Category Archives: Fiction

Welcome to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, catch up with the Table of Contents for the previous chapters). Here is Part II, Chapter 4. Enjoy!

Chapter Four

He seemed surprised, but pleased, to see me walking toward him. As I approached, he opened the car door and got out.

“Eli Yankovski,” he said by way of introduction. “Nice to meet you, Abby Marcus.”

He was younger than I’d thought, in his late thirties or early forties. Up close his look, a white shirt, black pants, a neatly trimmed dark goatee and mustache, was, other than the kippah, only vaguely religious. What had looked like baldness from above was actually a neatly shaved head, round and shiny in all its glory, and topped with the black kippah. I wondered momentarily how the kippah managed to stay on his head, not having any hair on which to attach itself. His tzittzit, if he had them, weren’t hanging out of his pants, and as his head was completely shaved, he didn’t sport payas. His accent was vague too, lacking a hint of Brooklyn or the Yiddish inflection that often crept into the English of even the American born of the traditional Jews in New York.   What was more striking was his open, broad smile, and that he looked me right in the eyes, even though he had to peer down from his considerable height to do so. The men I’d been encountering lately in Chasidic circles had a tendency to look away and avert their gaze from mine. But this guy looked like someone you’d instinctively want to trust, even though I had every reason to fear him.

Perhaps it was because he was so friendly that I began to yell, my fear giving way to anger. “Who the hell are you? Why have you been watching me? What kind of creep are you?”

He took a step back toward to car. “Like I said, I’m Eli Yankovski. Sorry if I scared you. I’m here to watch out for you.”

“Watch out for me? Is that the newest euphemism for stalking?”

He held up a hand, but whether it was to keep me away or to calm me down, I couldn’t be sure. “Wait, don’t jump to conclusions. This is just a misunderstanding.”

I folded my arms over my chest and glared. “That’s what they always say about date rape too.”

“This is hard to understand, I know but—”

“Give me a break. Hard to understand, yeah, I’d say so.” Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I continued to project the toughest, meanest look I could conjure up and waved my cell phone. I didn’t feel menacing, but I tried to do my best to pretend that I wasn’t the slightest bit scared by this bizarre encounter. “Look, whoever you are, you have one minute to explain your saintly intentions, and that’s it. Then I’m calling the police. All I have to do is press ‘send.’ I’ve had enough of this, enough of being threatened and warned, and now, yes, enough of being protected by self-appointed mysterious guardians. So get started.” For added emphasis, I glanced with exaggerated seriousness at my watch.

Looking down at the asphalt, he cleared his throat. “It’s come to my attention that you have been looking into the history of the Gelberman dynasty. That’s got some people concerned. You’ve sort of been, how can I put it, you’ve been stirring up a pot that’s been left covered for many years, a pot that many people don’t want stirred. Bad metaphor, but you get my point. And on the other hand, there are some people who very much want the information you’re coming up with, but they want to get it themselves, without you or anyone else knowing. So, to make a very long story short, I was asked to look out for you. Make sure nobody tries to keep you away, or get in your way.”

Suddenly I was incredibly grateful that we were standing in a parking lot, outdoors, with people entering and leaving rooms in the hotel behind me and cars entering and exiting the lot. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. But whatever I did, and whatever this lunatic Eli Yankovski did, there would be witnesses, and that could only be a good thing.

“Are you okay?” he asked, moving toward me.

Gathering my strength once again, I quickly stepped back. “Don’t get near me. I don’t need protecting. Just leave me alone and get out of here!” By now I was screaming, and a family unloading suitcases a few spots over turned to stare. I didn’t care—the more people around, the better.

“Don’t be scared of me, really, I’m on your side,” he pleaded.

I was almost ready to believe him only because he seemed so sincere. But I held my ground. “I don’t understand what this is all about. All I’m doing is a simple family tree project.” But even I knew that things were more complicated than that, and my retort came out sounding limp and unconvincing. “Just leave me alone, or I mean it, I’ll press ‘send.’”

In one fluid movement, he turned away, ducked down, and pulled something out of the car. For one terrible moment I thought he was going to shoot me, but when he turned back around all that was in his hands was a piece of paper, which he handed to me. It was a small article, cut out of the Los Angeles Times, from deep inside the Arts Section. The headline read: Skirball Museum Deflects Criticism. According to the article, a man named Pinchas Seigel was claiming that the prominent Jewish museum owned Judaica that had been stolen from Jews during the Holocaust, and that the museum should return the pieces to the survivors of those families. In particular, he was “outraged” that the museum had on permanent exhibit a kiddush cup that he believed belonged to members of his family, who had died during the Holocaust. The article went on to quote a Mr. Leon Gelberman, also the descendant of victims of the Holocaust, who agreed that the Kiddush cup and all the Judaica should be returned to the rightful owners. The article ended with a quote from the museum’s lawyer, who dismissed the incident as a publicity stunt and stated that the museum, which belonged to the Jewish people, was the rightful repository of the legacy of the Jewish martyrs of the Holocaust. I finished reading the article and stood still, my eyes looking at the pavement but not seeing anything except newsprint. I felt like someone had just punched me in the stomach. I had talked to a Leon Gelberman in Los Angeles. There had been something unusual about the call. For several moments, I stood still, hearing only a mosquito buzz around my head.

When I looked up at last, I noticed that the quality of light in the early evening sky had changed yet again and was unnaturally bright, like a kodachrome of a sunset. Maybe the hurricane was actually going to arrive.

Eli Yankovski looked at me. “So, what do you make of that?”

Since I still hadn’t decided what I wanted to make of him, I wasn’t sure how to answer. Cautiously I said, “So what? What does this mean? Why give this to me?”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I want to show you that I am well informed about this business. I want to show you that there is more than you know about going on here. I’m sharing information so that you will trust me.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “This is supposed to make me trust you? Now I trust you less. Who am I supposed to think this Leon Gelberman is? I don’t know what you want, what your point is, and forget whose side you’re on, I don’t even know what sides exist in this game. All I know is that a young woman who came to me for help seems to be missing, and for all I know, you may have played a crucial role in that.”

He looked genuinely concerned, but I wasn’t ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Okay, I’ll be more straightforward—”

“It’s about time,” I shot back.

“Look, there are people who are worried about this guy, Pinchas Seigel. Right now he’s nothing, a putz with a big mouth, a con man and a schnorrer, but he’s charismatic and he’s smart and he’s found an old man named Leon Gelberman to team up with. People are worried that he is going to start trouble, of some sort or another. Some people with Halizcher roots are worried about what this guy could do to stir things up.”

“I don’t understand, what is there to stir up?”

