A Pain in the Tuchis: A Mrs. Kaplan Mystery (16 page)

“Ida, we must go to see Inspector Corcoran right away. There is no time to lose.”

Mrs. K had returned from wherever she had gone, and from the look on her face it had not been a pleasant experience. She also looked like she had been running, or at least moving more quickly than she is used to, which is not very quickly at all. She was out of breath.

She sat on the nearest chair while I dialed the number of the police department. A minute later I was talking with Inspector Corcoran. But I had hardly gotten past “hello” when Mrs. K got up and took from me the receiver.

“Inspector Corcoran, is that you?” she said. Her side of the conversation then went this way:

“I am fine, thank you. But I must see you right away.” She looked over at me. “Ida and I.

“No, it cannot wait. I know who killed Vera Gold. And they know I know. I need to explain it to you as soon as possible.

“Yes, we can be there in half an hour. Yes, I understand. We are leaving now.”

She hung up the telephone.

“Now?” I said. “We are going to see him now?”

“Yes. Get your coat. I shall hurry down to the front desk and ask for a taxi.”

Mrs. K walked quickly to the front door. But before she could open it, someone on the other side began pounding on it.
Oy,
such a
tummel
! I reached past Mrs. K to open it, but she grasped my arm and stopped me. The loud knocking continued.

“We cannot go that way,” Mrs. K said, pushing me back from the door.

“But you know there is no other way out, except the back window….”

I suddenly had a vision of another time, another window, when we needed to get into an apartment at the Home to find important evidence. Getting Mrs. K through that window, from
bristen
at one end to
tuchis
at the other, was like pushing two pounds of chopped liver into a one-pound jar.

“No, Rose,” I said, “we are not climbing through another window.”

But she was not listening. She was already in my bedroom, opening the window as wide as it would go. She pulled her skirt partway up so she could step out. The pounding on the door was accompanied now by a rattling of the handle.

“Remember last time…,” I said.

“Last time we were climbing in. Now we are climbing out. It is different.”

But just then the pounding and rattling stopped, and we heard someone walking rapidly away.

“Quick, Ida,” Mrs. K said, “look to see if there is still anyone in the hallway.”

I went back to the door and looked through the peephole. Seeing nothing, I opened the door only a crack, and I could still see no one in either direction. I reported this to Mrs. K.

“Then we must quickly go to the front desk and find a taxi,” she said, straightening her skirt and pushing me out the door ahead of her.

I won’t say Mrs. K ran down the hallway, but she moved as fast as I could remember seeing her move, at least since the time that awful little Weinstein boy put his pet lizard down her dress. All the time she kept looking back, I’m sure not to see if I was following her—she knew I was—but to see if anyone else was. And just as we approached the lobby, someone did come running toward us—I couldn’t tell who it was—but they stopped when we reached the lobby, in which were many residents sitting and conversing with friends or relatives. We quickly walked up to the front desk.

Out of breath and panting a bit, Mrs. K asked Joy Laetner, the receptionist on duty, to call us a taxi, and to hurry. “It is a matter of life and death,” she said, exaggerating just a little, although perhaps not. Joy probably thought she was a little
meshuggeneh,
but being used to dealing with residents who are a bit
farmisht,
befuddled, she calmly said, “No need, Rose. That taxi out there just brought the Winterfelts home. If you hurry, you can catch him before he leaves.”

Hurry we did.

I was tempted to ask Mrs. K for details as we rode, but she did not seem in the mood—or to have the breath—to explain right then; and besides, I knew I would be hearing the whole story—at least the parts I did not already know—very soon.

We arrived at the police headquarters and Mrs. K gave the taxi driver one of the senior citizen vouchers that we use—it gives us a nice discount—and we entered the building. We gave our names at the security desk and soon we were in the elevator and then sitting again in front of Inspector Corcoran’s desk. Sitting at the end of the desk, notebook in his hand, was Jenkins. He did not look amused, although I will admit he was not quite as sour-looking as I had seen him in the past. I was wishing we had brought some
mandelbrot
with us; maybe he would actually be smiling again.

