Chesapeake Crimes Page 10

  “Monya, it seems the weight of the world is on your shoulders today. Tell me what’s troubling you. Maybe I can help.”

  Monya’s lips quivered, and tears filled her eyes.

  Rivka felt alarm growing. “Tell me,” she urged.

  Monya hesitated. “Rivka, I know that I’m a mouse, a creature afraid of her own shadow,” she said in a quiet, halting voice. “It would be unthinkable for me to raise a fuss about anything.”

  Rivka disagreed. “Monya, you’re a gem. A perfect daughter. A good friend. Why is this not a good thing?”

  “Because I can’t defend myself! I let bad things happen. I can’t stand up to anybody.”

  Rivka was confused. “Tell me. What’s happened to make you so critical of yourself?”

  Monya wavered. There were certain things that one just didn’t share. It was forbidden. Shameful. Not done. But Rivka was her closest friend, and Monya felt torn apart. She needed to talk about it.

  “I’ll tell you. You’ll surely think ill of me afterward, but I’ll have to take that chance. You see, Pearlstein, that momzer, you should pardon my language, knows which of the girls at the factory are just like me. The obedient ones who do what they’re told. He tries to take advantage of us. Touch us. When we protest, he threatens us and reduces our wages. I’m worn out, Rivka. For all my work at the factory, I bring home less money each week.”

  “Monya, why haven’t you told me about this before?”

  “Oh, Rivka, I didn’t think you’d understand. You’re so strong, so unlike me. You’d never find yourself in this kind of situation. And, you know, we don’t talk about such things. Shame is a burden we carry alone.”

  Rivka felt her blood boil at the thought of what Monya had endured. Well, no more.

  * * * *

  The following morning, Rivka rose earlier than she normally did and hurried to Mendelsohn’s. Employees started work at seven a.m., but Pearlstein and the shipping department started their day at six. Rivka knew the factory would be quiet and the upper floors deserted, except for Pearlstein’s unpleasant presence. When she arrived, she quietly made her way up the stairs to the fifth floor. When she reached Pearlstein’s office, she stood in front of the door, taking deep breaths to ease the tightness in her chest and the uncontrollable trembling of her hands. Several moments later, resolved to do what was necessary, she softly knocked on the door. No answer. Had Pearlstein not come to the factory at his usual time? Rivka knocked again, louder this time, calling out his name.

  “Go away!” a slurred, hoarse voice responded.

  “Mr. Pearlstein, it’s Rivka Lipsky. I need to talk to you about a very important matter. May I come in?”

  “Ah, Miss Lipsky, have you come to offer Pearlstein comfort in his time of need? Come in. Come in. I would welcome the company of such a lovely young lady.”

  Rivka steeled herself and opened the door. The malignant stench from the office made her gasp. The putrid odors of an unwashed body, liquor, and vomit were enough to make her want to turn and flee.

  “Mr. Pearlstein,” she managed to say, fighting the nausea that threatened to erupt. “I’ve learned how you take advantage of your position of authority, harassing girls at the factory in a most unacceptable manner and then reducing their wages to punish them for not complying with your demands. This must stop immediately.”

  Even in his inebriated state, Pearlstein looked incredulous.

  “Rivka, Rivka, you’re admonishing me for my behavior? Do you forget to whom you’re talking? Since when does a woman, no a girl, have the chutzpah to speak in that manner to her boss? It’s unheard of.”

  Rivka’s anger erupted. To think that this pig, this chazer, felt he was better than her. She took a breath and forced herself to speak calmly.

  “Mr. Pearlstein, there are important people working to make life better for factory workers. They invite news of the workplaces they call ‘sweatshops.’ I intend to tell as many of them as I possibly can about you. How long do you think your esteemed cousin will keep you in his employ when he becomes a target of those who are friends of the working poor?”

