“Do you remember her leaving the table?”
“Yes, I remember. I was sitting near her, not right next to her, maybe two seats down. And somebody said, ‘It’s time for Elijah,’ and Iris said, ‘I’ll go.’ And she pushed her chair back from the table and walked out of the room.”
“How long did it take for people to notice that she hadn’t come back?”
“It took a while,” Marilyn said. “We just continued with the Haggadah. I don’t think anyone really noticed she wasn’t there. People get up and sit down all the time. I know when it happened,” she said as if she had just remembered. “The reading went around the table and then it was her turn and her seat was empty. Mom called her. Then maybe my brother did. Then maybe I got up to look for her. Nobody was in the bathroom. The bedrooms were empty. Only the children were at the children’s table. So I went to the front door. It was still open just a crack. No one was in the kitchen. I closed the front door and went back to the table and I said I couldn’t find her. I didn’t think for a moment she had left the apartment. I just thought she was somewhere and I didn’t know where.”
“Do you remember what happened then?”
“I think everyone started calling and looking for her. Pop was furious. He wanted to continue the reading. But Mom was a little nervous. And then Aunt Sylvie started to cry. Do you remember Sylvie?”
“I remember.”
“She’s a very delicate little woman, very emotional. Her husband died years ago, but she can’t talk about him without getting teary. Not that I blame her. He was a wonderful man and he was very good to her. But when she started to cry, I felt scared.”
“How long did you look for her?”
“I don’t know, another five minutes, maybe.”
“Did anyone go outside to look for her?”
“Not right away. Who would imagine she would leave in the middle of the seder?”
“Do you remember who the first person was that suggested it?”
“No. All of a sudden it seemed to occur to all of us at once. My brother put his coat on and went out to look for her, and we kept looking around the apartment like crazy people, looking under beds, looking in closets. And then my father said, ‘Call the police.’ ”
“How long do you think it was from the time Iris left the table till the police were called?”
“A long time,” Marilyn said. “Fifteen minutes, anyway. Maybe more. It’s because no one noticed she wasn’t at the table for so long.”
“What happened when the police came?”
“It was chaos. My husband had called and he told them over the phone that Aunt Iris had been grabbed by a man in the hall, which wasn’t true, but he wanted them there right away and it worked. Two officers came, they talked to us, they asked us some questions, and then one of them said, ‘What color coat was she wearing?’ And that was the first time we thought to look for her coat in the closet. It wasn’t there.”
“I can imagine what the officers said.”
“They said that she probably went out for a breath of fresh air. By that time, they had pretty much straightened out the story and they were angry that my husband had lied to them over the phone. They said we should call her at home, that she’d probably be there soon, and let them know what happened.”
“You said your brother went looking for her.”
“He walked around the block, and when he came back, he saw the police car and came upstairs.”
“And you called Iris’s number.”
“A hundred times. In the morning my brother called the police and said she hadn’t been seen all night. They don’t investigate right away, you know.”
“I know.”
“By the time they were ready to get started, someone found her body.”
“How long had she been dead?”
“Long enough that they were pretty sure she’d been killed on the first night of Passover.”
“So all your fears were well founded,” I said.
“All our fears, the ones we admitted to and the others, the ones we couldn’t bring ourselves to think.”
“What was she wearing when they found her?”
“Her coat,” she said, as though that were the important thing. “She was wearing her new winter coat.”
“Were there signs of sexual abuse?”
“None.”
“What about jewelry?”
“Now I have to think. What I remember is that she was wearing a gold ring, but I think everything else was gone, her watch, her bracelet, whatever she was wearing on her dress.”
“And her purse?”
“It was never found.”
“Mom,” Mel said, “I thought they found—”
“They never found anything,” Marilyn said firmly. “And that’s the whole story, Chris. The police came and questioned everyone who had been at the seder. They were very nice, very polite. They took notes and asked if there was anything else we wanted to say, any ideas we had on who could have done this, but of course, nobody had any ideas at all. My father was a wreck. My mother almost had a nervous breakdown over it But they never came up with anything.”
“Did they talk to Shirley Finster?”
“They must have. They asked for names of people she worked with and friends and neighbors, and I’m sure we all gave them whatever we knew.”
“Do you have a theory of your own?” I asked.