“No group is immune from battles over power, or authority. The face of Chasidism is not what it was before the war—things have changed. There are some who would like to go back to the past, and others who are looking towards the future. An outsider might not see it, but there are factions, struggles, disagreements over how to plan for the future, how to name successors. It’s very complicated. But having someone claim to be a descendant of Yosef Yehudah complicates things even more, especially if it looks like he may be trying to gather a following.”

“But why does it matter today, after so long? Maybe he’s just some crackpot. There’s a lot of them in California.”

“He probably is. And it wouldn’t matter, except for this Leon Gelberman. He’s the wildcard. Who is he? What is his connection? There are going to be a lot of questions, difficult questions. There are some Chasidim who would be happy to go back to being Halizchers, under the leadership of a Gelberman. A romanticized past has a strong pull. I can’t tell you who asked me to look out for you, but I can tell you it is a friend, not an enemy. Someone who would prefer that you were not involved but who knows that once you were, you were not going to let things be. Someone who knew that you would manage to find Jack Gelberman, even if it is believed that Leib and Yankeleh cannot be alive. So here I am. I’ve been following your movements since you left your house this morning in Brooklyn. You didn’t even notice, did you? Because they are concerned about you, you see.”

“That’s supposed to convince me to believe you?”

He raised his shoulders in a slow shrug. “Let’s just say, maybe, why not believe me? You’re better off believing me.”

“And you, or your mysterious patron, think that I’m in over my head.”

“Everyone needs some help now and then. Especially when money and religion intersect, don’t you think?”

“This is about money?”

He shrugged a second time, as if this was a relaxed, easy-going interchange on a calm spring afternoon. “There’s a lot going on here.”

“What else?”

Again he flashed his most disarming smile. “That is not for me to say. But the concern is that there may be other people following your movements. You implied that you have received some threats. If I were you, I would take them seriously, and be glad of the protection I can offer you.”

“I didn’t ask for protection, and I don’t want it. I can take care of myself. I’m heading home. You’re welcome to follow me, but maybe it’s my lucky day and you only bought a one-way ticket.” He started to speak but I put up my hand. “No–don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just leave me alone.” As I turned around, there was a crack of thunder and a stripe of lighting broke the sky into two halves. Instantly it began to rain, big heavy drops falling from the gray sky. I marched quickly across the parking lot and up the stairs to my room, leaving Eli Yankovski to get drenched. In my hand was the article about Pinchas Seigel and Leon Gelberman.

[To be continued…]

His Brother’s Keeper is entirely fictional. None of the characters or situations described in this series are based on real people or events. Copyright (c) 2015 by Eva Hirschel.

Welcome back to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, I suggest that you start at the beginning – here is the Table of Contents). Here is Part II, Chapter 3. Enjoy!

Chapter Three

Promptly at five, I pulled up in front of Jack Gelberman’s building. I was anxious for the puzzle pieces to come together, and I wanted to see if I was right about the role that Chayale had perhaps unknowingly played in this saga. The storm seemed to have passed and I paused for a moment, enjoying the feeling of the Florida sunshine on my skin through the car window. It stayed lighter longer down here; in Brooklyn it would have already been twilight in this post-daylight savings time of the year.

Interesting thoughts, but nothing more than procrastination. Just go see him, I told myself. Get this thing resolved already. Yet I knew some of my hesitation to get out of the car had to do with not wanting this to end. Deep inside, I was enjoying myself. Maybe it was the sense of mystery, maybe it was the joy of the hunt, maybe it was the vague thrill of danger, whatever it was, I was having fun. I was feeling more alive than I’d felt in a long time. As much as I wanted answers, I was going to miss this whole Gelberman thing when it was over.

With some reluctance, I got out of the car and walked back up the stairs. On the way, I crossed paths with a large woman in a white gym suit decorated with gold nautical appliqués. As we passed on the staircase, she nodded hello. What a concept, saying hello to strangers.

I rang the doorbell, waited, then rang again. With a sinking feeling, I knocked loudly, then yelled his name. No answer. I rang again. Maybe I was just early. Maybe he was just late.   I started to breathe rapidly and my heart began to race. Was he lying inside, helpless, or even worse? Maybe it was my fault; maybe my visit put him in danger.

As I debated whether or not to call 911, a voice came from the parking lot below. “Hello? Dear?”

I looked over the railing and saw the woman I had just passed calling up to me as she opened the door of her large, white Cadillac.

“Hello, dear. Are you looking for Jack?”

“Have you seen him?”

She nodded. “Yes, he just left about fifteen minutes ago. I saw him leave when I came in from walking Pucci.”

I exhaled in relief that at least he was safe. “Was he expecting you?”

“Yes, he was.”

“He looked like he was in a big hurry. I’m sure he’ll be able to explain when he calls you. He’s such a polite man.” She leaned on the door of her car and threw her purse inside.

My grandmother was always complaining about the nosiness of the neighbors at her condo, where the retirees had nothing better to do than keep tabs on each other. I figured it was the same here. “Was he alone?” I asked.

She scrunched up her face, as if to rewind her mental videotape. “Let’s see, yes, I’m sure he was. Yes, I would have noticed if someone was with him. He’s such a solitary type, you know? It would have been unusual.”

I smiled at her. “We must have gotten our signals crossed. Thanks so much.”

“My pleasure, dear,” she replied. “It’s nice that Jack has some visitors. He kind of keeps to himself, you know? We asked him to join the board of the condo association, but he declined. Didn’t want to join the book club, or the bridge club either. Oh well. A loner. What can you do? It’s not like we didn’t try, right?” She shrugged, waved, slid into her white Cadillac, and drove off.

***

They say bad news comes in threes. Sometimes it comes in fours.

Frustrated by Jack Gelberman’s absence, I drove around town for a while, finally going in to a diner for coffee and a lousy tuna sandwich with too much celery. Back in the hotel room I turned on the news to catch the update on the coming rainstorm and sat down on the bed to listen to my voice mail messages that I’d missed by accidently leaving my cell phone in the car while I ate. The first message was from Jack Gelberman: “This is Jack Gelberman. I assume that by now you will have been to my apartment and discovered that I am not there. I am terribly sorry. Something unexpected has turned up, something that needs my immediate attention. I will be in touch with you as soon as possible. Thank you so much for your concern regarding Sarah.”

The second message was from Simon: “Hey, Abs. Hope everything is fine down there. Don’t panic, but it looks like Hannah does have chicken pox. I called Dr. Martin, who confirmed it. Not to panic. Hannah is feeling okay, just a little itchy. It doesn’t seem too bad. I bought calamine lotion and dabbed it all over. I’m trying to keep Caleb away from her, which is of course useless. Don’t panic. I’ll keep her home from school, it’s all set up with Ronit. No need to panic.”

