Donna Andrews - Chesapeake Crimes - This Job Is Murder!

I glanced up. Nice aim . And thanks for the assist.

Time to get down to business. I gazed at the house. Sparkling windows. Spotless front steps bookended by gleaming black wrought-iron railings. Beside the left railing, a handicapped ramp ran from the sidewalk to the stoop. This family might have faced tragedy before. I hoped I could help them now, at least.

It was after the funeral so the family would be sitting shiva for seven days, mourning their loved one and focusing on their loss. Who was I to intrude on their grief? While it would be a great mitzvah to make a shiva call, visitors should be friends and family. I wasn’t either. But they’d all be there. An opportunity too good to miss.

I tilted my head, thinking. I could pretend to be an old friend (real old) of Goldenblatt, but they might ask me questions about him that I couldn’t answer. I tapped my index finger against my lips. Ah. I’d be a grief counselor, sent over by the rabbi. That should work.

I made my way up the front steps and rang the bell. As I waited, I heard muffled yelling from inside. Soon a girl, maybe fourteen years old with long dark hair, yanked back the door. She was barefoot, wearing a short denim skirt and a low-cut, white tank top, and chewing something pink. Gum, I guessed, though I hadn’t seen it firsthand before. Her toenails and fingernails were pink, too. I never would have allowed my daughters to dress that way.

“Hi?” she said. It was a statement, but it came out like a question.

“I don’t care!” someone shrieked from behind her. “I don’t want children at my wedding.”

“How do you expect me not to invite your cousins after they just came to the funeral?” another woman screeched back. “It would be a shanda !”

“Too bad!” the first voice screamed. “It’s My! Special! Day!”

What was I walking into? “I’m sorry to intrude,” I told the girl. “My name is Jo…Joseph.” Close call. “I’m a grief counselor. Your rabbi suggested I stop by.”

The girl turned her head. “Mom! There’s some grief counselor here!”

So much yelling. Maybe the family was hard of hearing.

As the girl backed away, a round, middle-aged woman approached the door. Did hair that blond come naturally? She smiled. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Goldenblatt?” She nodded. “Your rabbi sent me over. He thought I might be able to help you during this difficult time.” I extended a hand. “I’m Joseph…Bookman. Grief counselor. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“Rabbi Cohen sent you? Well, please come in.”

I walked into a small entryway with a glass table in the middle. A large ceramic bowl filled with apples and pears sat on top. To my left was a staircase, straight ahead ran a long hallway with some closed doors lining the left wall, and a large living room was on my right. It had white leather couches, oriental rugs, and glass tables that matched the one in the entryway.

I blinked a couple times, confused. I saw no low stools for mourners to sit on. The mirror on the living-room wall remained uncovered. The woman wasn’t even wearing a torn black ribbon in memory of her husband. Except for the fruit bowl in the entryway, which could have been a condolence gift, I saw nothing I’d expect in a home sitting shiva . Was I at the correct address?

“It’s very nice that Rabbi Cohen has been thinking of us, but really, we’re doing just fine,” Mrs. Goldenblatt said, motioning me to follow her.

She led me through the house into a shiny chrome kitchen. Now this was more like it! Baskets and trays of food covered nearly every available counter, no doubt condolence gifts from friends and family.

The girl who had answered the door trailed behind us, then picked up a mewing gray kitten and climbed onto a bar stool. An older girl sat at a round table staring at a computer screen. An even older girl-a young woman, really-sat at the same table with piles of papers and magazines spread out in front of her. All three girls had the same thin nose, brown eyes, and long dark hair. None of them wore a black ribbon either.

“Girls, this is Mr. Bookman,” the mother said. “He’s a grief counselor. The rabbi sent him over.”

They all looked at me like I’d sprouted another head. I glanced at my shoulders. Nope. No extra head. Thank goodness. That would have been hard to explain, though I’m sure someone would have thought it was a riot.

Where to begin? “Again, I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Goldenblatt. And you girls.”

“Where are my manners?” the mother said. “Please call me Marjorie. And these are my daughters, Anne, Kayla, and Lauren.”

“Stop calling me Kayla,” the middle girl said with gritted teeth. “Kay. My name is Kay.”

“I’m so sorry, Kay .” Marjorie threw her hands in the air. “I did have a role in naming you, you know. Seventeen years you’ve been Kayla, but noooo. Now suddenly you’re Kay.”

Oh, yes. A big happy family.

“Kay,” I said. “This must be a very hard time for you.”

She shrugged. “Yeah. Dad was supposed to take me to look at colleges-I’ll start college next fall-but now I have to wait till Mom has time to go. And who knows when that’s gonna be. She’s completely wrapped up in planning Anne’s wedding.”

“Lord give me strength,” Marjorie said. “I told you I’d find time to take you.”

“When?” Kay screeched.

“Soon!” Marjorie yelled back.

This is how they behave with company?

“A wedding,” I said to the oldest girl. “How wonderful.”

“Yeah, you’d think so,” Anne said. “Until your mother starts foisting relatives on you that you don’t want to invite.” She looked at me with a hopeful smile. “I think the bride should get to choose her own guests, even if she’s not paying for the reception. Don’t you?”

Oh boy. I didn’t want to get into the middle of this. “Well, are they relatives on your father’s side of the family? It might be nice to include them, considering his recent passing.”

Anne’s eyes narrowed, obviously displeased. “Daddy wouldn’t have wanted them invited either. He thought our plans were way too expensive. He kept wanting to cut everything down, including the guest list.”

“Well, we don’t have that problem now, do we?” Marjorie said, striding toward Anne. “Thanks to the life insurance, you can have the big fancy wedding you want. I don’t think it’s asking very much to invite your cousins! And you!” She turned to Kay. “Stop moping. At least now you can go to any college you want.”

She took a deep breath and faced me. “I’m sorry. It’s rude of us to talk about money in front of a virtual stranger. It’s just been so stressful. Before Bruce died, we’d been having money problems. With the downturn in the economy, Kayla-Kay-was going to have to attend a state school, and my Anne would have to have a scaled-down wedding. Now Bruce is gone, and so are our money problems. It doesn’t seem right.”

Indeed. Not right at all. All three of these ladies had a reason to kill.

“What happened to your husband, if I might ask? He was so young,” I said.

“He tripped. Fell down the stairs,” said a raspy voice behind me. “Broke his neck.”

I turned to see an old man with heavy wrinkles around his nose and eyes wheeling himself into the room. He had white hair like mine and a long white beard dotted with crumbs.

I glanced up for a moment. How come my beard had to be trimmed so much if this guy can wear his beard long? No response. Figures.

“Dad,” Marjorie said. “I’d like you to meet Joseph Bookman. He’s a grief counselor. Rabbi Cohen sent him.”