Lisa Scottoline - Dirty Blonde

But the living room was completely empty. The house was quiet. Cate had been told the door would be left open, so that mourners wouldn’t be disturbed, but there were no mourners. Odd, low benches ringed the small living room in front of a beige sectional couch and chairs, but they were all unoccupied, like empty chairs at a canceled show. A cushioned stool sat at the fireplace, vacant.

“Hello?” Cate called out, wondering if she was in the wrong house.

“Judge Fante?” Mrs. Marz came hurrying in from another room, walking toward Cate with a nervous smile, her hand extended. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said in a soft voice.

Cate relaxed and shook her hand. “I’m very sorry about your loss, Mrs. Marz.”

“Please, call me Sarah.” Richard Marz’s young wife looked prettier up close than she had in the front row of the courtroom gallery, though her eyes were a bloodshot blue, ringed by weary gray circles. She wore no eye makeup, and her small mouth was unlipsticked, her lips tilted down, her grief undisguised. Her brown hair had been styled into a bob that seemed overly coiffed until Cate realized it was a wig, and she wore a black knit suit that was too old for her, draping in a way that hid her compact form. “Judge, come, would you like something to eat? It’s lunchtime.”

“Yes, thank you.” Cate realized how hungry she was when she was led into a dining room filled with the aromas of seasoned roast beef, a fresh spinach salad dotted with tomatoes and hard-boiled eggs, and three baked chickens. The delicious feast looked untouched next to a stack of glistening dinner plates and clean silverware. “This is amazing. You must have food for fifty people here, easily.”

“I didn’t make it, we’re not permitted to. My family brought most of it, but they went back last night.” Sarah’s face fell, and her voice grew soft. “My mother passed away when I was little, and my father is from California and he had to get back to his business. He couldn’t sit the entire week. He’s not as observant as we are-as I am. Richard was Orthodox, and his family came for the sedat havra’ah , the meal of consolation after the funeral, and they’ll be here later.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“My friends from temple choir, they came, and some of our friends from the congregation, but they’re all so uncomfortable, with the circumstances. I can tell.” Sarah shook her head unhappily. “They seem distant. And there are many people I thought were friends who didn’t come.”

“Why not?”

“I can only guess that I’m the wife of a murderer now. The wife of a suicide.”

Cate fell silent, watching hurt etch lines into Sarah’s young face, as surely as a drawing pen filled with ink.

“Maybe I’m wrong, but I think there would have been more people here, everyone, if Richard had been killed in a car accident. But a suicide, and a murderer? People don’t know how to react. Maybe out of respect for me, or because of their own discomfort, I don’t know. I feel like a social pariah, overnight.” Sarah picked up a plate and filled it with the choicest slices of medium-rare roast beef, a few florets of broccoli, and a scoop of golden noodle pudding, replacing a heavy silver ladle on a spoon rest so as not to drip on the lace tablecloth. “I know this will sound terrible, but a woman down the street, her husband was killed in a car crash. She had cars around the block, from all the shiva calls. Evidently all widows are not created equal. But enough. Would you like salad?” she asked, which was when Cate realized the food plate was for her.

“Yes, thanks. And I could have done that myself.”

“It’s the least I can do, for your coming, for your kindness. Have you made a shiva call before?”

“No. I’ve been to plenty of bar mitzvahs, but not a shiva.”

Sarah lifted a pair of silver tongs and plucked some fresh greens from the huge salad bowl, then set a slice of hard-boiled egg on top. “The round food served at shiva reminds us of the circle of life. Dressing?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“It’s Italian.”

“Works out perfect.”

“Yes.” Sarah laughed, a surprisingly girlish sound, and spooned some oil and balsamic vinegar carefully onto the salad. Between the wig and the heavy, mature pantsuit, she gave the appearance of a little girl playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes, which Cate found endearing.

“You’re handling all of this very well, in the circumstances. I don’t know if I could bear up with such style.”

“It’s all an act,” Sarah shot back, then laughed.

“Tell me about it.” Cate nodded, laughing with her.

Sarah shook her head, seeming finally to relax. “This has been so terrible, as I said in the letter. The family, torn apart, in an uproar. Everybody hurting, in pain.” Sarah sighed. “As a suicide, Richard couldn’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery, but his father was an Orthodox rabbi and he passed away two years ago. It was out of respect to him and my mother-in-law that they admitted Richard and gave him a proper burial.”

Cate’s heart went out to her.

“Then the reporters came like locusts, but they’re finally gone. That’s why I’m glad you came. Just for the company, and the honor. Of course.” Sarah finished the plate, and Cate grabbed a cloth napkin and silverware.

“Aren’t you eating?”

“I’ve been eating all morning. Please, sit down.” Sarah led Cate back to the living room, where she gestured her into a regular chair, and she took the stool in front of the fireplace.

“Thank you.” Cate accepted the food plate and balanced it on her lap, on top of her skirt. More Chanel, but it wasn’t making her feel as good as it usually did. Nothing could, with the sorrow that pervaded the empty house. Cate stabbed a piece of salad and ate. “Delicious.”

“My aunt made most of this. I love to cook, but can’t during shiva.” Sarah looked up at her from her baby stool.

“Why the stools, may I ask?”

“It symbolizes being struck down by grief. Visitors don’t have to sit on them.”

“I see.” Cate scanned the room discreetly, noting the covered mirror, which she had seen before, at an Orthodox Jewish wedding. The air smelled a little smoky, from a large white candle burning on the mantelpiece among an array of framed photos, undoubtedly the couple in happier times. Cate got on with it. “So, to your letter. I must tell you, I’m skeptical.”

“I know, I understand. That’s why I’m so thrilled you came today, just to hear me out.”

“That’s what you said you wanted, so here I am.”

“Well, first,” Sarah nodded, hugging her knees, oddly high on the low stool, “I felt that I could turn to you because of what you said about my husband at the trial.”

Next time I shut up . Cate cut some beef, which oozed warm juices, and ate a pinkish piece, which melted in her mouth.

“You understood my husband, I thought, and you showed a real sense of justice, and injustice.”

“Thank you.” Cate nodded, chewing so she wouldn’t comment further. She had promised herself only to listen, and didn’t want to do anything unjudicial, in case she ever got her job back. Or hell froze over.

“Judge, I know my husband didn’t kill anybody, and I know that he didn’t kill himself. He would never do such things.” Sarah’s tone rang with love and certainty. “I spoke with his lawyer after the funeral and told him, but he didn’t believe me. He thinks I’m in denial.”

“Are you?” Cate took another bite.

“No, and I thought you might understand better. First, Richard came from an extremely observant family. As I said, his late father was a rabbi. Richard almost became one, too. He knew a violent crime such as murder, and later suicide, would violate express Jewish law.”