Clearly, Simon was in a panic.

As I put down the phone, I caught the weather report.

“Heavy rains expected throughout central Florida tonight and tomorrow. Flood warnings are in effect for Hillsborough County. The airlines are reporting some flight delays. We will keep you posted as the situation progresses.” I clicked the mute button, and went to look out the window. Dark storm clouds had again filled the sky. And outside, a man with a dark beard in a white car was looking up at me.

***

Where was my x-ray vision spy telescope when I needed it? For that matter, where were my guts? V.I. Warshawski would have found some way to get out of the room unnoticed, maybe by crawling through the air duct into the next room or onto the roof, sneak down the stairs, around the other side of the car, and take the driver by surprise. But that’s probably because she had a gun. And she was a fictional character. Instead, I walked to the sink and splashed cold water on my face, then walked back to the window and took another look. Still there. Whoever he is, he looks like a religious Jew, so he can’t be dangerous, right? Strange, maybe fanatical, but not dangerous. But fanatics of any stripe were generally dangerous, and I had no idea who this man was.

Trying to be responsible rather than heroic, I called the front desk and asked to speak to the head of the security.

“The what?” the clerk replied. “We don’t have nothing like that. Can I help you with something?”

“Can I speak to the manager?” I asked.

“I’m the night manager,” he answered.

“Okay then, here’s the thing. I know this sounds weird, but there’s a man in a car in the parking lot looking up at me.”

“Hey, look, lady, we don’t run a dating service here.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “I mean, like, he’s stalking me.”

“We can’t get involved in domestic disputes.”

I was beginning to really lose my patience with this cretin. “Look, this is serious.”

“Should I call the police?” the clerk asked, still unfazed.

“No, but can’t you do something about him?”

“No ma’am, I cannot leave the front desk. But I can call the police.”

“No, no, never mind,” I answered, as that seemed like an extreme reaction, and put down the phone. I didn’t want to waste time at a police station filling out forms and trying to explain myself.

There was only one thing to do. This man didn’t seem dangerous, just way too curious. And I was getting mighty curious myself. I grabbed my keys, purse, and cell phone, twisted the handle, and opened the door.

[To be continued…]

His Brother’s Keeper is entirely fictional. None of the characters or situations described in this series are based on real people or events. Copyright (c) 2015 by Eva Hirschel.

Welcome to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, I suggest that you start at the beginning). Here is Part II, Chapter 2. Enjoy!

Chapter Two

My new hotel was a step up. This one had Crabtree and Evelyn bath products on a marble top vanity, a real shower curtain in addition to the vinyl liner, a great view of the marina, and a coffee maker with coffee, herb teas, and hot cocoa. I was paying more for these luxuries, but safety was important, and Sarah Gelberman had given me money for expenses. I had repeatedly looked behind me as I drove, making sure no one was following. Before checking in, I had driven around the parking lot, but didn’t see the white car or any sign of my secret admirer. I tried repeatedly to reassure myself that everything was fine, that nothing strange was going on. I could have just gone home, but I was in this too deep and I had to see it through. And the truth was, though I wouldn’t have admitted it to Simon, there was something exciting about the sense of danger.

Too antsy for t.v., I pulled out my file on the Gelbermans and glanced at the last message from Meira. How could these people have been reported dead if they were in fact alive? I glanced at her message again, trying to find a hint that would help me solve this ever-increasing mystery. My eyes slid over the lines, reading and re-reading the names of family members who had supposedly perished in the Holocaust. But then I paused—someone was missing. I had been so busy before focusing on the appearance of Leib and Yankeleh’s names on the list that I had not noticed whose name was missing. Suddenly I remembered a piece of information gleaned from the marriage certificate in Altoona, and I got an idea. It was a little farfetched perhaps, but maybe, just maybe, there was a connection here.

Luck was with me, and Leah was actually in her office. This was hunch built on a long shot, but clichés aside, but it was worth a try. There was only one problem—I needed the help of an insider.

“Hey, Reb. I need a favor,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of time right now for preliminaries, but tell me, do you know the rabbi at the Jewish Memorial Home in the Bronx?”

“Hello, how are you, okay, never mind. You’ll fill me in later. Yes, I do know her. Her name is Miriam Kreiner. Really nice, a JTS graduate, a second-career rabbi who went to rabbinic school in her late forties. They love her over there. Why?”

“It’s a long story, but I met Jack Gelberman, and I think he might have a relative there. Only I don’t know her name, or if she’s in any shape to talk to me. I want to ask the rabbi for some help.”

Leah laughed. “Well, give her a call and see. This is getting more interesting by the minute.”

“I promise, I promise, when this is all over I’ll fill you in,” I said. “I’ll be your best congregant. I’ll even serve on the Religious School Committee, if you really want. Or the Capital Campaign. Or the Ritual Committee.”

“No you won’t, and we both know you won’t,” Leah answered. “But you know, if you keep on like this, you might as well go to rabbinic school yourself. Think how useful it would be in your line of work.”

I could just picture Leah at her big desk, surrounded by piles of papers and books, pushing her hair behind her ears and grinning at me over the phone. “Not in a million years, but thanks,” I answered. “Better you than me.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. Now a favor from you–when you’re sitting on the plane, bored to death, read my sermon over and let me know what you think. I’m having trouble with it, and I need feedback.”

I groaned. “Okay, okay, I promise. Quid pro quo.”

“You’re a pal. Look, I’ve got to run–meeting with the President to talk about tomorrow’s board meeting. When you call Miriam, mention my name. We’ve done some work together. And keep me posted. ”

“I promise, I promise. Would I lie to a rabbi?”

We both laughed, and I hung up.

***

Rabbi Miriam Kreiner was polite but stiff.

“How can I help you?” she asked, after I introduced myself and established my connection to Leah.

I hesitated briefly, then plunged right in. I wasn’t going to lie, but I didn’t have to burden her with superfluous details either. “I’m looking for someone who is a resident at the Home, someone whose name may be Chaya, maybe she goes by Chaya Esther, a woman who would be at least in her late 70’s if not 80’s, and who is most likely a Holocaust survivor. Her maiden name would have been Markusevisz but I don’t know what name she uses now.”

“I’m sorry,” Rabbi Kreiner said, her voice tighter and more formal. “I can’t give out information on residents.”

“Yes, of course, I understand,” I assured her. “It’s just that, well, this is sort of complicated. I’m an investigator, and I was doing what seemed at first like routine genealogical research, but it’s turning into something else entirely. The young woman who is my client is in danger, and if I’m right that such a resident does exist at the Jewish Memorial Home, she may be in danger as well. I know it sounds totally far-fetched. Please, call Leah if you want to confirm that I’m for real. If I could just find her name, I could come speak to her. I think she could help me.”