Corcoran closed the door, then turned and looked at us. “Well, ladies,” he said, “while I know I said you should keep your eyes and ears open and learn what you could, I didn’t expect you to solve the case for us. Again. But it sounds like that’s what you’ve done.” His tone of voice was that of someone who is not quite sure whether he is consulting an expert or humoring a child. He obviously was prepared to do either.

He went to his desk and sat down in the big chair facing us.

“Okay, let’s hear what you have to say. I can guess that you have not only discovered the real culprit, but that person is not Daniel Gold. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Mrs. K said, “you are right.” Now that she was back in her element, so to speak, back in her role of detective, she sounded no longer excited, but just confident. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if considering her words carefully.

“You already know about the case up to about a week ago. Daniel has the motive and the opportunity. Vera was killed by two medicines working together, both of which had to be administered late in the afternoon of
Yom Kippur
or just after it ended. Daniel was the only person you had identified who was definitely with his mother, Vera, at the time and had a chance to give her both those medicines. Am I correct so far?”

Corcoran nodded. So did Jenkins. Mrs. K continued:

“Just like you, Ida and I concentrated on finding someone who was in Vera’s room at that crucial time, who could have given her the bad medicine, and of course who had a motive to kill her. There seemed to be several people who in some way fit that description: a resident, who we think was Rena Shapiro; a cousin who Vera had helped send to jail and was now free; certain employees Vera had wronged; a former lover; and maybe others. But even if these individuals had been present at the right time, it did not seem likely that they either would have known what medicine to mix with the other to kill Vera, or would have been able to make her take it. If they had wanted to kill Vera, they could easily have smothered her with a pillow, as Rena admitted to us she had thought to do.”

Here Jenkins stopped writing and spoke up, seeming somewhat startled.

“Hold on. You mean this Rena”—consulting his notes—“Rena Shapiro admitted she was in the room and tried to kill Mrs. Gold….”

“I did not say she tried, just that she said she had considered it.”

“Nevertheless,” Jenkins persisted, “why didn’t you report that to us? Just because she says she didn’t kill her…”

Corcoran placed a hand on Jenkins’s arm, though gently. “Let’s come back to that later, Martin, shall we?” You know, this was the first time I had heard Jenkins’s first name. I remember thinking it somehow didn’t seem to fit him. “I’ve learned in the past it’s best to let Mrs. Kaplan tell her whole story. Then we can discuss what she did or didn’t do.”

Jenkins nodded, but he did not look happy. Like a large dog who has been barking at the stranger but is restrained by his master from taking a bite out of him.

“Go on, please, Mrs. Kaplan,” Corcoran said. “You were saying none of these people was likely to have administered the sibutramine. I agree. What then?”

“Then we seemed to be at a stone wall. Only Daniel fit the requirements. Why? Because of the time frame we were forced to accept. If we could, shall we say, expand that time frame, it would include many more possible suspects, would it not?”

“I suppose it would. If it could be expanded, as you say. But our doctors say…”

“Yes, yes, I know what they say. And I had no answer for that. Not until last Saturday morning.”

“And what happened last Saturday morning?”

“I took my vitamin pills. Or rather my vitamin capsules.”

“And that gave you extra energy to solve the case?” said Jenkins. I think I detected a bit of a smirk in his voice.

Mrs. K and Corcoran both gave Jenkins a very nasty look. Personally I thought it was funny, but I was afraid to laugh.

“No,” Mrs. K said, “what it gave me was an idea. An epiphany, we called it.”

“Which was?” Corcoran said.

“Which was that my vitamin C capsule would be a perfect way to commit this crime.”

“With vitamin C? Vitamin C is perfectly harmless,” said Jenkins.

“Of course it is,” Mrs. K said. “But it comes in what they call a time-release capsule.”

