“Aha.”
“You know, you and Arnold sometimes respond the same way when I come up with an interesting idea.”
“It’s all those classes in law. Sometimes all you can think of saying is ‘aha.’ ”
16
There’s a point in every case when you feel you’re at a standstill, and I woke up on Thursday morning convinced that I had reached it. I wanted to talk to Shirley Finster, but I had no idea how to find her. I wanted to find Martin Handleman, but it seemed a hopeless task unless Arnold located a marriage license and by some chance Mr. Handleman was still living where he had lived over fifty years ago, not very likely, especially since he and Iris had presumably moved into the apartment on the Grand Concourse together. And could there be a child, a problem child sent to live with another family, adopted perhaps or in a foster home? Such a child could understandably harbor tremendous resentment if his life turned out to be difficult, if he was unloved or perhaps the victim of an illness.
So it seemed that I had pushed my resources about as far as I could, including Mrs. Garganus, who I was sure knew much more than she had said. Why would Iris be planning a trip to Europe after pretending to quit her job? The answer might be quite simple, that in gratitude for years of overtime, Mr. Garganus had decided to give her a kind of sabbatical but didn’t want it generally known since other people might expect or demand the same privilege. And if that was the answer to my question, it wasn’t very helpful in explaining how and why Iris died.
I was about to call Sylvie and ask her a few questions when my phone rang. At the other end was my sister-in-law.
“Chris,” Eileen said, “can we get together and talk?”
“Sure thing. Want to come up here or should I meet you in New York?”
“You do so much driving and it’s so hard to park down here. Why don’t I come up and leave my car in your driveway?”
“That’s fine. Has anything happened with Taffy?”
“Something has and I want to talk to you about it before I talk to anyone else.”
“What time?”
“Noonish. And I’ll bring lunch. I want to try out something. I’ve been diddling with it for a while and I think it’s coming together.”
I smiled. “I’m sure it’s great, Eileen. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
I was very glad she was coming. While I’m sure her parents and Jack were a great support for her, I’ve learned in my still new secular life that putting your head together with another woman is not only a comfort but can really be illuminating. What a wonderful discovery it was for me to find out that other women had gone through similar experiences to mine—and survived them—and that they had insights that could really help me make important decisions.
I made sure my kitchen was gleaming and picked up the living room. Then I called Sylvie.
“Chris?” she said in her little birdlike voice. “Chris from last Friday?”
“That’s the one. How are you doing?”
“Oh, pretty good. You know, this hurts and that hurts, but I’m coming along. You finding out anything about Iris?”
“A few things. I wondered if you could help me a little more. I understand you and Marilyn’s mother cleaned out Iris’s apartment after she died.”
“Oh, we did. What an awful job that was, seeing all those beautiful things my sister had that she would never use again, such clothes, and the dishes, and all the antiques.”
“What happened to those things?” I asked.
“I got some, Abe got some, my other brother was alive then and he got some.”
“What about the personal things, Sylvie? Iris must have had letters and address books, things like that.” I almost had my fingers crossed.
“You’re right. I remember the letters. She had a lot of them. I think my sister-in-law threw them away. What good are somebody else’s letters? Iris was never going to read them again.”
The matter-of-factness in her voice surprised me. She was so affected by her sister’s death, it seemed out of character for her to talk about a very personal possession that way. “Did you find an address book?”
“I guess we must have. I think we threw all that stuff away.”
Or left it at Abraham Grodnik’s apartment, I thought. “Do you know if Iris kept up with her former husband?”
“Kept up with him? You mean if they talked to each other?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think they got along at all. When it was over, he moved out and that was the end. That’s what I remember.”
“Did he support her at all?”
“You mean like alimony? I don’t think Iris would take it from him. She was very young when she married him. My parents didn’t like him at all. I don’t think they would have let Iris take money from him.”
An age when parents could tell their daughters what to do and what not to do and the daughters would listen—except that Iris had married against their will. “Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with Shirley Finster?”
“Oh, Shirley. I haven’t seen her in years.”
“Did you see her after Iris died?”
“I’m sure she came to the funeral. Maybe I ran into her after that. I’m not sure.”
“Is she married, Sylvie?”
“Shirley Finster? I think maybe she is.”
“Do you know what her name is now or where she lives?”
“You should ask Abe. Abe will know.”
“Sylvie, when we were talking last Friday you said you know something no one else would tell me. Would you tell me what that is?”
“Well.” She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe I was thinking of Iris’s marriage. My brother wouldn’t tell you that. But you knew about it, right?”
“Yes, I heard. Harry Schiff told me.”