Rabbi Kreiner was silent for a moment as she thought. “I’m sorry. This is very, um, unusual. Let me call Rabbi Brown, and I’ll get right back to you. I hope you understand. It’s unethical for me to speak to you about this, unless I’m sure there’s a compelling reason.”

Trying not to sound overly eager or annoyed, I agreed that that was a good idea, and gave her my cell phone number. She was right, but I was impatient. It was always a surprise to meet people, even rabbis, who took ethics seriously, rather than being driven by the values of expediency, efficiency, and cost-effectiveness. But I had no doubt that Rabbi Kreiner would call me back, and soon enough, my phone rang.

Rabbi Kreiner spoke, her voice softer than before. “Okay, I’m sorry I had to do that, but I hope you understand. Leah told me it was okay to talk to you, but please understand that I am doing this only because it may save someone from danger. I’m not entirely sure I should be doing this at all. So, okay, yes, there is someone here who fits your description. Her name is Chayale. That’s what everyone calls her here. Chayale Markusevisz.”

“Yes, that must be her!” I blurted out. How strange—I had seen the name on Jack Gelberman’s marriage certificate in Altoona, but I’d been so focused on him that it hadn’t hit me. Markusevisz had been my own grandfather’s name before he changed it to Marcus at Ellis Island. Could we possibly be related? If I remembered my father’s stories correctly, it was my Marcus grandparents who had the Chasidic roots back in Poland. But there was no way we were connected. That just couldn’t be.

“Are you all right?” Rabbi Kreiner asked with concern.

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry. It’s just that–never mind. Please go on.”

She sighed. “Honestly, I don’t think that Chayale will be much help to you. She’s, well, a gentle soul. A special person here at the Home. But things, terrible things, unspeakable things happened to her during the Shoah, when she was just a teenager. She was quite beautiful, and, well, you know the stories. Apparently she was never the same afterwards. She has lived most of her life in a kind of darkness. She doesn’t speak, she only sings and chants, Chasidic niggunim, prayers and blessings, verses from Torah. She’s been like a child for all of her adult life, as if she reverted back to a safe place before the horrors of the war.”

I gulped. “Oh my God, I had no idea.”

“Her nephew is her only legal next-of-kin. I’ve spoken with him a few times when he’s been here. He doesn’t live in New York, and only comes occasionally. But to be honest, and maybe this is connected to what you’re working on, there have been some strange things lately.”

I kept myself calm. “Like what?”

“Well, a few months ago a volunteer doing bikur cholim, you know, visiting the sick, came to her room. It was a Chasidic woman­­­—they’re great at organizing people to come visit our residents—an older woman who was herself a survivor. Chayale was singing away. And this woman somehow recognized her from before the war and started shouting. Maybe she just recognized the name, I don’t know. I don’t think she meant to upset Chayale, actually I think she was happy to see her. Apparently she had thought that Chayale had died during the war. But Chayale began to scream and cry and tried to push the woman out of the room. She was frantic—no one here had ever seen her like that. She somehow managed to pull her mirror off the wall and she threw it at the woman, who finally left. It took a long time for Chayale to return to herself. For days she was crying and whimpering.”

“I’m sorry, it sounds terrible.”

“Yes, it caused a big uproar,” she continued. “The staff was upset, and no one understood what had happened. Of course, how can we ever understand what she must have gone through during the war? But it’s hard to watch that kind of pain, whatever the reason. I tried to spend some time with her, talking calmly and quietly, brushing her hair. She loves to have her hair brushed. She has long braids, they’re gray of course, but every day the attendants braid it for her. They’re all quite fond of her, because usually she’s so sweet.

“So after that, it was decided that no strangers should visit Chayale. We all made the decision together, me, the social worker, the head nurse on her floor, the nurses who work with her everyday, and of course in consultation with her nephew. But there was another strange incident not too long after that. There was an occupational therapist who was fairly new to the Home. One day, not too long after the other incident, she went in to see Chayale, and apparently Chayale had a similar reaction. She screamed and cried, but instead of throwing something at her, she tried to rip off the therapist’s name tag, and she pulled at her hair. One evening shortly after that the therapist was found going through Chayale’s file. I don’t mean going through files that might have pertained to her work. I mean the confidential files that are kept in the main office. She was fired, of course. But still, it makes you wonder. And then some of her co-workers reported that she had been asking questions about Chayale, who she was, where she came from, who her nephew was, where he lived, things like that. But when she was fired, well, we just put it behind us.”

“But you made sure to tell her nephew.”

“Someone did, yes. I’m sure they did. And about the bikur cholim visitor as well. Yes, because he called me after that to ask me to please keep an eye on her, to make sure to continue to visit her. That’s what I do anyway, of course, but it’s good for the families to know that someone here cares. It’s very hard to put a loved one into a residence. I know her nephew feels guilty about having her here. But it’s really best for her here, she gets good care and her needs are too great to be cared at home.” She sighed. “Is this any help?”

“Maybe. One more question. Do you know the occupational therapist’s name?”

“Humm, let me see.” She thought for a moment. “It was biblical. Rebecca? Ruth? No. Oh, yes, Rachel. Yes, that’s right, because after she left Chayale’s room, apparently for some time after that Chayale sang the name Ruchel over and over. I don’t remember her last name. But it sounds like this is all making some kind of sense to you.”

“Yes, it might be,” I answered. “But I need to know one more thing. This Rachel, did she have red hair?”

Rabbi Kreiner was startled. “Why, yes, yes she did. How did you know that?”

[To be continued….]

His Brother’s Keeper is entirely fictional. None of the characters or situations described in this series are based on real people or events. Copyright (c) 2015 by Eva Hirschel.

Welcome to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, I suggest that you start at the beginning). Here is Part I, Chapter 20. Enjoy!

Chapter Twenty

I parked the rental car in a guest spot near the entrance to the building. Getting out of the car, I checked carefully to make sure I wasn’t breaking any rules by parking too close to the yellow line or too far from the cement barrier. If this condominium complex was anything like my grandmother’s, you could get your car towed from the lot for a multitude of minor infractions. The complex in which Jack Gelberman lived was called The Seabreeze, despite the fact that it was not on the ocean. The four identical buildings that made up the complex were ivory stucco, with brown wood trim, and blue canopies. There was a sense of well-being in the complex, due in part to the meticulous landscaping and the fresh coat of paint. Each building had been created to look like it was made up of a series of connected townhouses, with covered walkways connecting the entrances on each floor. The first two floors appeared to be made up of duplex townhouses, but Jack Gelberman’s apartment was 3C, on the third and top floor. I took a deep breath, and walked up the steps that jutted out from the center of the building.

