Murder at the Second Lily Pond: A Sadie Weinstein Mystery

By Reva Spiro Luxenberg

Murder at the Second Lily Pond is an entertaining read on a coast-to-coast flight.

Sadie Weinstein, cute, zany, and the most unlikely sleuth imaginable gets a call in her grocery in Brooklyn from her son, Jeffrey, a student at Oxford, that he has been arrested for the murder of his archaeology don. After she shlepps to Oxford, along with her husband, Nathan, to free her son, she gets involved in a flirtation with Sir Donald Ward, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, is accused of murder, adopts a cat she names Inspector Ebony, and sets a fire, all in the name of the investigative process.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 29, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469755601

Reva Spiro Luxenberg

REVA SPIRO LUXENBERG embarked on a writing career after she retired as a school social worker. She has written nineteen books—mysteries, dramas, non-fiction books, anthologies, and humorous versions of two of the books of the Bible. She is married to Dr. Edward R. Levenson, who has edited eight of her books. She is a member of Florida Authors & Publishers Association. Her hobbies are reading, painting rocks, and taking care of her puppy Sekhel and her tortoise Mordy. She is a proud grandmother of seven and great-grandmother of six and one on the way.

Book preview

Prologue

The creeping fog wrapped around the wiry figure of Dr. Ronald Grimes so that he was only a dark blur as he stood beside the second lily pond at the Oxford Botanic Garden. Grimes, senior archaeologist at Oxford, grunted as he placed his heavy briefcase on the cobblestone path. Nervously, he pushed the left sleeve of his woolen jersey up to reveal his Rolex and, checking the time, cursed under his breath.

The old groundskeeper, passing by, noted Grimes, and stopped to speak. Planning to do a bit of work, then, guv’nor?

Grimes snatched up the briefcase and held it to his chest. He frowned and said in a sharp tone, Wrap up. Buzz off.

Sorry, sir. The old man moved on, shaking his head at the rebuff, not very upset compared with the tragedy of losing his grandson in Vietnam last year.

Grimes remained alone. Just this one transaction, he thought. Then I can exchange the wretched storms of England for the sunny skies of the French Riviera. He checked his watch again. Dammit! The garden will close in fifteen minutes.

Bathed in thickening fog, a figure, almost incognito in a hooded yellow mackintosh, and carrying a brown leather bag, loomed up beside the professor. With a start, Grimes turned to face the shape. Acknowledging the figure as his contact, he opened his briefcase, drew out an object wrapped in a towel. Unwrapping it, he held out an antique scabbard of gold and pewter that encased an ancient gladiator’s dagger engraved with an eagle, a lion, wolf figures, and the twins Romulus and Remus.

Show me the money, Grimes demanded.

The cloaked figure opened the leather bag to reveal stacks of high denomination bills. Grimes smiled in sensuous delight.

The figure took the scabbard from Grimes’s hand, and yanking the dagger from the scabbard, turned on a flashlight to hold over a magnifying glass and studied the etched eagle on the blade. Without warning, the figure plunged the sixteen-inch dagger into Grimes’s stomach.

The archaeologist’s eyes opened wide in terror for three seconds. His final thought was, beastly last show, as he plunged into the lily pond, turning the water blood red.

Chapter 1

In the neighborhood of Flatbush, in the heart of Brooklyn one mid-September of 1966, hail was bouncing off the sidewalk like ping pong balls. Inside the Mom and Pop grocery, a fortyish, trim Sadie Weinstein, not quite five feet, bent over the pickle barrel, her eyes fastened on the few remaining pickles. Their vinegary odor wafted through the tiny store filled to the walls with groceries.

At the front were his and her checkout counters separated by twelve feet. Nathan Weinstein had had the second counter, the his one, made a decade ago when the grocery was thriving and he had reached the tolerance limit for the smelly lacquer Sadie had insisted spraying on her beehive hairdo. He had to put space between them.

Then, one Friday last February, Sadie had declared herself an amateur sleuth based on her attempt to solve the Cereal Killer case, thinking that the multiple murderer must be buying cereal in their store. Before she successfully solved the case, she had bleached her brown hair blonde and changed the beehive to a neat pageboy, bought a trenchcoat, and, to appease her startled husband, presented him with a cowboy hat.

