Part 11 (1/2)
Ryan nodded. ”They married late. The first wife had health problems, died in eighty-nine. Ferris remarried in ninety-seven. So far, no progeny.”
”Isn't that against the rules?”
Ryan gave me a quizzical look.
”The mitzvot.”
The look held.
”Jewish law. You're supposed to have babies. Not waste your seed.”
”You're thinking of the farmer's almanac.”
Ryan and I walked to the small front stoop.
Ryan stepped up and rang the top bell.
We waited.
Ryan rang again.
We waited some more.
An old woman trudged by behind us, grocery cart rattling in cadence with her boots.
”Isn't the widow supposed to hunker in?” Ryan asked, hitting the bell a third time.
”s.h.i.+va only lasts a week.”
”And then?”
”You say daily kaddish, don't party, don't shave or snip and clip for a while. But basically you get on with your life.”
”How do you know all this?”
”My first boyfriend was Jewish.”
”Star-crossed love?”
”He moved to Altoona.”
Ryan opened the storm door and pounded.
The cart woman stopped, turned, and stared unabashedly over her triple-wrapped m.u.f.fler.
To the right, a curtain moved. I touched Ryan's arm and tipped my head. ”Dora's home.”
Ryan smiled brightly.
”Avram was a nice Jewish boy who went eight years between marriages. Maybe he and Mama were close.”
”Maybe he told her stuff.”
”Or Mama noticed things on her own.”
I thought of something.
”Old ladies like cookies.”
”They're known for it.”
I reached into my purse and pulled out the shortbreads.
”Mama might warm to us, feel chatty.”
”d.a.m.n.” Ryan turned. ”We're good at this.”
Only, Dora didn't answer the door. Miriam did. She wore black slacks, a black silk blouse, a black cardigan, and pearls.
As on our first meeting, I was struck by Miriam's eyes. There were dark hollows beneath them now, but it didn't matter. Those lavender irises were showstoppers.
Miriam was not unaware of the effect her eyes had on men. After flicking a glance at me, she s.h.i.+fted to Ryan and leaned forward slightly, one hand wrapping her waist, the other gathering the cardigan at her throat.
”Detective.” Soft. A little breathy.
”Good morning, Mrs. Ferris,” Ryan said. ”I hope you're feeling better.”
”Thank you.”
Miriam's skin was ghostly. She looked thinner than I remembered.
”There are a few points I'd like to clear up,” Ryan said.
Miriam's focus s.h.i.+fted to a point between and beyond us. The old woman's cart cranked up.
Miriam reengaged on Ryan, and her head tipped slightly.
”Can't this wait?”
Ryan let the question hang in the triangle of s.p.a.ce between us.
”Who is it?” A quavery voice floated from inside the house.
Miriam turned and said something in Yiddish or Hebrew, then reoriented to us.
”My mother-in-law is unwell.”
”Your husband is dead,” Ryan said, not too gently. ”I can't delay a murder investigation for the comfort of the bereaved.”
”I live with that thought every moment of the day. So you believe it's murder, then?”