Miles To Go

3. Toronto 1961

3

Toronto 1961

“Where’s Gittel?”

The parlour comprised a small sitting room at the back of the house with a view of the meager yard. I imagined chickens scratching away at the loose dirt. Thankfully, only a few families kept chickens anymore.

“She’s taking a nap. I lied about her being here.”

Miryam stood on the far side of the room. Lies never fazed her. I faced her as she examined me, sizing me up like a piece of haddock she’d purchased at the fishmonger’s. She cupped her chin with her hands. Her dark eyes turned obsidian, impenetrable. After a moment, she dropped her hands to her sides and walked toward me slowly. I held my ground. She stopped in front of me. I didn’t flinch and neither did she. She put her hands on my face and stroked my cheeks. It felt nice. Damned nice. She seemed to disappear for a minute but then she came back from wherever she’d been. She swiveled her right shoulder and using the momentum from her twisted torso, slapped my face so hard that it forced me to take a step to the side.

I didn’t ask but she said, “That was for running away.”

I touched my face gingerly. A thousand bee stings radiated from my cheek into the jaw. “I never ran away. You told me to go.”

“Then you shouldn’t have listened.”

“It wouldn’t have worked. We both know that.”

Miryam came from an ultra-orthodox family, her father, a rabbi, her brother, the rabbi-in-training, as-well-as, a supreme i***t. Me, from a non-religious family of sinners and criminals.

Miryam laughed harshly. “Oh sure. And this worked out?”

I hadn’t understood before but now I got it. “Mendel was your husband?”

“For a detective, you’re pretty smart,” she sneered.

“Then, my condolences.”

“You’re not sorry. Not really.”

“He was a putz before. I’m guessing he didn’t change much.”

She stepped back, then hugged herself. Her body began to heave and quake. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked up.

“He was going to divorce me,” she said.

I didn’t say anything, just raised my eyebrows.

“I couldn’t give him children. Not that we tried all that hard.”

She turned her face away.

“Maybe we better sit down,” I said.

Miryam sat in an armchair. The plastic cover crackled.

I pulled a straight back over and set it opposite her. I made certain we were out of field goal range. I sat, pulled a pencil and a pad from my jacket pocket.

“Give me a cigarette,” she said. I shook one out of the pack and she took it. I fired up the Zippo and she gave me a long look under cover of the flame.

“Thanks.”

She blew out a stream of smoke.

“You better tell me what happened,” I said. “That’s the least Callaway expects, apart from us playing happy memories, that is.”

She smiled grimly. “Some of them were happy.”

I held the pencil poised above the paper. “Yeah. I guess.”

“How did you get so hard?”

I shrugged. “Time passed. Things happened.”

“And so tight-lipped?” I opened my mouth but she beat me to it. “Things happened, I know.” She sighed, drew on the fag, flipped some ash on to the floor. Never a housekeeper was Miryam.

“I went next door with Gittel. My brother lives in the next house and she lives with him but I look after her during the day while he’s at work.”

“Time?”

“We went over after lunch. We were baking for Shabbos. I was making chocolate rugelach. Your favourite, as I recall.” A smile played on her full lips.

“Still are,” I said. “Then what happened?”

“We finished. We had a cup of tea and I brought Gittel back here about six o’clock.”

I glanced at my watch. Getting on to three hours earlier.

“And then?”

“I took Gittel upstairs so she could have a lie-down. Then I went into the kitchen and there Mendel was. Dead.”

Her face had gone slack as if the memory had killed something inside her. “And then?”

“I called the police and then I called my brother.”

“Sure it wasn’t the other way around?

She dropped the butt end and ground it into the floor.

“I’m sure,” she said.

“You didn’t scream? It’s not every day you find a body on your kitchen floor especially if it’s your husband.”

“I didn’t scream. I probably gasped or went into shock. I remember a heavy feeling. It was hard to lift my hand to pick up the phone.”

“Your brother came over?”

“Yes.”

“Did either of you touch anything?” I wondered whose fingerprints we might find on the knife handle.

Miryam shook her head. “No. I could see he was dead. He certainly wasn’t breathing.”

“And Avrom? He didn’t touch anything? The knife handle, for instance?”

“No. I made sure he didn’t.”

“But he wanted to?”

“It was a shock to both of us. I thought he was going to pass out. He turned white as a ghost.”

“And Mendel and Avrom. How would you describe their relationship?”

“Friendly. They were friends. They got along. We’re neighbours. We’re in and out of each other’s houses all the time.”

I took a moment to light a Sweet Cap. I held the pack toward her but she shook her head. Then she got up, rooted around in a drawer and came up with an ashtray that she set on the table beside me. “Thanks.” I paused. “Miryam. You said you and your husband were getting divorced.”

“I should never have told you.”

“How did Avrom feel about it? His friend divorcing his sister?”

“I guess it was okay. You know Avrom. Always taking the man’s side of things,” she said with a hint of bitterness.

“He wasn’t angry or resentful? It’s a big deal, a divorce. Was he going to give you a Get?” Without Jewish divorce papers, a woman couldn’t re-marry within the faith, not in the religious sense. Sometimes, the husbands withheld the Get just to be bastards.