I had landed about two hours ago, feeling surprisingly footloose and fancy free.   Traveling without Simon and the kids had its advantages. I’d been able to nap on the plane, and to indulge my mystery novel cravings. Now that I was actually there, this trip was feeling fun, despite Simon’s displeasure at my going, and despite my worry that Hannah might be coming down with something. I checked into a hotel, and spent some time there having lunch and getting my bearings. Winter Park was a quiet Florida city, not a major tourist destination but a rather cultured college town. Fairleigh College, the main attraction of the town, provided the locals with concerts, plays, art and even tuition remission for senior citizens. It wasn’t the kind of place where you’d want to retire if you dreamed of spending your golden years on the beach, but it might be a nice place if you were used to a certain proximity to academia, and craved a life of culture along with your sunshine and warm weather.

To squelch my nervousness, I took some deep breaths on my way up the stairs. But deep breathing hadn’t helped in childbirth and it wasn’t helping now. What if he wasn’t home? I had called from the car pretending to be a wrong number. A man’s voice answered, which was the best I was going to get. What if he wouldn’t talk to me? What if he slammed the door in my face?

There I was, in front of 3C. It was the only door I passed that had a mezuzah hanging on the doorframe. One more deep breath, and I knocked. After a few moments, the door opened.

A tall man, appearing to be in his seventies, with a shock of white hair around the crown of his head, stood facing me. Except for the fact that his hair was whiter and there was less of it, and that he was wearing thick glasses, this was definitely the same man I had seen in the photo at the Klein’s house in Altoona, the same prominent cheekbones, the same thick lips. It was definitely the same man, but it was also like seeing a ghost. After all the research, here I finally was, standing across from the man I’d been studying. Whatever secrets he might be hiding, he was certainly real, and that was a surreal feeling. I knew I had to quickly figure out a way to get him to trust me and talk to me. And yet I continued to stare at him. Because despite his resemblance to the photo, something about his appearance was not right.

He stared back at me. “May I help you, ma’m?” he asked politely.

Trying to regain my composure, I smiled. “I’m sorry, yes. Hello. I’m Abby Marcus. I’m looking for a Mr. Jack Gelberman. Might that be you?”

As soon as I mentioned his name, the set of his mouth became tight. “And why are you looking for him?” he asked.

I didn’t have a great cover story, so I was going to have to be as honest as I could be, without blowing the surprise element of Sarah Gelberman’s story. I only had one chance at this. “Well, I’ll come right to the point. I’m here because of your granddaughter, Sarah. I came to know Sarah in the course of my work, and to be honest, I’m concerned about her, and you’re the only family she’s mentioned.”

His expression went from tense to troubled. “Come in, come in, please.”

The living room was small and dark and anonymous, except for the books that filled every possible corner and surface of the room. There seemed to be no particular kind of book that was favored. As I sat on the couch, I noticed books on history, architecture, art, physics, biology, Judaism, Buddhism, communism, and feminism. And that was only the books that were piled on the end tables on either side of the couch.

Jack Gelberman sat across from me on a faded recliner. “Please, tell me who you are, and how you know Sarah,” he said calmly, though I could hear the undercurrent of anxiety in his voice.

I explained, in the most vague terms possible, that I was a researcher living in New York. I told him that Sarah had contacted me regarding a project that she was working on for school, but that midway through, she seemed to have abruptly moved and cut off contact.   I was concerned, because I hadn’t been able to find her, and that I hadn’t supplied her with the information she paid me to find for her. I tried to emphasize the fact that I was just trying to finish a job I had been paid for, which wasn’t entirely true, and de-emphasize any sense of foul play, but I wasn’t smart enough or a good enough liar for Jack Gelberman.

“I appreciate your concern for Sarah’s well being,” he said, looking right at me. “But, and I hope you won’t take offense, I don’t quite believe your story. I can’t imagine Sarah paid you that much money to look up some information for her, certainly not enough to make you fly down here to speak to me when you could have easily called by phone. You obviously are talented at finding people. If you were able to find my address, you surely could have found my phone number. For that matter, you could have found the phone number of Sarah’s parents. The other thing that is not believable in your story is that Sarah would have paid someone to do research for her. She is quite talented at research herself, and doesn’t spend money she doesn’t have. I’m willing to listen to you, but you must come up with a better story than that.”

As he spoke, I had the eerie feeling that he could read my mind. What could I say, without spoiling Sarah’s surprise? But by now, my concern for Sarah’s safety outweighed my desire to maintain the element of surprise. Besides which, I had so many doubts about Sarah’s story that I wasn’t sure her goal had really been a surprise for her grandfather. On the other hand, this man had neither denied being Jack Gelberman, nor denied having a granddaughter named Sarah. So I took a deep breath, and began to tell this man some, but not by any means all, of the real reason behind my visit.

It was going to be hard to look him straight in the eye and not be entirely honest, so I kept my eyes on the books behind him. I told him that among other things, I was a genealogical researcher. I told him that Sarah had hired me to create a family tree for his birthday, and that she had disappeared under suspicious circumstances. I told him that there were people who had warned me away from this research, and that I was afraid Sarah might have gotten tangled up in something bigger than herself. When I was done, I looked back at him, and he was smiling.

“This is an interesting tale you tell,” he said. “It sounds incredibly plausible, and certainly fascinating. Except for one thing. I just spoke to Sarah last night. She is in her senior year at Amherst, where she is busy researching the mating patterns of moths for her senior thesis. She has never lived in New York, nor does she appear to be in any danger. Not only that, but I celebrated my birthday two months ago, in August, and Sarah gave me a lovely present. You can probably guess, a book.” And again, he smiled. “So, I am going to ask you once more, who are you, and why you are here?”

I turned and stared at him, my mouth open in surprise. “Actually, what I just told you is true. There are details I didn’t elaborate on, like the fact that I went to Altoona to learn as much about you as I could, and that I have a good suspicion that you are the grandson of the last of the Halizcher rebbe despite the fact that the Halizchers think you, or rather, he, died in Treblinka. I don’t have it all figured out. But everything I just told you concerning Sarah is true, to the best of my knowledge. The young woman who came to see told me that she was Sarah Gelberman, and so far my research inon her identity has revealed nothing to contradicts that. She signed a lease under that name, and presented the landlord with a copy of a driver’s license.”

Now he stared at me, not in surprise, but rather in thoughtful concentration. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he ran his hands through what was left of his hair, and let out a long, slow sigh. “Well then, Ms. Abby Marcus. I don’t know what to make of the fact that you have been going around finding out things about me that I might not want to be found. But we can discuss the merits of freedom of information at another opportunity. Let me ask you this: This Sarah Gelberman who came to see you, did she have red hair?”