  Without warning, Pearlstein roared and rose clumsily to his feet. In a second, he rounded his desk and grabbed at Rivka. Shaking off his hands, she turned and ran to the office door. But even in his diminished state, Pearlstein got his arms around her as she entered the hall. Horrified that she had not considered the prospect of putting herself in danger by coming here at this hour, Rivka gathered all her strength and pushed Pearlstein. He teetered in the small stairwell for a few seconds before falling backward. In an instant, with crashing glass and a frightened cry, he fell through the large window overlooking the airshaft.

  Rivka stood stunned. It took a moment for her mind to register what had just happened. She stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle the scream that rose inside her. She wanted to run away, but even as shock numbed her mind and body, she forced herself to think. She slowly moved toward the shattered window and carefully leaned through to look down into the airshaft. At the bottom, five floors below, Pearlstein lay sprawled amid the garbage and debris. Blood drained from his nose and mouth.

  A few moments passed before Rivka knew what she had to do. She turned toward the stairs, opened her mouth, and screamed. “Help! Oh, my God. Somebody help!”

  In no time, Rivka heard the sound of tramping feet making their way toward her with shouts of “what’s wrong” and “we’re coming” echoing in the stairwells. Soon John Gerotti and Isaac Levy, two of the workmen who always arrived at the factory early to pack finished garments into shipping crates, reached her, gulping to push air into their strained lungs.

  “Are you all right, miss?” Mr. Gerotti asked Rivka in a concerned voice. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. But something terrible has happened to Mr. Pearlstein. He’s lying in the airshaft. When I came upstairs to finish some work left from yesterday, I saw the broken window. I looked out and discovered him crumpled and bleeding outside. Please, help him.”

  Mr. Levy ran to the broken window and gazed down. “I think it’s too late for him. He has the look of the dead. But I’ll go down anyway to be sure. Johnny, could you call a doctor and the police? Take Miss Lipsky with you. She doesn’t look so good.”

  * * * *

  The investigation into the death of Elias Pearlstein lasted only two days. Not one person interviewed by the police had anything good to say about the man. Interestingly, his cousin and employer revealed that the evening before, he had fired Pearlstein for stealing funds from the business. If Rivka had known this, she never would have made her morning visit to him. The problems at the factory would have been resolved with his departure. The raised voices she had heard the previous evening were the voices of the cousins.

  No one questioned Rivka’s account of Pearlstein’s death. On the contrary, she received comfort from her co-workers and more sympathetic treatment by the police than she had expected. After all, in the old country the police were to be feared and avoided at all costs. Reuben Mendelsohn hired a new foreman who treated the workers better. Life improved at the factory, but the tragic episode was not over for Rivka. It haunted her. She could not eat or sleep well. Her fellow workers whispered amongst themselves about her drawn and pale appearance. Her mother, alarmed at Rivka’s painful thinness, attempted to entice her with thick soups and warm breads. Rivka never smiled and always seemed preoccupied. Every time she entered Mendelsohn’s, she relived the horror of Pearlstein’s death and wondered if her inability to put the past behind her was a reflection of God’s displeasure with her deceit.

  * * * *

  On a cold and blustery December morning, Rivka and Monya made their way through the crowded streets to the factory.

  “So tell me,” Monya said, “which of the world’s problems are you attempting to solve this morning?”

  Rivka stopped walking, faced Monya, and with a sad expression spoke. “I do have some news for you, and I pray that you’ll understand.
You know, I haven’t been myself since the day of Pearlstein’s death. I haven’t been able to put it behind me, and every day I relive those moments. I truly believe that it would be best for me to leave Mendelsohn’s and move on to a new job. I’ve been looking for other work and have found a place where I can sew better fabrics and get a higher wage. It’s a bit farther uptown near a park and a university, would you believe. This factory is in a large building with elevators. Such luxury!”

  “That’s wonderful, Rivka. I shall miss seeing you every day, but we’ll see each other on the Sabbath and have so much news to share each week.”

  “Yes,” Rivka said. “This will be a good change for me.”

  * * * *

  Rebecca grew silent.

  “Nana, what a touching story. But how do you know the details? You told me your aunt Rivka died before you were born.”

  “That’s true, Stacey. But my aunt kept a journal that was found among her belongings. Years ago, my mother passed it on to me. I’ve always felt it was far too personal to share, but I think it’s good for you to know this piece of your family’s history.”