“I never thought of it as a theory. You can imagine I’ve given a lot of thought to what happened to her. One possibility is that she didn’t feel well and instead of worrying us, she grabbed her coat and bag and went downstairs to find a cab and go home. While she was waiting, some stranger grabbed her. If that’s what happened, it’s as good as saying there’s no answer. The other possibility is that she met someone for some reason and he killed her. But I can’t tell you why. If that’s what happened, she would have gone downstairs to meet whoever it was, give him or tell him whatever she had to give or tell, and planned to come back up before anyone ever noticed she was missing. That’s why she had her coat and purse with her. And if I have a theory, that’s my theory.”
She looked very worn and I said, “Let’s take a break.”
“Good idea,” Mel said. “I’ll just boil some water and we’ll have tea.”
“I can use a cup,” her mother said.
5
We talked about other things while we had tea and cake. Marilyn walked over to the window where Mel kept an arrangement of beautiful plants and admired how healthy they looked. I sat and glanced over the notes I had taken. Whatever I had hoped to learn from Marilyn, it wasn’t there. As I reviewed what she had said, what popped out at me was the idea that Iris had simply not felt well and decided to go home without making an issue of it. As theories go, it satisfied all the facts I knew, that she had taken her purse and coat, that she had volunteered to open the door for Elijah to excuse herself from the table, that wherever the apartment was located, New York streets are not always the safest place for a single woman to walk at night.
I accepted another cup of tea and removed myself from the mother and daughter, who had begun a conversation that did not involve me. Holding my cup, I sauntered out into the living room. The sun was streaming into the room, highlighting the pieces of colored glass on tables and shelves, bringing out the color in the furniture and rugs. It was a comfortable room, pleasing to the eye and body. The Grosses didn’t spend much time here, and it seemed a shame that the prettiest room was used the least.
“There you are.” Mel stood at the entrance to the living room. “You slipped away so quietly, I thought you’d gone home.”
“Like Aunt Iris,” I said.
“Is that what you think, Chris?”
“It’s certainly the simplest explanation.”
“Come back and join the crowd.”
I followed her into the family room, set my cup and saucer down, and sat in my chair. “I really need something to convince me that Iris didn’t just decide to go home, maybe because she had a headache, maybe because she was just plain tired.”
“She wouldn’t have left without saying something,” Marilyn said.
“I know that you feel very sure of that, but look at it from my point of view. Here’s a sweet, thoughtful woman who’s had a big day helping her sister-in-law in the kitchen. She’s already drunk a couple of glasses of wine and eaten a big meal. She’s exhausted. Maybe tomorrow she’s helping someone else prepare another seder, and if she doesn’t get home and get a night’s sleep, she’ll be a wreck. When she gets home, she’ll give you a call so you don’t worry.”
“I see what you mean,” Mel said. “You look at it that way—and I’m sure that’s the way the police would look at it—and it makes perfect sense. I guess if a neighbor of mine told me that kind of story, I’d be inclined to see it that way myself.”
“Does it mean you’re giving up?” Marilyn asked.
“It means I have to find something compelling that someone knows of that’s been overlooked that would give me a reason to come up with a different theory.”
“How are we going to do that?”
“You said your father still keeps the old apartment.”
“Yes. It’s a beautiful apartment, prewar, big rooms. It’s not in the best condition anymore. It hasn’t been painted in years and the curtains are old. After my mother died, it wasn’t taken care of as well as before.”
“It doesn’t matter. May I see it?”
“Of course. I have the key. When would you like to go?” She seemed ready to take me there right away.
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s fine.” Marilyn smiled. “I thought you were giving up, Chris. You really had me worried.”
“I haven’t given up, but I need something to explode in front of me, something that screams, ‘Look, this woman wasn’t just mugged on the way home.’ Maybe that apartment will do it. And anyway, I’d like to see it, get a feel for where the seder took place, where the rooms were in relation to each other.”
“How’s nine-thirty tomorrow morning?”
“Give me the address and I’ll be there.”
“I don’t really know what I’m looking for,” I told Jack when he came home from his law school classes. “I just got the feeling while we were talking this afternoon that there was nothing sinister about Iris leaving the seder. She was tired, she saw a chance to slip out with no one watching or asking questions, and she took it, grabbed her pocketbook, put on her coat, opened the door for Elijah, and went home. The tragedy is, she never got there, but I think she may well have been the victim of random violence.”
“You’re starting to sound like a cop, my lovely wife.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Forget the value judgment. It’s what happens when you’ve investigated a lot of crimes.”
