Стив Хокенсмит - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 6, June 2006

“Mr. Colangelo! So nice to hear from you. How’s the shop doing?”

“Not so good,” I admitted, “What with Sam arrested and all.”

“A horrible shame. I can’t imagine anyone would think he murdered Rabbi Kranzman.”

“Neither can I.” I wondered how I would ask what I needed to ask. It seemed so strange to blurt out a question like “So, Mr. Reichstein, what were you doing last night while Kranzman was getting killed?”

Luckily, he beat me to it.

“And so you’re going around asking everyone else what they were doing when the young man got murdered? Look Danny, it’s no secret I was no great fan of Kranzman, but murder’s not really my thing.”

“It’s pretty rare for anyone who’s ever killed to say it was their ‘thing,’ Mr. Reichstein.”

He laughed. “A fair point. Why don’t you meet me tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Why would you do that?”

He sighed like I’d asked the stupidest question in the world. “Because I’ll do everything I can to get Sam cleared.”

The next morning, I drove up to his three-story house in Pikesville. It was the kind of house with pink flamingos on the front lawn and three garages for two cars. I couldn’t even work up the energy to be envious. It just looked hopelessly garish, and made me miss my Park Heights apartment more.

“Come in,” he said after opening the door. The smile on his face looked painted on. For someone who claimed to want to tell me all, he didn’t act the part, shuffling nervously from side to side and stumbling when he asked if I wanted something to drink.

“Just coffee,” I answered.

He nearly spilled it on me when he came back with two cups. Once he sat down I decided I didn’t care anymore, and blurted out the question I’d wanted to ask on the phone.

His eyes widened in shock, real or otherwise. “You have some nerve, Colangelo.”

“I doubt I’ll be the last to ask the question.”

“If you must know, I was out with my wife at a movie.”

“What did you see?”

“The Da Vinci Code.” I didn’t say anything, but Reichstein continued anyway, dropping his voice to a whisper. “My wife and I got tickets to see an early release of the movie. She insisted.”

He had to be telling the truth; I’ve never seen a man wince so painfully when talking about a movie before. But it still didn’t explain the fidgeting, which was slowly driving me crazy.

“Look, the only reason I’m asking is because of Sam.”

“I know. It’s just that when I think of Rabbi Kranzman, my blood pressure goes up.”

“Why was there so much animosity?”

He settled back in his chair. Reichstein wasn’t grossly overweight, but his bulk made his stomach ripple out in waves. It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen, and I momentarily lost concentration as he spoke.

“Everyone thought it had to do with money and that somehow it was my fault he wasn’t being paid enough—”

“He wasn’t being paid enough?”

Reichstein shook his head vigorously. “He was being paid ninety grand, if you must know. Not a lot of people do, so don’t tell anybody.”

Who would I tell? I assumed Sam knew already, and he was the only one I’d share the information with.

Catching the expression on my face, Reichstein grinned. “And that’s exactly why I told you. So money, at least salary, wasn’t the problem I had.”

“So what was?”

“Think of it this way: When you’re out with people, at a meal or whatever, there are two topics you’re really not supposed to discuss in polite company.” He waited, as if I should take my cue.

“Politics and religion,” I said.

“Right you are. Money is about politics, at least in a shul setting. Which leaves religion. And that, my friend, is where Kranzman and I didn’t see eye to eye.”

“You mean he told you how to conduct your life?”

“Oh, he didn’t just tell me. He preached. He lectured. He got upset and refused to think that I — representing the viewpoints of the congregation — might have a valid opinion. At first I let it slide, what with him being so young and all.”

Menachem Kranzman was the same age as I.

Reichstein barreled on. “But then it became nearly intolerable. One time he had the gall to tell me that he’d spent a Saturday afternoon spying on his neighbors’ houses to see if they watched television on Shabbos! I mean, what crackpot does such a thing? I can’t say I’m sorry he resigned. I only wish he’d left right away.”

“What do you mean?” I straightened in my seat. “He didn’t actually quit?”

“Of course not,” said Reichstein. “Kranzman may have been a crazed loon, but he’d never break a contract. He had another six months to go and he wasn’t about to leave till he was fully paid up.”

It didn’t make sense. I mulled over Reichstein’s words as I drove home and later while I cooked dinner, but I couldn’t figure out why Kranzman had made such a public display of disaffection for hundreds of people to see if he hadn’t meant it.

“Maybe it was reverse psychology,” offered Sharon. She’d been waiting for me when I got home, eager to listen to my bit of news. She didn’t know Sam very well yet, but they were a mutual adoration society, and he’d been nearly bereft when she had to back out of attending the bat mitzvah. I half expected Sam to start shoving rings in my face at the store, but to his credit — or his caginess — he hadn’t done so.

Just thinking of him made me feel worse.

Sharon wrapped her arms around me. “Danny, he’ll be all right. Sam’s lived through far worse.”

“Than a murder charge?”

“You really think it’s going to stick? Why would Rebecca have come to you if she really felt her father had committed the crime?”

I turned around. “But I’m just not getting it yet.”

“I’ll repeat it again: Reverse psychology. Maybe Rabbi Kranzman was trying to make someone in particular believe that he was going to leave. Someone who didn’t know the particulars of the contract.”

Sharon worked in public relations, but her dad was one of the top contract lawyers in the city. And I don’t need to be reminded how lucky I was to have her in my life.

“But wouldn’t it be common knowledge amongst the synagogue’s elite?”

She stepped back, looked over her shoulder and cried out suddenly. “Oh no, it’s overcooking.” Stepping towards the stove, she turned down the burner until the pot stopped smoking so strongly.

Afterward, she said, “It might, but if the cantor and the rabbi had no love lost between each other, do you really think they shared information so easily?”

I looked at my watch. “I wonder if I can still catch him.”

She moved forward and took my arm. “Hold on. I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And it’s still early. Call the cantor after dinner, and then you can track him down.”

Sharon: sensible as ever. I didn’t know for sure if I loved her, but it sure looked that way.

Three hours later, I found Cantor Cohen in the middle of a poker game. He was not happy to see me.

“And why should I interrupt this game to talk to you?”

There were two other men, both scowling at me in such a way that I should be scared. I wanted to laugh; I’d spent far too much time around crackheads to be scared of some upper middle-class types — especially those who had their poker night in the synagogue’s basement.

“You don’t have to interrupt,” I said. “I could wait till you’ve finished this hand, and then we can talk.”

“Better idea,” said the cantor. “Our regular fourth man dropped out at the last minute. And I might like you better if you play a few rounds.”