“Yes,” I answered, confused by the question. “Yes, she did.”

Without a word, he quickly got up, and walked into what I assumed was the bedroom. If this had been a spy novel, I would have used the few moments he was out of the room to rifle through his drawers and unearth his secrets. But this wasn’t a novel, and I wasn’t a spy. Besides, I didn’t really know how to rifle through drawers. That was all I needed, to be caught going through his things. However, while I wasn’t a spy, I was a good observer. And as I sat waiting for him return from the bedroom, my attention was drawn to a pile of mail on top of some books on the end table next to the couch. On the very top of the pile was an envelope with an interesting return address—Jewish Memorial Home, in the Bronx. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, except for the story the Kleins had told me about a mystery relative in New York. And this letter didn’t look like a random junk mail solicitation—it was addressed to Mr. Jack Gelberman, and had a first class stamp.

Before I had time to ponder the ethics of going through a stranger’s mail, Jack Gelberman returned, holding in his hand a framed picture, which he held out to me. “This is from Sarah’s brother’s bar mitzvah a few years ago,” he said. “She’s the one on my right.   Hasn’t changed much since then, only gotten smarter.”

I took the picture, and stared at the young woman who stood second from the left in the family grouping. There was no way that this was my Sarah Gelberman. It wasn’t even a matter of hair dye. This man’s granddaughter looked Asian, or at least partially Asian. Or at least, not like the Sarah Gelberman who came to see me. She had gleaming, long black hair, dark skin, and dark eyes. Jack Gelberman’s son Nathan had married an Asian woman, and their three children were clearly a combination of Eastern European and Asian genes. The son looked a great deal like his father, with the same nose and eyes, but his mother’s broad cheeks, small mouth, and black hair. The middle sister had fair hair, the mother’s eyes, and fair skin. Suddenly I understood what everyone in Altoona had meant when they remarked on how the children looked different and stood out. No wonder. There probably weren’t a lot of racially mixed couples in Western Pennsylvania twenty years ago. And this also explained what Rabbi Bergman might have meant about there being issues over whether or not Nathan Gelberman and his family was going to join the synagogue, and why the Kleins had segued from talking about Nathan and his family to the issues of intermarriage in their own family. Nathan’s wife wasn’t Jewish, or at least hadn’t been born Jewish. This also explained why my Sarah Gelberman hadn’t known that Jack Gelberman had lived in Altoona, because he wasn’t really her grandfather, apparently. Some puzzles were solved, but a bigger problem remained. Who was the young woman who had come to me for help, and why was she paying me to research a man who was not her grandfather?

I handed him back the photograph. “You’re right, this is not the Sarah Gelberman who came to see me. But you knew she had red hair. Why?”

He took the photograph and came to sit next to me on the couch. “A lucky guess. Let’s leave it at that for now. I have some appointments this afternoon that I must not be late for, I tutor at an after-school center, but would you care to meet for dinner?”

I nodded my head in agreement. “I would love to speak to you some more.”

“Good. We will speak then.” He got up, and I followed suit. He led me to the door, and opened it.

I stepped out into the warm sunshine, a stark contrast to the unlit apartment, enjoying the feeling of the sun on my skin.

Jack Gelberman blinked in the bright sunshine. He slipped off his thick bifocals and rubbed his eyes as they adjusted to the sunlight. “Still hard sometimes getting used to the sun. Anyway, let us meet at five o’clock,” he said, his face appearing rounder and softer without the glasses. Smiling, he continued, “We’ll catch an early bird special at one of my usual haunts. It’s one of the only perks of getting old.”

I agreed, gave him my cell phone number in case there was a change in plans, and thanked him for his time. He closed the door, and I started down the steps. All I could think about was how different he looked without his glasses on, almost like another person entirely. As I drove away it again occurred to me that something wasn’t right about the man I just met, something important, but I still couldn’t figure out what.

Welcome to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, I suggest that you start at the beginning. If you’ve been following along but lost the thread since it’s been a while, here is the last installment before this one). Here is Part I, Chapter 19. Enjoy!

Chapter Nineteen

I stared at the list of incoming mail. Something didn’t make sense. My first thought was that my computer had somehow melded the list of my incoming mail with mail I had previously sent, though I didn’t see how that was possible. My next thought was that maybe I had gone to the Mail Sent list instead of Incoming Mail. But that wouldn’t explain it either. On my computer screen was a list of my new e-mail. There was mail from my parents, mail from Leah, mail from Meira, mail from someone I didn’t know, and six e-mail messages from myself. My parents were fine, currently enjoying the many varieties of smoked fish available in Norway and letting me know about Cousin Ida’s hip surgery, about which my grandmother had already informed me.   They asked me to send her flowers in their names. My mother went on at length about a fascinating book she was reading about Israel. In caps, so I wouldn’t miss her enthusiasm, she wrote that I absolutely had to read this book, that while we knew about Hannah Senesh and her brave martyrdom, there were all kinds of other heroes mentioned in the book that she’d never heard of, these guys named Itzik Gilboa and Shlomo Gur, and that reading this book would give me a whole new perspective on the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel. It sounded interesting, but any extra-curricular reading would have to wait until I was done with the Gelbermans. Before I could forget, I quickly went to iloveflowers.com and chose a flower arrangement to be delivered the next day to Cousin Ida’s hospital room. I charged it to my credit card, and signed the card from my parents, the kids and Simon and I. Pathetic that at this age I still needed to be reminded about things like this by my parents. Then it was back to my email messages. Leah wrote to let me know that she thought I would really like the sermon she was giving this Shabbat, would I like to meet her for lunch sometime this week, and how was my study of Chasidism going? Meira had some interesting information that I would have to take a closer look at later. The mail from the unknown sender was an advertisement for spy software, which I didn’t think I needed quite yet in my career. And then there were the six e-mail messages with my own address as the sender.

All six e-mails contained the identical message:

Abby Marcus

Leave the past alone before you destroy the future. Do not meddle in things you do not understand. You have been warned.

For a moment I thought that perhaps the messages were from Simon, a bad attempt at humor. But though Simon knew enough about computers to have made these messages look like they were from me, this wasn’t Simon’s style. This had to be for real. Someone was trying to scare me. And whoever this someone was, they had done a good job disguising the source of the messages; there was no way for me to figure out who really sent this threat. I considered calling Simon to ask him what he thought, and whether he would be able to trace the messages, but I thought it unwise to bother him for the time being.