“It sounds bad to me,” I said. “I thought I had a unique point of view. If I lose it, there goes my advantage.”
“You haven’t lost your unique point of view, and I don’t think you ever will. You just see what the rest of us see, that there are reasonable explanations to crimes, not satisfying explanations, not the kind of answers friends and families want to hear, but answers that fit the facts and often turn out to be the right answers.”
“What do you think these people want to hear?” I asked.
“What you said when you first told me about this, what Mel told you, that her aunt was doing something noble, a favor someone asked for, and he killed her. That makes Aunt Iris a hero, a martyr, someone we admire and love even more than before. Nobody wants to know that a beloved relative was killed by a mugger for her jewelry and the couple of bucks in her wallet.”
“You’re right, that’s very painful. There’s that sense of a life wasted. It’s much harder to accept than a death that resulted from bravery or generosity.”
“So there you have it. Who knows? Maybe you’ll find some piece of paper in Mel’s grandfather’s apartment that will explain Iris’s death.”
“I doubt that. He’s alive and has all his faculties. If he knows something, I’m sure he would have told the police or the family.”
“Then maybe you’ll just have a good time looking around an old apartment. Where was the body found?”
“I forgot to ask. I’ll ask Marilyn in the morning. Before I give up on this, I’d like to look at the file.”
He gave me his grin. “How’d I guess? We’ll get it for you, honey. I just need a precinct. Not to change the subject, but are those Mel’s own cookies sitting on the counter?”
“Just waiting for you. You have enough cold chicken to fill all the empty spaces?” I always have something waiting for Jack when he comes home. On a typical day he doesn’t have time to eat between his tour at the Sixty-fifth and the start of his first class.
“Plenty. And that was a good tomato. Didn’t taste like the plastic one I had for lunch.”
“Then dig in. They’re all for you.”
“Let me at ’em.”
The phone rang early in the morning, and I sensed some change in plans was about to happen.
“Chris? It’s Marilyn. How are you this morning?”
“I’m fine. Ready to go.”
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to suggest a little change in our itinerary. I talked to my Aunt Sylvie yesterday. I know you want to talk to her, and I thought I’d try to set something up. She’s adamant that you see her before you do anything else. Would you mind?”
“Of course not. When would she like to see me?”
“This morning. Since we were going into the city anyway, I think we can work it out. She lives in the Bronx, on the Grand Concourse. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“I’ll pick you up and we’ll drive in together. When we’re finished at Sylvie’s, I’ll drive us down to Pop’s apartment. How’s nine o’clock?”
“I’ll be ready.”
6
Actually, I was a little sorry I wouldn’t get to speak to Sylvie alone. I wasn’t sure how Marilyn would react to my questioning. Ideally, when you interview someone you want it one on one, without anyone else present who might prompt or contradict the one you’re asking. But I decided to set aside my concerns until we reached Aunt Sylvie.
Marilyn picked me up punctually and we drove into the city, talking all the way. When we reached the Grand Concourse, I absolutely gasped.
“It’s like the Champs Elysées,” I said, looking at the wide center lanes and the narrower side lanes separated by grassy strips. “How does anyone cross from one side to the other?”
“With great care,” Marilyn said. “Cars tend to speed and you’ve got to watch yourself. I’m going to make a U-turn up ahead and see if I can park on Aunt Sylvie’s side so we don’t have to cross.” At the light she swung left, crossing the oncoming lanes, the grassy strip, and finally turning in to the parked-up lane next to the sidewalk.
“There’s one,” she said.
Sure enough, there was a space just big enough for one car with a little elbow grease and patience. “Perfect,” she said with satisfaction. “It’s the next building down. Let’s go.”
It was a building that had seen better days, but it was reasonably clean and the door to the lobby was locked. Marilyn pushed a button, Aunt Sylvie came on the intercom, then pressed a buzzer that released the lock. A single elevator was heading up when we reached it, the indicator at four. It went to the top floor, the sixth, then made its slow way down to the ground floor. The shaky ride up made me wonder whether the cables were checked periodically, but I kept the thought to myself.
“Here we are,” Marilyn said as we stopped with a jolt on five.
Sylvie had the door open and she double-locked it behind us. She was even smaller than I remembered, barely five feet tall and nearly wafer-thin.
“Come in, girls,” she said in her high-pitched voice. “Take your coats off and make yourselves comfortable. Hello, Chris. I remember you from the seder.”