“Harry! You found Harry?”
“Yes. He’s a very nice man.”
“He’s the one Iris should’ve married. She’d still be alive if she married him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Harry would have taken care of her. He was a good man.”
Last Friday she had told me Harry was her sister’s killer.
If Abraham Grodnik was the man I thought he was, he would not relent. If he had kept his secrets sixteen years after the death of his sister, he wasn’t likely to give them up now. What he would do, I was quite certain, was return to his apartment and destroy any documents that might indicate that Iris had had a husband or a child, and there was nothing we could do about it. Sylvie had not convinced me that the secret she had thought of telling me was Iris’s marriage. She had sounded hesitant, as though it was convenient to use the marriage as her secret, thus giving herself an out. I didn’t like it. If Iris had had a child, Sylvie might well have known and might be persuaded to talk about it if I could think of a way to get her to open up. But I didn’t know how.
So it appeared that I was faced with several implacable people, Abraham, Sylvie, and Mrs. Garganus. And that meant that it was time for me to call in my secret weapon.
Sister Joseph is the General Superior of St. Stephen’s Convent. I met her the night I entered the convent as a frightened fifteen-year-old and we grew to become close friends. She is older than I and is serving her first term as Superior, having been elected before I left. She is a wonderful mix of the traditional and the modern, with a mind that reaches out to both, and she has marvelously perceptive insights that have helped me in my personal life and also in my investigations. This morning I knew I had to tap that resource.
Sister Angela answered the phone and bubbled with excitement when she heard my voice. “Chris, it’s wonderful to hear from you. How are you and Jack?”
“We’re doing fine. Jack’s started talking about adding onto the house, and I’m a little nervous.”
“You worry too much. He’s probably a better judge than you when it comes to that kind of thing.”
“I thought you’d be on my side. Everyone up there takes Jack’s side.”
“Well, you managed to marry a wonderful man. What can I say? Hold on. I’ve got a call coming in.” She left my line and came back a minute later. “Hello again. I bet you want Joseph.”
“If she’s available.”
“She is and you’ve got her.”
The next voice was Joseph’s. “Chris, how do you always manage to call when I’m thinking of you?”
“I guess we’re on the same wavelength. I only call when I’m thinking of you, too.”
She laughed. “Are we getting a visit? And maybe something to tickle a mind in need of some extra activity?”
“Both if you’ll have me.”
“Wonderful. Let me look at my schedule.” A page turned. “For a change I seem to have a clear week. Pick your day.”
“How’s tomorrow?”
“Aha, it must be a tough puzzle. Tomorrow’s fine. Come early and stay for lunch.”
“I will.” Aha indeed.
17
Eileen turned up the driveway just before twelve and we hugged in the living room as she entered, holding her packages aloft to protect them. We laughed and I was relieved to see that she looked like her usual self, her face pretty and her hair a modified version of Jack’s unruly curls.
“I’m glad to be here,” she said, heading right for the kitchen with her offerings. “If Mom calls me one more time to see how I am, I may tell her the truth.”
“Well, you’re looking good. Do we eat first?”
“We heat first, then eat and talk at the same time, the way I’ve done it all my life.”
“Let me turn on the oven.”
“Oh, Chris, I forgot. You haven’t entered the twentieth century yet, have you? Still no microwave?”
“Still no microwave. Jack had one in his Brooklyn Heights apartment, and I thought it was wonderful. Even St. Stephen’s got one recently. But I haven’t changed the house very much from the way Aunt Meg left it.” I turned the oven on and looked inside the big bag. “Home-baked rolls?”
“Sourdough. Put them in the oven. They’re better warm. The chicken salad should be just right, and when the rolls come out, we can put the dessert in.”
“One of your super treats, I bet.”
“Cherry cobbler. Old-fashioned and always good. Well, you look exactly like yourself, and that’s the best thing anyone can say about you.”
“So do you.” I took dishes out and set the table. “Coffee?”
“Oh yes. My brother and I can’t live without it.”
I got it going and Eileen checked the rolls. Then she dished up a beautiful chicken salad.
“It smells heavenly. What did you put in it?”
“Curry. I love it this way. And I’ve added a few other Indian spices. I need your honest opinion.”
“Eileen, you know I love everything you make.”
She took the rolls out and put them on the bread plates, then put the cobbler in the oven. “Just be honest. I’m always afraid I’ll overdo some favorite spice of mine because I love it so much. You have to tell me if it’s too strong. Sometimes I have to work very hard to balance the subtlety with my personal taste.”
I sat down and took a forkful of the salad. “It’s wonderful. Don’t change a thing.”