Miryam hesitated. “That’s not why I wanted you here.”

“Why then?”

“Because I thought you would understand. Because I thought you would be sympathetic.”

“I am, believe me. And you can bet that the treatment by the cops would be a helluvalot worse, I can tell you. If they found out about the Get, they’d hammer at you. Wouldn’t be the first time an abandoned wife jammed a knife into her husband’s heart.”

She went pale. Her hand shook. “You can’t believe that.”

I leaned forward. “Let me tell you what they see, okay? They see a crime scene that screams an impulse kill. A husband has done something to the wife. They argue. They fight. Maybe he hits her. Maybe she fears for her life. In desperation, she grabs a knife in the full flush of anger and strikes out. The husband falls dead on the floor.”

“That’s not what happened,” she said. “I swear it on my father’s grave.”

“Have you washed your hands since you called the cops?”

“What? No. I, I, don’t think so.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

Before I could answer, there was a knock on the door and one of the lab technicians poked his head in. He looked a proper Pointdexter with rimless glasses and pale complexion.

“Sorry to interrupt. Mrs. Black, I need to examine your hands if I may?”

Miryam nodded. “Certainly.” She held her hands toward him.

“Thank you. It will only take a moment. I’m going to take some scrapings from under your fingernails. Ah, I see you bite them. Me too. Bad habit.”

He produced an envelope and expertly scraped away with a nail file making sure the droppings went into the envelope. The whole thing took about ten seconds.

“Thank you. And now we’ll need to take your fingerprints.” He produced a pad and some cards from his lab coat pocket. He placed them down on the table, flipped the top of the pad open and set a card next to it. “Index finger first please. Don’t worry I’ll be quick but it’s better to do it here and now rather than come down to the station.”

Miryam surrendered her finger. Pointdexter inked and rolled each finger in turn. He was brisk, polite and efficient. Used to be, the lab technician would shamble in, a fag hanging from his lower lip dropping ash everywhere.

“That’s it. All done, Mrs. Black. Thank you and sorry for interrupting. Soap and water will take off that ink if you wash your hands right away.” He packed up his things, gave me a quick nod and left.

Miryam stood up. “Excuse me.” She held up her hands to show me. Normally, a policewoman would go with her to make sure she didn’t shimmy out the bathroom window and escape.

When she returned, I noticed her knuckles and hands were rubbed raw. She’d really scrubbed at the ink. “It didn’t come off so easily,” she said and sat. “Can I have another cigarette, please?” I lit it for her and handed it over. “Thank you.”

“What kind of business was your husband in?”

“Diamonds. He was a diamond merchant. It’s a family business. His two brothers and his father all work together.”

That meant he would often carry uncut gems worth thousands of dollars with him. “How were things going there?”

“Well, I think. He rarely talked to me about the business. I didn’t mind.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to harm him? Did he mention any difficulties at all lately? Was he worried about anything?”

She took a long drag.

“That’s three questions. No, I can’t think of anyone who would do this sort of thing. He didn’t mention any problems and he seemed his usual self.”

“And what was that, his usual self?”

“Oh, prickly, high strung, humourless.”

“Did you get along?”

“Not really. We avoided each other if you must know. I tried to stay out of his way.”

“Tell me about his fringes.”

“What about them?”

“He wasn’t wearing any,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be odd? Didn’t he wear them every day?”

“Of course. It’s like a second skin to a man like him,” she said.

“Does he take them off when he comes home?”

“Not usually.”

“Okay. In a minute, we’ll take a look and see if we can find them. Also, where’s his case, the one with the diamonds?” Diamond merchants kept a case with a lock chained to their wrist to prevent thieves from snatching the gems.

“I’m not sure.”

“But he carried it with him?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Every day?”

“Usually. In the evening after dinner and evening prayers, he would work in his study.”

“He took the case off first thing when he got home?”

“Yes, that was his usual practice.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Something else to look for.”

“What are you really looking for, Mo?”

“A motive for murder, Miryam.”

“You think I had one?”

“We always look at families first.”

The cigarette had burned down but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Thank you. That is very reassuring.”

I hesitated. “Why did you ask for me?”

“I thought you were still with the police. I thought things would go easier if you were here.”

“I’m not. And they haven’t.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I don’t know how things might have gone.”

“Why did you marry him?” I asked, finally getting to the nub of it.

She shrugged and smiled sadly. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do. Because if you’re not married, you have no status in this community. I couldn’t think of what else I would do with my life. I had no ambition, no career.”

“You could have had both.”

“With you?” She shook her head. “Being a policeman’s wife would have been worse. Besides, you have no room for anyone else, Mordecai. That was clear years ago and seeing you today, it is still clear to me now.”

“Maybe things would have been different.”

Again, the sad smile. “It would be nice to think so but I don’t really believe it. Do you?”

I sighed. “May be not. Come on. Let’s go look for the fringes and the diamond case.” I stood up, hat in hand and waited for her.

“It’s still good to see you, even if it has been 14 years.”

“We were kids, Miryam. Kids think anything is possible.”

“I know,” she said. “Sad, isn’t it?”