Corcoran suddenly looked more interested. “Okay, I see where you’re going with this. You think someone could have taken such a capsule, emptied it out, and filled it with the sibutramine, which would then still be in Mrs. Gold’s system later in the day when she took her usual dose of ziprasidone.” I don’t know how he was remembering those long names. I guess he had been thinking about the case a lot.

“Well, not exactly,” Mrs. K said. “I suppose that’s possible—and to be honest it’s the first thing that occurred to me—but I’m not sure the process is that simple. Nevertheless, these time-release capsules got me thinking that there are other ways to accomplish the same thing, to give someone medicine at one time, and have it take effect later.”

“And that is…”

“It’s really quite simple. I give you a pill and tell you to take it later.”

Corcoran and Jenkins both looked thoughtful. Corcoran said, “Yes, I suppose that’s quite possible….”

“It is,” said Mrs. K. “And as soon as I realized it, I had very many more possible suspects with an opportunity. I mean, if I could think of this, no doubt whoever killed Vera could think of it too.” With this I would have disagreed, since Mrs. K thinks so much better than most people. “But which ones had a motive?”

Corcoran was following the story very closely now. “And did you find any such motives?”

“Not at first. That is, no more than we had already known about and dismissed. But then I suddenly realized that perhaps we were asking ourselves the wrong question.”

“What do you mean, the wrong question? Isn’t the question who had a reason to kill Mrs. Gold? Or at least who would benefit from her death?”

“Yes and no. Those are, of course, important questions. But what we had not really asked ourselves is this: if the way Vera Gold was killed seemed to point only to one person, to Daniel, her son, who would benefit if Vera were dead
and
Daniel was convicted of the murder?”

There was silence in the room. It seemed like everyone there, including Jenkins, was thinking about this new question, turning it over in their minds, wondering whether the answer might be different from the answer to the earlier question.

Corcoran was the first to speak up. “I take it, Mrs. Kaplan, that when you asked the new question, you got a new answer.”

“I did. And something Ida said sent me in the right direction.”

“That I said?”

She smiled at me, then addressed Corcoran and Jenkins. “Yes, as has happened so often in the past. Ida said something about how changes in the family can mean changes in the effect of a will, which is why people should update their will from time to time. I asked myself, what would be the effect on Vera’s will, and on all that fortune she had, if Daniel were convicted of murdering her. Surely he would not be allowed to keep the money he was given in the will.”

Corcoran shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t. I’m no lawyer, but I’ve seen enough of these cases to know that when a beneficiary of a will kills the testator, he isn’t allowed to benefit from it.”

“Yes, that is what I too learned when I spoke with the lawyer Farraday, for whom Ida’s niece Sara used to work. He told me there is something called a ‘slayer statute’ that goes into effect in such circumstances.”

“And did he tell you what the effect would be on Mrs. Gold’s will?” Corcoran asked.

“In general terms he did, as he had not of course seen the will. But I described the family situation as well as I could, and he told me who would be likely to benefit the most from Daniel’s conviction.”

Both Corcoran and Jenkins were leaning forward now, waiting for the answer.

“And who is that, Mrs. Kaplan?” Jenkins asked.

“Why, Fannie, of course. Her sister and next closest relative, Frances Kleinberg.”

We all were silent for at least a minute as we digested this information. Then Inspector Corcoran said, “Now, wait a minute. I realize that you have suggested a way someone could have given Mrs. Gold the sibutramine earlier in the day. But wasn’t it Frances—Fannie—the one who first raised the alarm about her sister’s death and was responsible for the investigation?”

“Of course,” Mrs. K said. “It was not enough to kill her sister. She had to remove Daniel as well, and the easiest way was to make it look as if he had killed his mother. Let the state do the dirty work, yes?”

“Hmmm” was all Corcoran said to that.

“I’m sure she made up that whole
megillah
about her sister suspecting someone was trying to poison her,” Mrs. K continued. “Someone she didn’t want to name, Fannie said. That was supposed to further point to Vera’s son, Daniel, of course.”