“Just keep eating. Let me know at the end if it’s still as appealing as the first bite was.”
“I’m so glad I have you and Jack in the family. It really eases my conscience that I’m an awful cook.”
“You aren’t awful at all. You have simple tastes and you make simple food. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You know, I picked Jack, but I really lucked out on his family.”
“So did we. I want to talk about Taffy.”
“Go on.”
“Jack told you what happened.”
“Yes.”
“Here goes. This is very painful, Chris. I’ve known Taffy all my life and we’re like sisters. We’ve worked together since day one, and even though we haven’t agreed on everything, we’ve done better than most partners. When Taffy wrote that check and disappeared, I felt—” She stopped and swallowed. “Devastated.” Her eyes filled. “If Jack cleaned out your bank account and left you, you’d feel the way I felt. Abandoned. Betrayed. I couldn’t believe it. It was not only self-serving, it destroyed me as well.”
“I understand.”
“I felt sore inside, as though I’d drunk some cleaning fluid and it left all my organs raw. As much as I had loved her, that’s how much I hate her now.” She looked at my dish. “Your last bite. Tell me, are the spices too strong? Has the impact worn off?”
I smiled. In the midst of her tears, she was a professional. “It’s terrific, Eileen. If my life ever permits me to entertain a group of women, I’ll order this chicken salad for the main course.”
“Thanks, Chris.” She took another bite, savoring it. “I’m glad you agree. I really didn’t want to make it more delicate. Anyway. I got a letter from Taffy yesterday and I’ve been stewing about it. I can’t talk to Mom and Dad about it because they’re another generation, and as broad-minded as they usually are, this is something that I think is beyond their ability to cope with. The truth is, I don’t know exactly how you’ll react, so I’m going to talk to you in a kind of general way. OK?”
“Sure.” I got up and took the dessert out of the oven, put it on plates, and poured coffee. The cherries smelled better than anything I had cooked since Christmas (with Melanie’s help), and my mouth was watering when I sat down.
“She took the money to help someone.”
“OK.”
“It was someone close to her, her sister.” She said this almost reluctantly, as though she wanted to keep identities hidden.
“A sister’s about as close as you can get. If you don’t help your sister, I don’t know who you do help.”
“That’s the way I feel. And if it’s your sister, you don’t sit down with her and say, ‘I know you have a problem, but you got yourself into this mess and you should get yourself out of it.’ You help her.”
“Because if you don’t help her, the situation will get worse.”
“Much worse. And there’s time later to let her know she should run her life so she doesn’t get into this kind of trouble.”
“Right. After you’ve gotten her out of the difficulty she’s in.”
“I’m glad you’re following. So this is what happened. When Taffy’s sister came to her with her problem, Taffy panicked. Her sister needed the money right away, Taffy didn’t have it, neither one of them could borrow it, and Taffy did the only thing she knew to do.”
“She wrote a check from the catering account.”
“And decided to deal with the consequences later.”
“It’s a lot of money, Eileen.”
“It’s not only a lot of money, it was all the money we had.”
“And you needed at least some of it to keep your business going.”
“Yes. And she knew it. She knew our business as well as I did.”
“I have one question that’s bothering me,” I said. “Jack said that Taffy was planning a trip, and when she left, she was presumably going on that trip.”
“That’s right.”
“Did she know about her sister’s problem at the time she booked the vacation?”
“I don’t think so. I think she truly intended to take a vacation and then this thing happened and she just worked it out so that she withdrew the money when I expected her to leave, so I wasn’t surprised that she wasn’t there and I didn’t know the money was gone for several days.”
“It was kind of a fortuitous coincidence.”
“Yes, right.” Eileen sipped her coffee.
“Has Taffy’s sister’s problem been taken care of?”
“She wrote that it had. Yes, I think that’s out of the way for good now.” She fiddled with her cobbler, which was delicious, and sipped more coffee.
I sensed where she was going, but I didn’t want to put words into her mouth. And I didn’t want to tell her how much I enjoyed her lunch for fear of getting her off a track she wasn’t very comfortable riding. “OK,” I said noncommittally.
“Well, here’s the thing. Taffy feels—Taffy wants—” She began to choke up again, the enormity of her love and affection for her lifelong friend overcoming her. “Taffy wants me to forgive her.” The tears spilled over and she pulled a tissue out of her pocket and put her head in her hands.
“I know how much you love her, Eileen. I have some friends I feel the same way about.”
“I’m just so—I’m torn into little pieces over this. I want so much for us to be friends again, to sit and giggle together like we did when we were little. I just don’t know if we can.”
