDS WITH ONE STONE. See www.amazon.com/author/phylliszimblermiller