  Stacey was touched by her grandmother’s trust and had one more question to ask.

  “Nana, how did Rivka die? Was she ill?”

  “Ah. I didn’t quite finish the story, darling. The name of Rivka’s new employer was the Triangle Waist Company.”

  Stacey’s eyes widened. “No! I’ve read a lot about that place. It was notorious. The Triangle Waist fire was one of the worst the city had seen. Over a hundred people, mostly young women, died there that day.”

  “Actually, 146, to be exact. Including my aunt,” Rebecca said, wiping tears from her eyes. “The new place of employment Rivka thought would be so much better was just another sweatshop. So much for luxury!”

  Harriette Sackler is a longtime member of the Malice Domestic Board of Directors and serves as grants chair. She is a past Agatha Award nominee for “Mother Love,” her story that appeared in Chesapeake Crimes II. Harriette’s writing background includes public relations and nonprofit fundraising materials. An avid pet lover, she is vice president of House with a Heart Senior Pet Sanctuary. Harriette lives in the D.C. suburbs with her husband, Bob, and their five pups. She has two married daughters and makes a point of thoroughly spoiling her two grandbabies, Ethan and Makayla.

  THE LORD IS MY SHAMUS, by Barb Goffman

  You’d think after all these years, I wouldn’t be nervous in his presence. Yet my sandals shook as I approached the swirling cloud.

  “You asked to see me?” I crooked my head, trying—but failing—to spot him through the mist. Why was he always such an enigma?

  “Yes.” His booming voice echoed. “I’m sending you back to Earth to do some investigating for me.”

  “Investigating?”

  “A man has died, and I’d like you to probe those who knew him best. Find out what happened.”

  Now I know better than anyone that it’s not my place to question God. He has his reasons for what he does. But come on. He’s omniscient. Why would he need me to investigate anything for him?

  “Umm…okay,” I said. “But don’t you already know what happened?”

  He chuckled. “Well, yes, I do. But you of all people understand suffering and the need to know why it happens. So I want you to help this man’s family by looking into his death and encouraging the killer to admit his sins and repent.”

  “The killer? You mean—”

  “Yes. This, Job, is murder.”

  * * * *

  In a blinding flash of light, I found myself in a city. Based on the accents, I figured it was Manhattan—though it could’ve been Miami or Fort Lauderdale or, really, anywhere in South Florida. I took a moment to take in the sights. Tall buildings. Automobiles zipping by. And the women walking around immodestly in a state of undress. Bare arms and legs and, in a few cases, midriffs. I knew how the Earth had changed during my years in the afterworld—I like keeping up on things—but actually seeing it in person? Oy vey!

  I glanced down and noticed that my apparel had changed, too. Now I was wearing modern clothes: khaki pants and a pale blue polo shirt. I combed my fingers through my hair. Shorn! My long flowing locks were gone. Cropped to my ears. I raked my fingers over my face and breathed a deep sigh of relief. I’d been allowed to keep my beard, though it apparently had been trimmed and combed. I know I shouldn’t care about my appearance, but after you’ve had the same look as many centuries as I have, you get kind of attached to it.

  I turned left from the street corner. The avenue had been busy, but this side street was quieter. Trees and brownstones. A good place to think. My mind drifted back to God. He’d apparently changed my appearance so I’d fit in. And he’d dropped me in the victim’s neighborhood, I gathered, so I could get started straight away. But he couldn’t be bothered to tell me the killer’s name so I could quickly get him to confess and repent? That I had to figure out on my own?

  I rolled my eyes. (Yes, I’d atone for that later.) Thousands of years had passed, but the Lord still liked to play his little games. I guess when you’re all-knowing, yanking my chain helps keep things interesting.

  I stepped off the sidewalk, leaned against a nice shady tree, and took a few moments to try to think things through. I had no idea where to go. I patted my pockets. No money. Nowhere to spend the night. I didn’t even know the victim’s name. Hey, Lord, how ‘bout a little help down here?