“It’s nice to see you again,” I said, realizing that I had no idea what her last name was, having forgotten to check the list of names Mel had given me. “This is a very nice apartment.”
“Two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I wouldn’t change it for the world, but the neighborhood’s not what it used to be. Crime, crime, crime. You can’t go out after dark anymore and there’s nowhere to shop.”
“How do you manage?”
“A few of us get together and take a taxi to the supermarket.”
“It’s nice you have friends here.”
“That’s all I have left, a few friends. Sit down. Not you, Marilyn. I’m not talking to this girl with you around.”
“That’s fine, Aunt Sylvie. I’ll just take the paper and sit in the bedroom.”
“There’s a TV in the big one in case you finish your paper. Go ahead. We won’t miss you.”
Marilyn took herself off to the bedroom, and Sylvie and I sat near the window in the living room. It looked out over the Concourse, lined with prewar apartment houses, trees, and people sitting on folding chairs.
“Marilyn told me you’re trying to find out who killed my sister.”
“I’m giving it a try,” I said, reluctant to commit myself at this early stage.
“How much do you know?”
“Just that she left the seder when she opened the door for Elijah, she took her coat and purse with her, and two days later they found her body.”
She lifted her hands and dropped them in her lap. “Already you have it wrong. Nobody remembers the way it happened. She didn’t go, she was taken. She didn’t wear her coat and she didn’t take her pocket-book.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know who took her. He was waiting for her. They all know, but they won’t tell you.”
I started to feel uncomfortable. This was a woman who lived by herself, which meant the family believed she was competent, but she sounded on the edge. “Will you tell me?” I asked.
“She had a friend, a man friend. I knew him. She used to come here with him. He was crazy about her, but he was a very jealous man. He was waiting for her that night at my brother’s apartment. When she opened the door, he grabbed her. That’s what happened.”
“Do you know this man’s name?”
“Harry. I don’t remember his last name anymore. She went with him for years. He had a lot of money and he was very good looking. They would have gotten married, but he had one of those wives that wouldn’t let him go. Iris only wanted him if she could marry him.”
“Did you tell the police about him after Iris died?”
“I’m sure I must have. It’s a long time ago. I can’t remember everything I said.”
“Did you remember his name back then?”
“Back then I remembered everything.”
“Sylvie, what would Harry have been jealous of?”
“Iris had a new friend.”
“She was going out with someone when she died?”
“I think so.”
“And Harry knew about it?”
“Of course he knew. If Iris was going out with another man, she couldn’t be going out with Harry, could she?”
It sounded pretty logical. “I guess not.”
“So he knew and he was jealous. He knew she’d be at my brother’s for the seder, and Harry didn’t live so far away.”
“Did he live in the same building?”
“Not the same building but maybe on the same street. You could ask Abe what Harry’s last name is. He knows, but he won’t tell you.”
“Why do you think he won’t tell me?”
“He’ll tell you what Iris was doing was her own business. But the truth is, Abe made it his business, too.”
“Did Harry ever come to a seder?”
She stopped and thought, her head tilting upwards, her eyes, behind thick glasses, unfocused. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe he came. But not that night. That night Iris came alone.”
“Do you remember what happened that night?”
“Like it was yesterday.”
“Tell me about it.”
“How she disappeared?”
“Everything you remember.”
“The whole family was there, Abe and Sarah,
alahe ha shalom
, and their children and grandchildren. Maybe not the youngest. Maybe Sandy wasn’t there that night But Marilyn was there and her brother David and her sister, Naomi, and their children. There were lots of people. I was there because my son was away and my daughter was going to her in-laws that night. So I went to my brother’s. Iris was there because Iris never married, so she always went to her brother’s seder.”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “You said something after you mentioned Sarah. I didn’t quite get it.”
“I said in Hebrew, she should rest in peace. She died. Abe’s wife died a long time ago.”
“I see. Go on. Your memory is very good, Sylvie.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory,” she said, contradicting herself. “I have a very good memory. Where was I? So we were all at the table and it came time to open the door for Elijah, and Iris got up and left the room.”
“Did she say anything before she left?”
“I don’t know. She just got up. Somebody had to open the door. It was easy for her to get up. If I got up, I would have to squeeze myself out, but where Iris was sitting, it was easy. There was no one in the way.”
“So she got up and she left the room.”
“That’s what happened. She got up and she left the room.”