A strong smell of salami drifted from the cutting machine under the deli counter topped with a tray of newspapers dated September 13, 1966. The radio was blasting away with news of Vietnam battles.

Nathan, please order more pickles. I can hardly reach the ones in the barrel.

Stand on the stool, Sadie, Nathan said in his raspy voice.

I won’t stand on a stool like a child. Order more today.

Her faithful and devoted husband of twenty-four years was a short man with a bulbous nose. He stopped sweeping, leaned on his broom, a frown crossing his pumpkin face.

Then he dropped the broom to the worn wooden floor and, in a sweeping gesture reminiscent of a musketeer, yanked the cowboy hat from his head and bowed. My dearest queen. Your wish is my command. I ain’t a noble for nothing. You will have your pickle barrel filled by the morrow. He picked up the broom and resumed sweeping.

Before Sadie could reply to Nathan’s uncharacteristic dramatic flair, the phone rang. She picked it up.

Weinstein’s Grocery. How can I help you?

It’s Jeffrey, Mom. I need you and Pop to come to England immediately.

What’s wrong, Jeffrey? Were you in an automobile accident? Are you calling from the hospital?

No. It’s much worse.

"Gevalt! Oh, my Lord.You got a girl pregnant? I told you not to fool around."

No, Mom. No one’s pregnant. I need your help. There’s been a murder.

A murder? Sadie said, perking up. Who?

My archaeology don.

Don? Don who?

No, Mom. Don means teacher. My archaeology professor.

No?

Yes.

How?

With a dagger.

Look, Jeffrey, just because I solved one murder, doesn’t mean I can hop on the next plane to England.Your father and I are going to a bar-mitzvah on Saturday. We can’t just close down the store.

Please, Mom. I’m frantic. They think it was me. I’m in jail.

"Gut in himmel! Oh, my God!" Sadie’s stomach twisted into the shape of a challah, the braided Sabbath bread.

What is it, Sadie? Nathan asked, tapping her hard on the arm.

Jeffrey’s in jail,she said, turning to face Nathan who had turned as white as sour cream.

Mom, are you there?

Yes, Jeffrey, Sadie said in a trembling voice.

Jeffrey sighed loudly. "The police say it was done with a sword, an ancient gladiator’s short sword. Somebody had the chutzpah to stick it in my briefcase. I found it and put my fingerprints on it before I realized I shouldn’t."

Sadie’s breath came in short gasps. Then what happened?

Nathan put his ear next to the receiver, attempting to hear Jeffrey. In doing so, unknowingly he clasped Sadie around her waist in a wrestler’s stranglehold. She loosened his grip.

"I called the police. They had found out that the day before Dr. Grimes and I had an argument. I lost my temper and threatened his life. Please come and get me out of jail.

My friend, Abraham Bogen, told me you and Pop can stay in his parent’s house as long as you want."

Sadie turned to Nathan. What should we do?

We’ll leave tonight.

Listen, Jeffrey, your father and I will fly to England on the next plane out. Don’t worry. I’ll catch the murderer and free you.

With trembling fingers, Sadie hung up the phone. "Can you believe it? Some meshuganeh stabbed Jeffrey’s teacher and put the dagger in his briefcase, the one I gave Jeffrey. They arrested our poor son."

Nathan hurled the broom to the floor. His round face was livid. Sadie, if I told you once, I told you a billion and a half times not to buy that expensive briefcase for Jeffrey.

When Nathan got nervous his thinking got twisted like a pretzel. She had been in Macy’s looking for a going-away present for Jeffrey. Nathan had told her not to buy anything fancy-shmancy. He suggested a bathrobe. But when she passed the leather counter, a rich, mahogany-colored briefcase captured her eyes. It wasn’t cheap, but she was proud of her intellectual prince of a son who had won a scholarship to Oxford, the granddaddy of universities. Jeffrey had been so pleased with the gift he used it daily.

Nathan shrieked, You shouldn’t of bought him a briefcase fit for a millionaire.