  Frustrated, I slapped my hands against my thighs and heard something crinkle. That right pocket had been empty just a moment ago. I reached in and pulled out two scraps of paper. The first one was an obituary for Bruce Goldenblatt, a real-estate investor who had died the previous Saturday, leaving behind a wife and three daughters. The second scrap had an address printed on it—for the brownstone right in front of me.

  I glanced up. Nice aim. And thanks for the assist.

  Time to get down to business. I gazed at the house. Sparkling windows. Spotless front steps bookended by gleaming black wrought-iron railings. Beside the left railing, a handicapped ramp ran from the sidewalk to the stoop. This family might have faced tragedy before. I hoped I could help them now, at least.

  It was after the funeral so the family would be sitting shiva for seven days, mourning their loved one and focusing on their loss. Who was I to intrude on their grief? While it would be a great mitzvah to make a shiva call, visitors should be friends and family. I wasn’t either. But they’d all be there. An opportunity too good to miss.

  I tilted my head, thinking. I could pretend to be an old friend (real old) of Goldenblatt, but they might ask me questions about him that I couldn’t answer. I tapped my index finger against my lips. Ah. I’d be a grief counselor, sent over by the rabbi. That should work.

  I made my way up the front steps and rang the bell. As I waited, I heard muffled yelling from inside. Soon a girl, maybe fourteen years old with long dark hair, yanked back the door. She was barefoot, wearing a short denim skirt and a low-cut, white tank top, and chewing something pink. Gum, I guessed, though I hadn’t seen it firsthand before. Her toenails and fingernails were pink, too. I never would have allowed my daughters to dress that way.

  “Hi?” she said. It was a statement, but it came out like a question.

  “I don’t care!” someone shrieked from behind her. “I don’t want children at my wedding.”

  “How do you expect me not to invite your cousins after they just came to the funeral?” another woman screeched back. “It would be a shanda!”

  “Too bad!” the first voice screamed. “It’s My! Special! Day!”

  What was I walking into? “I’m sorry to intrude,” I told the girl. “My name is Jo…Joseph.” Close call. “I’m a grief counselor. Your rabbi suggested I stop by.”

  The girl turned her head. “Mom! There’s some grief counselor here!”

  So much yelling. Maybe the family was hard of hearing.

  As the girl backed away, a round, middle-aged woman
approached the door. Did hair that blond come naturally? She smiled. “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Goldenblatt?” She nodded. “Your rabbi sent me over. He thought I might be able to help you during this difficult time.” I extended a hand. “I’m Joseph…Bookman. Grief counselor. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Rabbi Cohen sent you? Well, please come in.”

  I walked into a small entryway with a glass table in the middle. A large ceramic bowl filled with apples and pears sat on top. To my left was a staircase, straight ahead ran a long hallway with some closed doors lining the left wall, and a large living room was on my right. It had white leather couches, oriental rugs, and glass tables that matched the one in the entryway.

  I blinked a couple times, confused. I saw no low stools for mourners to sit on. The mirror on the living-room wall remained uncovered. The woman wasn’t even wearing a torn black ribbon in memory of her husband. Except for the fruit bowl in the entryway, which could have been a condolence gift, I saw nothing I’d expect in a home sitting shiva. Was I at the correct address?

  “It’s very nice that Rabbi Cohen has been thinking of us, but really, we’re doing just fine,” Mrs. Goldenblatt said, motioning me to follow her.

  She led me through the house into a shiny chrome kitchen. Now this was more like it! Baskets and trays of food covered nearly every available counter, no doubt condolence gifts from friends and family.

  The girl who had answered the door trailed behind us, then picked up a mewing gray kitten and climbed onto a bar stool. An older girl sat at a round table staring at a computer screen. An even older girl—a young woman, really—sat at the same table with piles of papers and magazines spread out in front of her. All three girls had the same thin nose, brown eyes, and long dark hair. None of them wore a black ribbon either.

  “Girls, this is Mr. Bookman,” the mother said. “He’s a grief counselor. The rabbi sent him over.”