First I wrote a note for Shuki. Despite my misgivings and premonitions of foul-play, it seemed after Shuki’s meeting with the super that my young client truly was Sarah Gelberman. Forged driver’s licenses were difficult to come by and took more planning than I would give her credit for. With the license number the super has given Shuki, he should be able to obtain a good bit of other helpful information. In the note, I asked him to use the moving company’s computer to check the DMV records on Sarah Gelberman. I didn’t even know what I was looking for exactly, but I figured that it couldn’t hurt to learn as much as possible. Shuki had done this once before for me on another case, and his boss either didn’t mind, or didn’t know.

Hunched over the keyboard, my legs resting on the garbage can under the desk, I read through the mail from Meira again. Reliable as always, she had sent me scans of the documents from Yad Vashem. I printed them and searched for some important clue, but couldn’t make much sense out of them since they weren’t in English. I had also asked her to see what she could find out about the branch of the Gelberman family that had gone to Israel, or Palestine as it was then known, in the 1930’s. While it was a long shot, in genealogy you never knew what information would be helpful. From what I had gathered so far, it seemed that Ruchel and Yitzhak Gelberman left for Palestine, and for all intents and purposes dropped off the face of the earth. That would make sense, given the divergent direction they had chosen in following the call of Zionism. No doubt, as the writer of the essay in the Halizch Yizkor book had implied, their choice had not pleased Ruchel’s father, the rebbe.

Meira had been able to unearth some information about the effort to bring in refugees from Eastern Europe, against the wishes of the British. Many of those involved had been arrested by the British and put into jails, which made them heroes to the local Jews. But the name Yitzhak Gelberman hadn’t surfaced yet in any of her research. She promised that she would keep going and would let me know. I had faith that she would come up with something–she was a tenacious researcher. She didn’t accept easy answers, nor did she have any patience with what might look to others like dead ends. I knew that slowly but surely progress was being made. This is how it goes in my line of work, lots of frustrating baby steps, even occasional steps backward, but then, when you’re least expecting it, great lurches forward, brick walls that suddenly shatter, opening up roomfuls of further doorways to explore and sometimes even actual answers. I just had to take it easy and slow, stay calm and cool, and eventually things would fall into place.

But then I remembered the six ominous e-mail messages. Who was so threatened by what I digging up, and why? Why the secrecy? Who was involved? What was I getting myself into? And what could I possibly destroy by what I was doing?

All the work I had done before this job had been straightforward. Yes, some jobs required more diplomacy than others. Sometimes I had had to carefully and skillfully extract information from people who didn’t want to give it. I had had to be creative about tracking down information that people didn’t want unearthed, or that petty bureaucrats couldn’t be bothered sharing. For some jobs I had had to use my best detective skills to figure out where the right information could be found. But never had I been in danger of any kind. Never had I been threatened or told to stop. I felt like I was entering a whole new world, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. Yet despite the emailed threat, it was still hard to believe that anyone could be so threatened by genealogical research on a Chasidic dynasty that had come to its end during the Holocaust, and which might or might not have some living, now non-Chasidic descendants. Maybe there were people who didn’t like the Halizcher teachings or philosophy, but surely not so much that they would do something violent or harmful. But I had to admit that a part of me welcomed the thrill of it, the adrenaline rush caused by the combination of anger, fear, and excitement.

When Simon finally came home, he found me still at my desk, staring at the screen. He spent a few minutes trying to untangle the obscured source code on those six e-mail messages, but while he was impressed by the sender’s ability to manipulate computers, he wasn’t successful. Eventually, we left the computer alone and went upstairs to bed. It didn’t take us too long to forget temporarily why we were angry at each other.

[To be continued]

Welcome to His Brother’s Keeper, a fictional mystery series set in 2000, in New York. I’ve decided to periodically lend my blog to a friend, Eva Hirschel. Eva doesn’t have a social media presence but she does have a mystery that she wanted to publish serially on-line, so I’m giving her a hand. (If you’re just tuning in now, I suggest that you start at the beginning). Here is Part I, Chapter 18. Enjoy!

Chapter Eighteen

Into the bag went a spare pair of pants, a cotton sweater, two pairs of clean underwear, socks, a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, my favorite short-sleeve black blouse, one purple t-shirt and my toiletry kit. I needed to bring clothes that would make me look presentable and put together, but not overly professional. Since I wasn’t planning on calling Jack Gelberman ahead of time, the look I was going for was earnest and concerned, not someone there in an official capacity. Luckily, everything fit easily into the small duffel bag that I had recently gotten free from the bank upon opening a new account. My files were in my laptop case, which was leaning against the bed, also ready to go. The boarding pass was in the outside pocket of the case, along with my wallet containing some of the cash from Sarah Gelberman. Ronit and I worked out a schedule for the next two days, and everything seemed more or less in place for the morning. Everything, that is, except that I hadn’t exactly discussed it yet with Simon. I was not looking forward to talking to him about this trip, and I knew that he was not going to be happy about it.

Packed and more or less ready to go, I walked out of my bedroom and went to check on the kids. Hannah was fast asleep, curled up in her bed as if in a nest, the blankets swirled around her. A day out in the autumn sun had exhausted her and she had gone to sleep without any protest. No doubt she was dreaming about apples. I bent down to straighten out the covers and pulled them up over her shoulders. She felt warm and I placed my lips on her forehead. She seemed warmer than usual, but not burning hot. Maybe she’s just overheated, I said to myself, trying to be rationale; it’s a warm evening. She hadn’t acted droopy or given any other indication that she was coming down with something. Careful not to wake her, I laid my cheek against hers and listened to her breathing. I was probably just imaging it, anxious about going away and leaving the kids even though it would be a short trip. From the day she was born, the sound of her breath going in and out, in and out, was one of the most calming sounds I had ever heard. I remained with her for a few moments, tempted to crawl right in next to her and fall asleep, avoiding having to speak to Simon. Instead, I got up and walked over to Caleb.

He was stretched out in one of his favorite sleeping places, on the rug at the foot of Hannah’s bed, his flannel dinosaur blanket clutched in his hand. Sometimes she would let him get into bed with her, and that was his favorite place to sleep. But some nights she wanted her bed to herself, and often on those nights he would sprawl on the rug, like a puppy denied his rightful place in the master’s bed. He was a loyal pup.   No matter how much he and his sister squabbled during the daytime hours, at night-time he wanted to be as close to Hannah as possible. Not wanting to wake him, I let him stay where he was for the time being, making sure he was properly covered with a blanket. Trying not to make the floorboards creak under my weight, I crept out of the room and went downstairs.