"So now it’s my fault he’s in jail? If I bought him a cheap briefcase, the dagger wouldn’t ’ve wound up in it? You, Nathan Weinstein, always blame me for things that are not my fault, like the time I bought Jeffrey a bicycle and he fell off and broke his nose. Forget this narishkeit, this foolishness, and put a sign in the window CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE."

We ain’t closing the store. Think of all the money we’ll lose. With our son, Jeffrey, in Oxford and our daughter, Blossom, in Arizona State University, we need money by the barrel.

Sadie bit down on her lip. All right. We’ll let Roger run the store and cousin Fanny can help him once in a while.

Cousin Fanny? The old maid? Forget it, Sadie. I’ll make Roger full time and raise his salary.

Okay. But Fanny can come over sometimes to see that everything is running smoothly.

If Fanny knew how to take care of things, there ain’t no way she’d weigh two-hundred-and-fifty pounds. Let her sit home in the circus tent she wears. Don’t worry so, Sadie. The police will soon find out that Jeffrey ain’t no murderer.

The bell over the front door tinkled as a small woman came in and shook out her umbrella. Her long jet-black hair hung damply down her back. She opened her coat to reveal a gold and scarlet sari.

Iz terrible weather, today, she said, her dark eyes scanning Sadie and Nathan. Before hail, now rain gome down heavy.

Yes, Rhajmah. How are you doing? Sadie said as Nathan picked up the broom and resumed sweeping.

It’z okay I am. I gome for deliciouz kozsher picklez. A dozen, blease.

Sadie walked to the pickle barrel thinking about how much Rhajmah had helped her last winter when she was faced with solving a murder. She bent over the barrel, a pair of tongs in her hand. She drew out the first pickle and put it on a square of wax paper and handed it to Rhajmah, who began munching noisily in obvious enjoyment. Sadie picked out nine more and put them in a paper bag.

You got the last ten. We’ve run out of pickles. Sorry, Sadie said shaking her head.

A sad expression appeared on Rhajmah’s face as she paid for the pickles. You look not yourzelf today. Anything wrong, my friend?

Sadie felt a pang, as she thought of Jeffrey, uncertain of his future. She told the sad tale to Rhajmah, who sighed as she said, Lazt time when there waz a murder I helb with my pzychic powerz. If you need me when in England, gall my home. I helb again.

Thank you, Rhajmah. I’ll keep your generous offer in mind. Do you really think you can help me so far away and over the phone?

Diztance iz unimportant. You gall, Zadie. Day or night. I helb.

After Rhajmah left, Sadie and Nathan worked on the inventory for the coming weeks. Roger would have to order the groceries and keep the books, no easy task for a man who occasionally took a snort too many. But there was no one else to rely on and the two agreed the condition of the store was the least of their worries. It was Jeffrey they worried about.

Before they closed the store for the night, Nathan bent down and picked up the cat that kept the mice away. Nathan had traded a six-pack for him and dubbed him Shlimazel, meaning unlucky, because his mother had rejected him when he was just a kitten. The cat never took to Sadie, so she paid him no attention. As far as she was concerned, Shlimazel was Nathan’s cat and his responsibility.

Now, however, Sadie took the cat to free Nathan’s hands for locking up. With the rain still falling, Sadie tucked the wriggling cat into the shelter of her coat. Nathan pulled down the store’s accordian-steel barrier and secured it with three locks. An ambulance flew by, its siren wailing, followed by the pulsating alarm of a police car.

Police car! Oh, Jeffrey. We’re coming.

Sadie usually thrilled to the city’s dramatic bustle. For her, Flatbush was the next thing to Jerusalem, and the tympanic blasts added to its appeal. But now, everything created panic in her. Their Jeffrey was in big trouble.

Huddling under their big umbrella, they went around a corner, past the barbershop, past the fish market, down treeless Nostrand Avenue that was a main thoroughfare snaking its way through numerous Brooklyn neighborhoods, and turned the corner to their apartment house on Lenox Avenue. The driven rain beat down on the red brick apartment’s six stories, turning the red into the color of umber. They stepped into the empty, poorly lit lobby. Sadie swept back her wet hair. Nathan closed the umbrella and shook it out, the water puddling on the marble floor.