“But that’s different,” I said.
“I don’t follow you.”
“You said Taffy wanted you to forgive her.”
“She does.”
“I think you already have. I think your feelings for her are so deep that as soon as you knew she was doing something to save her sister, you forgave her. But you may not have excused her behavior, and you may want to think about whether you really want to do that.”
“I see what you mean.”
“Taffy did some things that you may feel are inexcusable. She stole money from you.”
“I hate to use that word.”
“I know you do. That’s why I used it. Half of it was probably hers.”
“It was.”
“But she didn’t have a right to take even her share without discussing it with you first.”
“That’s part of our agreement.”
“I’m sure that if she had come to you and told you the situation her sister was in, you would have tried to work out some kind of accommodation.”
“Oh, Chris, I would. I would have done anything. If I’d gone to a bank with our record and all our money in the checking account, I could have borrowed more.”
“But she didn’t and so you couldn’t.”
“I know.”
“And she left you in a terrible position. Of course you want to forgive her. You don’t want Taffy to spend the rest of her life with this awful thing hanging over her head, knowing she hurt you and you’re incapable of forgiving her. But forgiving doesn’t mean that you pick up where you left off. Both of your lives have changed. You can’t ignore that.”
“They’re two separate things, aren’t they?”
“I think they are.”
“Then if I write her back—I think that’s easier than calling—and tell her she’s forgiven, I have to make it clear that our partnership and our giggling together don’t come along for the ride.”
It’s a funny thing about giving advice. A piece of the burden slips from the asker’s shoulders to the giver’s, and as I sat there, I was conscious of the weight of Eileen’s decision, an uncomfortable weight. I had met Taffy only briefly at our wedding, which their company had catered, but I felt for her, felt the pain of her being asked by her sister for help, the additional pain of taking something that wasn’t hers because there was no one else and the sister needed the money because she had done something wrong or stupid. But my main concern was for Eileen. Not only had she been effectively bankrupted by her friend’s action, she had suffered emotionally, and was still suffering.
“You know I can’t tell you what to do.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just want to hear how you feel, and what you’ve said so far is really very helpful.”
“Did she say anything about repaying the money?”
“She said her sister will make good, but it’s going to be a long time. Personally, I’m not sure we’ll ever get it all back.”
“You sound like a realist, Eileen.”
“I’m in business. I’ve learned a lot in the last few years, a lot of it things I wish I’d never had to learn. This is probably the worst.”
“It’s probably the worst for your whole life. Maybe that’s how you should look at it. After this, everything’s going to be easier.”
She tried to smile. “You think I shouldn’t give Taffy a second chance.”
“I think this is the hardest decision you’ll ever have to make and you shouldn’t make it too quickly. Some time has to pass. The business part of you has to talk to the part of you that’s a friend.”
“Because they’re in conflict.”
“I think they are.”
“I wish we could just go back a month and do this over the right way.”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
“Good idea.”
We got our coats and went outside. It was a bright, cool, spring day. We were only weeks away from that wonderful period when the trees leafed out, the tulips and daffodils bloomed, the pink and purple trees showed their color for a brief time before the green leaves took over for the rest of the season. I couldn’t wait.
“I always thought Jack was a city person,” Eileen said, looking around Pine Brook Road with its quiet houses. “I couldn’t imagine him ever living in a place like this, and he loves it.”
“I’m glad. I’m not a city person, and when I come back from New York and get off the parkway and onto the little roads, I feel a sense of relief. And it smells so good here.”
“It does, doesn’t it?”
We walked by Mel’s house and I thought of Iris for a moment. “Were you surprised when Taffy asked you to put it all behind?”
“Very. I thought she was gone for good. I thought I’d never see or hear from her for the rest of my life. I was resigned to it. It made it easier for me ta hate her.”
“In a convent close friendships are frowned upon.”
“But you’re close to Sister Joseph.”
“Yes. But we never giggled together.”
“Does that make you sad?”
“I’ve never thought about it. I had wonderful years at St. Stephen’s. If there are things that I missed, there are also things I experienced that most other people haven’t. I’ve never made a list of pluses and minuses or assets and liabilities, and I don’t intend to.”
“Taffy was always there for me. Once, when a boyfriend ditched me, I don’t think I could have gotten through it without her.”
“That’s one of the experiences I missed in my life.”
“Don’t cry over it,” Eileen said, laughing. “I think it took ten years off my life.”
“I expect it added to it. It made you smarter. And maybe tougher.”
“Not smart enough,” she said.
“You’ll do the right thing, Eileen.”
“It just hurts so damn much.”