“So her motive was to get Daniel’s inheritance,” Corcoran said.

“Yes, but actually there’s a little more to it than that. I asked some more questions of both Daniel and Mr. Fred Herrington—you know, Vera’s former almost-husband. It seems that Fannie always resented the fact that her older sister, who was adopted, got most of the inheritance from their parents, and now it would be passed on to her son and bypass Fannie again. And of course Vera also received a small fortune from her late husband, Gershon, which also did not sit well with Fannie’s jealousy.”

“Why didn’t Daniel tell us this before?” I asked.

“He said he didn’t want to say anything against his aunt, who seemed to have changed her attitude and was now being so good to his mother. Which of course was just an act on her part.”

Then something occurred to me that I had totally forgotten. “Wait,” I said. “What about it being
Yom Kippur,
and that Vera would not break the fast to take her medicine all day…oh, yes, of course. Never mind.”

“Yes,” Mrs. K said, “it was Fannie who told us Vera would not eat or take her medicine. And of course that was not true either. And we should have been suspicious right then, because being so religious was not in character for Vera.

“And that reminds me of another thing that Fannie said that, now in hindsight, does not—what is the word—does not jibe with the way Vera was poisoned. Remember, Ida, how Fannie said Vera had claimed that her medications had perhaps been tampered with?”

“Yes, I remember. She said that was what made Vera think someone was trying to poison her.”

“Exactly. But we now know that although Vera was, in a sense, poisoned, it was done with a perfectly untampered-with pill, and it was done only once, because it took only once to cause her heart failure, or whatever it is called.”

“Cardiac arrest, I think,” said Corcoran.

“Yes, thank you. So in retrospect, even if Vera had been afraid of being poisoned, she would not have noticed any tampered-with medicines, because none was tampered with.”

More silence. Again broken by Corcoran. “Okay, I admit you’re making a case for Mrs. Gold’s sister being the guilty party. But where is the evidence?”

“Well, to begin with, I remember you telling us that one of the nurses noticed a pill on the table next to Vera’s bed. And it was not there when she was found deceased. I am guessing that Fannie gave her that pill in the morning and told her the doctor wanted her to take it late in the afternoon. At least that fits the facts we have.”

“Yes,” Corcoran said, “but it’s still fairly weak evidence.”

“I realize that, and I have, in fact, two more pieces of evidence, and each one is better than all of the trout-in-the-milk kind of evidence you have against Daniel.”

That certainly seemed to perk both men up, and they leaned even farther forward than already they were. I thought Jenkins might fall onto his
pisk,
his face, which would have been quite funny if the moment were not so serious.

Mrs. K, without a doubt enjoying having such an attentive audience, cleared her throat and continued:

“Believe me, it took me a long time and a lot of thinking before I even considered the possibility that Fannie was guilty, for all the reasons we have already discussed. The timing. The
Yom Kippur
fast. The lack of a motive. And just the fact that I really liked Fannie and had never had any reason to consider her to be anything but a
mensch.
A very fine person who loved her sister. But as Mr. Sherlock Holmes would put it, since I considered Daniel being guilty to be impossible—I know I was probably the only one who thought this, except of course Daniel—I had to consider the possible-but-not-very-likely, including Fannie.

“Learning about the effect of Vera’s will if Daniel had been convicted provided the motive. The epiphany about the time-release capsule told me the timing problem probably could be solved. But how would Fannie, who was not a pharmacist like Daniel, get her hands on this”—here her eyes rolled upward as she stopped to remember the name and how to pronounce it—“this si-bu-tra-mine?”

“Yes,” Corcoran said, “without that piece, it’s still just as much circumstantial evidence as that against the son.”

“I know that. So I gathered together all of the facts we had so far discovered. All of them, whether they directly related to Fannie or not. And one of those facts concerned Vera’s cousin, Erik Weiss.”