The sight that greeted me as I descended the stairs made me want to run back up quickly and stick my head under the covers. The kitchen counter was piled high with newspapers, books, half-finished art projects, and dirty dishes. The recycling container overflowed with empty cans, jars, and seltzer bottles. Coffee grinds and carrot peels mingled in the sink, along with a pot of burnt rice that needed to soak overnight. A pile of clean but still-to-be folded clothes were heaped on the dining room table. Caleb’s Brio train tracks snaked their way around the couch and coffee table, and pieces of Duplo were scattered across the rug. Construction paper lined the floor in front of the fireplace, crayons flung down across the paper waited to be crushed by an unsuspecting shoe. Plastic storage boxes of toys stuffed into a wooden cabinet were perched precariously, about to tumble off of the shelves. I sighed. Someday, my house would be neat and clean and organized. Someday I would teach my children to pick up their toys and take responsibility for their belongings. Someday I would be the perfect wife and mother.

Simon was due home shortly. He had a meeting with his partner and some clients that involved dinner, so I had eaten earlier with the kids. Before dinner we made a crumble with apples Hannah brought back from the field trip. Apple crumble was one of Simon’s all-time favorite desserts, especially served warm with Haagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream. I had made sure to buy the ice cream this afternoon, and I was hoping the dessert might serve to sweeten the news of my trip. I knew that things were tense at work for him; he was trying to finish up a big project for a client and they had hit some snags. He had been working lots of extra hours, and it hadn’t helped that I had asked him to come home early last night so that I could meet with Avrum Shapira. He was not going to be happy with the news that I was planning on flying to Florida tomorrow. I knew rationally that there was no reason that his work should take higher priority than my work, which is what this trip was all about, but at the same time it was his job that paid most of our bills and allowed us to live the life style we tried to maintain. He wasn’t wrong in wanting and expecting my support at stressful times like this. However, if I always put my professional needs on hold until it was a good time for Simon, I would not have any clients and therefore would not have any professional needs. If I took on a client and a job, I needed the flexibility to be able to follow the job through. Generally the jobs I took were easy enough to do through my computer and perhaps some visits to local libraries and resource centers. I rarely needed to travel, but this particular job was proving to be an exception in every way, and Simon was going to have to deal with that.

All my ducks were in a row, for a change. Ronit was around and available, and every minute of the kids’ waking hours for the next three days were planned out. I had typed up detailed lists with the daily schedules for Simon and Ronit. I didn’t really think I would be gone for three days, but just to be on the safe side I had thought through the rest of the week. I even briefly considered taking Caleb with me and dropping him off with my grandmother while I went about my business down there, as she lived only about an hour away from my destination. But she had answered my e-mail with the news that as much as she would love to see us, she was heading over to the Miami area for a few days to see her one of her cousins, who was recovering from hip replacement surgery. I reminded myself to send Cousin Ida a get-well card.

I was racking my brain trying to think of additional things I could do to prove to Simon that things were under control. I had gone so far as to lay out clothes for the kids for the rest of the week, in neat piles on top of their dressers, even though it was inevitable that Hannah would want to wear something else entirely, and the less it matched, the better.

The phone rang and I reached for it, glad for the distraction.

“Hey, Abby,” said Bird. “How are you?”

I settled myself on a stool, turning my back on the dirty dishes. “Fine. You?”

“Fine, fine. So what’s the deal? Are you considering my offer? Why haven’t I heard an immediate yes?”

I groaned. “Oh, Bird, not everyone’s like you. Not everyone knows what they want right away.”

She laughed. “Okay. But you’ve had a few days. What are you thinking?”

Just then the phone beeped, indicated another call. “Hold on, call waiting.” I depressed the call button. “Hello?”

“Hi Abby.” Simon’s deep voice boomed into my ear. “Everything okay over there?”

“Yeah. How’d the meeting go?” I asked, doing my best not to sound accusatory.   “I thought you’d already be on your way by now.”

Simon cleared his throat. “Abs, it’s not going so great. I’m going to be at least another hour.” He paused, waiting for a response, but I didn’t say anything. “I’m sorry, hon. I wish it was over, believe me. Will you wait up?”

“I’ll be up, I’ll be up. I need to talk to you. Hold on a sec.” I clicked back to Bird. “Can you hold on another minute? It’s Simon. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Sure,” she answered.

“Thanks.” I clicked back to Simon. “Okay, I’m back.”

“What’s up? Everything okay? I can’t really talk now.”

“Yeah, fine. But I need to go to Florida tomorrow.” I got up and walked over to the sink, willing myself to face the mess. “I’ll explain when you get home.”

There was silence on the other end.

“You there, Simon?”

A strange sound came from the receiver, something between a sigh and a groan. “I assume you’re not joking. And I assume this has to do with Jack Gelberman, and not your grandmother.”

“You assume correctly.” As I spoke, I dumped the carrot peels in the garbage and ran more water in the pot. The warm sudsy water felt good on my hands.

“Shit, Abby. This is a really bad time for me right now. Never mind the fact that you’re in way over your head here with this whole Gelberman thing.”

Now it was my turn to sigh. “Simon, you have to go back to work, and Bird’s waiting patiently to finish our conversation. We’ll talk later. Good luck with the rest of the meeting.”

“Abby, this isn’t fair. You can’t just throw this at me.”

I attacked the bottom of the pot with gusto I didn’t know I had in me after this long day. “Simon, trust me, I’ve got to go. It will be fine. Just a quick trip down and back. Ronit is around. It’s not a big deal.”

“Look, they’re calling me to come back in. Don’t make any quick decisions and we’ll talk later. You didn’t buy a ticket already, did you?”

I turned the faucet back on and ran more hot water. “What did you say? I can’t hear you over the water.”

“That’s an old trick, Abby. You bought the ticket, didn’t you?”

My silence was enough of an answer.

“I can’t believe you would—look, I really gotta go. I’ll be late, but try to stay up, okay?” Simon’s voice was strained and my guilt level increased. I knew he was under a lot of stress at work, and I wasn’t helping the situation.

I exhaled loudly. “Okay. I’ll probably be downstairs working.”

“I’ll come down when I get in. Believe me, I’d be home if I had a choice.”

“I know. Go, good luck. I’ll see you later.”

I clicked back to Bird. “Okay, I’m back.”

She picked up right where she had left off. “This job is made for you. You have to at least give it serious consideration. Flexible hours, good pay, benefits. Come on, what are you waiting for? Someone else is going to grab it up, and you’ll be sorry forever.”

It really was a great offer and I needed some time to think it through. “Can you give me a week?” I said, renewing my futile attempt to scrub burnt rice off the bottom of the pot. The pot needed to soak overnight, but I was too stubborn and too jumpy to just let it be.

Bird thought for a moment. “Okay, but just for a week. I really can’t do more than that.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m sure that I won’t need more than a week to resolve this case.” Famous last words.

[To be continued…]

His Brother’s Keeper is entirely fictional. None of the characters or situations described in this series are based on real people or events. Copyright (c) 2015 by Eva Hirschel.