I heard a quiver in her voice. The little face looked sad, the hands were clenched into fists. “Do you remember anything else?”
She nodded. “All of a sudden I looked over to where Iris was sitting and she wasn’t there. ‘Where’s Iris?’ I said. ‘What happened to Iris?’ ”
“You were the one who noticed she was gone?”
“I was the one. I saw that empty place. Right at that moment I didn’t think anything was wrong. I just didn’t know where she was. So I called her and she didn’t answer. And somebody on that side of the table got up and went to look for her. And we never found her.” She took a tissue out of her dress pocket and pushed it under her glasses to touch her eyes. “She was just gone.”
“Did you look for her?”
“Everybody looked. I looked, Abe looked, the children looked. This one went to the bedroom, that one went outside, another one called the police.”
“You said her coat was still there.”
“He grabbed her when she opened the door. Harry. He pulled her out of the apartment and dragged my sister away. She didn’t even have time to put her coat on.”
“Did the police come?”
“The police came. Two big policemen. They didn’t do anything, I can tell you that. This one said she went home, that one said she took a walk. Who takes a walk at eleven o’clock at night in New York? Maybe a policeman does, but my baby sister doesn’t. She was this big. She wouldn’t walk alone in the middle of the night.”
“Did anyone mention Harry to the police?”
“I don’t know what anyone said. I was almost having a nervous breakdown. Sarah got me a glass of brandy so I wouldn’t pass out. She was a wonderful woman, Sarah. My brother was a lucky man. Are you married?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Did I see your husband at the seder?”
“He came late.”
“I don’t remember him.”
She had missed him because her children had taken her from the table when she broke into tears.
“Sylvie, who was the new man Iris was going out with?”
“I couldn’t tell you. I never met him.”
“Iris never told you his name?”
“If she did, I don’t remember.”
“Could it have been someone she worked with?”
“I don’t think so. The job was a job.”
“I heard she worked for a wonderful man, a man who was very generous to her.”
“Oh, he was good to her. She wouldn’t have worked for him for so long if he hadn’t been nice.”
“Is it possible he was the new man in her life?”
“Mr. Garganus?” She said it as though it were the most outrageous idea I could have suggested. “Well, I don’t think Iris would go out with Mr. Garganus. He was a married man with children. Iris wouldn’t go out with someone like that.”
“But you said Harry was married, and she went out with him.”
“Harry was different. Harry didn’t live with his wife anymore.”
“Was Iris having any problems around that time?”
“Problems? What kind of problems would she have? She didn’t tell me she was having problems. She looked good, she was wearing a nice dress. Iris always looked good. She had a good figure, she took care of herself. It’s very important to take care of yourself.”
“Sylvie, do you remember Iris’s friend Shirley?”
“Shirley Finster? I remember her very well. A lovely person.”
“Would you have any idea how I could find her? I think she’d be a good person to talk to.”
“Shirley? What could Shirley tell you? She wasn’t there that night.”
“But she knew Iris well.”
“So what? Shirley didn’t kill Iris.”
“Do you know where Shirley lives now?”
“I don’t have any idea. Maybe she moved to Florida.” She moved a hand as though to dismiss the subject of Shirley.
“Is there anything else you think I should know, Sylvie? Anything that would help me find her killer?”
“I know one thing,” she said, the damp tissue clutched in her hand. “I don’t know if I should tell you. Nobody else will.”
I waited. “If it would help, then I should know about it,” I said.
“I don’t know. Abe would kill me if I told.”
“Let me give you my phone number, Sylvie. Think about it. You can call me collect and we can talk.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” She smiled. “Yes, let’s do that. Let me think about what else I can tell you.”
“And if you think of Harry’s last name, I’d like that, too.”
“Abe will know. Ask him.”
“I will.” But I had no desire to ask her brother. I felt he had enough troubles of his own right now that raking up this terrible event would not be in his best interests.
“Then we’re finished,” Sylvie said with satisfaction, as though she had just been excused from the dentist’s chair. “I’ll get Marilyn.”
I stood by the window, hearing their voices from the bedroom. Downstairs cars sped by, young mothers looking carefully before pushing their strollers across the Concourse. I had never seen the Champs Elysées, but if it was as beautiful as this wide thoroughfare, it must be truly magnificent.
We said our good-byes quickly, Sylvie obviously finished with us and not anxious to have us dawdle. The sound of the bolt being turned echoed down the hall as we walked to the elevator.