“You mean the fellow who had been in jail?” Jenkins asked. I was impressed, and a little surprised, that he remembered that name from our previous meeting.

“Yes, that’s him. Remember how I had asked you to find the photograph that Vera had shown to Rena Shapiro, a photograph of the whole family from a long time ago?”

“Yes, of course,” said Corcoran. “I assumed you wanted to see if you recognized this Erik Weiss, perhaps had seen him lurking in the area.”

“Actually, that was not the reason,” Mrs. K said. “At least not the main reason. What I wanted was to see an old picture of Fannie Kleinberg. I wanted to know what she looked like five or ten years ago.”

“And why was that?” Corcoran asked, looking quite puzzled. I already knew the answer, as Mrs. K had told me, and I was enjoying that the policemen did not, as they say, have a clue.

“Because I suspected that at one time Fannie was quite overweight herself. It is probably a family trait. And I was right. She was quite…quite
zaftig
in those days.”

“But Mrs. Gold was extremely slim….”

“Yes, but remember, Vera was adopted. She shared no genetic traits with Fannie.”

That certainly silenced the inspector, who nodded. All he said was, “Please continue.”

“Thank you. Now, Fannie has obviously lost a lot of weight since then. But you may have noticed how her clothes hang loosely on her. I always just assumed, and probably others did as well, that she simply dressed poorly. Bought clothes that did not fit well. I really should have realized right away what that meant, but to tell the truth, I did not really think about it much at all. It’s not uncommon for older people to wear clothing from a time when they were lighter or heavier, especially if they are not spending much time in the outside world anymore, as unfortunately is true of many residents where we live. I guess it is often that we become lighter, we lose weight and even height, with age, although it is sometimes the other way around, as Ida once reminded me.” She again smiled in my direction.

“Yes, I’m sure ladies’ fashion is a fascinating subject,” Corcoran said, not unkindly, “but please get on with your story.”

“Certainly. I’m sorry. Where was I?”

Jenkins looked down at his notes. “You were saying that Mrs. Kleinberg had once been overweight. That is what
zaftig
means, I take it.” It is clear Jenkins is not missing anything this time either. Good for him.

“Yes, or at least what you would call plump. So if Fannie was once overweight and wanted to reduce, which apparently she did, it is possible she once had a prescription for sibutramine.” This time she hardly tripped over the name at all—
nu,
it is practice making perfect.

“Possible, yes,” Corcoran said.

“That is what I said. But how to find out whether what was possible had actually happened? This was the next puzzle. Now there were only three ways I could think of: I could ask you to look back in Fannie’s prescription records, which Ida and I decided it was unlikely you would do; I could ask someone else with access to those records to do the same thing; or…well, I’d rather not say what the third way was.” I was glad Mrs. K did not mention anything about the lady burglar. That could have led to several other very uncomfortable questions.

“Well, you didn’t ask us,” Corcoran said, “which is just as well. Although we might have been able to get that information, it would have required the equivalent of a search warrant, and I probably would have needed more from you than just your suspicion of Mrs. Kleinberg.”

“Yes, I realize that, so we did not ask. Instead I asked D…I asked someone else who had access to these pharmacy records.”

Corcoran and Jenkins both now looked like they were going to say something, but both stopped themselves. Corcoran looked over at Jenkins and gave a tiny shake of his head, and Jenkins nodded slightly in understanding. Corcoran then smiled at us and said, “Okay, we won’t ask who. But how did you know what pharmacy would have Mrs. Kleinberg’s records?”

“I didn’t know. But as she had lived in this state for many years before coming to the Home, and just about everywhere in the state is one of those big Superior Drug Mart stores, I thought there was a good chance that is where Fannie got her prescriptions.”

“Hmm. Isn’t that where Daniel Gold works?”

“I suppose it is. But we are not going to talk about that, yes?”

“Yes. I mean, no. Please continue.”

“Well, it turned out Fannie had indeed bought her prescriptions from a Superior Drug store. So maybe you can guess what else I found out?”

Jenkins spoke up again. “That Mrs. Kleinberg had taken sibutramine?” I am becoming all the time more impressed with sourpuss Jenkins.

“Yes, exactly. It was prescribed to her for weight loss, before it was banned and people were warned not to take it, because of the way it affects heart rhythm. I asked Da…I looked up what was said about it at the time, and they said it was especially not to be taken with any other medicine that also affects heart rhythm, because it could be fatal. And of course zipar…zi-pra-si-done—that is hard for me to say—affects heart rhythm. It was one of the drugs people taking sibutramine were specifically warned not to take with it, and especially not to take one near the time of taking the other. Anyone taking it would know of this danger.”

“You’re sure of this?” Corcoran asked.

“I saw the actual warning label.”

“Yes, of course. So we have more circumstantial evidence, although I admit it’s pretty strong. I don’t suppose you found any…any what we might call direct evidence? Like a confession? Or a smoking gun? Or in this case a bottle of pills?”

Mrs. K laughed slightly. “You remember I told you there was another way we considered to get this evidence of the pills? I might have been able to hand you the pills she used, provided she had kept them around. It would, of course, have been
narishkeit,
stupidity, on her part, but as you said regarding finding those pills at Daniel’s house, criminals often do such stupid things, almost like keeping a souvenir of their crime. But we did not go that way, so I cannot hand you the pills. But you say a confession? I may have something just as good.”

Corcoran suddenly put up his hand. “You know, Mrs. Kaplan, this is all both fascinating and instructive. You are making an excellent case. I think before you go on, I’ll get myself some coffee. Would you ladies like some? No? Tea perhaps? Certainly. Jenkins, give me a hand here.”

They both left the office, and I do not think it was just to get coffee. They had left the door open, and I could see they were having what you would call an animated conversation in the outer office, after which Jenkins went to get the drinks but Corcoran went over to his secretary’s desk and made a telephone call. A few minutes later they both were back, Jenkins carrying a tray with mugs of coffee and tea on it. We each took our drinks, took a few sips, and then Corcoran said, “That’s better. Now, Mrs. Kaplan, if you will continue?”

“Certainly. I think you were saying it would be nice to have maybe a confession by Fannie. I had the same thought, because I knew we still did not have much more than the kind of evidence you had—and I guess I pooh-poohed—against Daniel. But of course I was not
meshugge
enough to think Fannie would simply tell me, yes, she killed her sister. So I borrowed Ida’s new telephone.”

“You were going to get her to confess on the telephone?” Corcoran said. “I don’t get it.”

“Wait and you will see. At first I thought I would do what those detectives in the television stories do—you know, they confront the suspect and accuse them and the guilty one says something like, ‘Okay, I admit it. You’ve got me. But you can’t prove it.’ Or maybe he tries to run away, or even attacks the detective. Something like that which proves his guilt. But I realized that usually it does not happen that way in real life. If I were to accuse Fannie, she would just deny it. Why shouldn’t she, especially if I really cannot prove it. And then she would be aware she has been found out and would destroy whatever evidence there was, or maybe try to escape.”

“So what did you do?”

“As I said, I borrowed Ida’s new telephone. It is one of those smart telephones that does everything.”

“Like one of those knives,” I put in. I don’t think anyone knew what I was talking about, from how they looked at me.

“And one of the things Ida said it would do was to make a recording. Even with pictures if I wanted. So I thought I shall go and talk to Fannie in private. Accuse her of killing Vera. Maybe she will admit it to me, saying I cannot prove it, maybe not. But whatever she says, I will be recording it on Ida’s telephone.”

“Very clever,” Corcoran said. “You’d be, in effect, wearing a wire.”

“Is that what they call it? This telephone doesn’t have any wires. Anyway, as I told you, I did not really think Fannie would admit her crime to me, alone or not. Again, why should she? But I thought I might just get her to say something just as incriminating.”