Sadie looked down at the floor. Do you know the super hasn’t washed this floor since Independence Day?

It’s filthy, Nathan agreed. He reached over and took the sheltered cat from Sadie’s arms. Sadie felt relieved of her burden.

Sadie said, Do you remember how lovely it was when we moved in twenty-four years ago? The lobby had an Oriental rug, cut-velvet upholstered chairs, and a carved sideboard?

Nathan glanced at the grimy, stained-glass casement windows, which now cast a shadowy gloom on everything.

Those were the good old days when you and me were slim.

I don’t weigh any more now than I did then, Sadie bragged. She sighed. The good old days before our son was jailed and may be imprisoned for life, or who knows, executed for murder.

We won’t let that happen, Nathan said.

Of course not, Sadie said, stamping her foot.

They moved to the elevator. Sadie pressed the down button. She never knew which button to press. Did one press down when you wanted the elevator to come down? Or should it be up, when you wanted to go up? She always puzzled.

Nathan sniffed as he stood before the elevator door, the cat no longer squirming. It stinks from urine in here now. Smells like the Times Square subway station.

It’s a pity everything in the lobby was stolen in the last ten years, Sadie said ruefully.

Yeah. It’ll never be beautiful again, Nathan said. He petted Shlimazel who purred loudly. The good old days is gone forever and they ain’t never coming back.

The elevator door opened with a grinding sound. They stepped into the poorly lit elevator, graffiti written on all four walls. Last week someone had written, Living in a nudist colony takes the fun out of Halloween. Nathan had protested it was crude, but Sadie thought it was cute. The elevator ground its way up to the fourth floor. They got out and walked to the end of the corridor. Nathan unlocked the door to Apartment 4D, put the cat down, and sat down at the telephone table in the foyer.

The apartment was small. Nathan called it tiny, but Sadie liked to refer to it as compact. There was a daybed for Jeffrey in the living room, and their younger child, Blossom, had the second bedroom.

Sadie went next door and returned in a few minutes. Mrs. Rosen will take care of the cat for as long as we’re away.

Good. I already called Blossom who said she wanted to go with us to England, but I told her she couldn’t. A fortune I’m paying for college. That’s where she belongs, not in England. We’ll take care of Jeffrey.

Sadie shook her head in agreement. She picked up Shlimazel and brought him over to Nathan who petted him.

Goodbye, Shlimazel, he said as Sadie opened the door to deliver him to her aging neighbor.

When Sadie returned, Nathan hung up the phone. Roger agreed to take charge of the store, he said. Now all we have to do is pack in a hurry and get to the airport on time.

Okay, Sadie said. She went into the small bedroom furnished with twin beds in an unmatched bedroom set. She pulled a heavy suitcase from under her bed, packed her blue suit, blue dress, jacket, sweater set, tweed skirts, beret, a week’s underwear, black lace nightgown, one frilly blouse and two conservative ones, a few sweaters, small umbrella, trenchcoat, a pound of cosmetics, two pairs of shoes, and one pair of slippers.

Nathan pulled a battered suitcase from under his bed and stuffed it with one Sabbath suit, two shirts, dungarees, boots, a sweater with a hole in the sleeve, a few torn boxer shorts, gray undershirts, a pair of purple pajamas, a flannel robe, and ten-year-old corduroy slippers. He closed his suitcase just as Sadie was adding her flannel nightgown and robe to her suitcase.

Nathan stared hard at Sadie. What is it? she asked.

I only have $700. Will it be enough?

I think so. We’ll be staying at the Bogen home. We won’t have to pay for lodging. Abraham told Jeffrey we’d be welcome in his parent’s home as long as we’re in England. They keep kosher so we have nothing to worry about in that department, and when they come to New York we’ll put them up in Blossom’s room.

Passports! Are they still okay? Nathan asked.

Sure. It’s a good thing we went to Israel two years ago, Sadie said. Nathan, did you remember our passports?

Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I remembered. England ain’t America. It’s a foreign country even though they speak English.

The doorbell rang at 9:15 p.m. Car service was waiting downstairs to take them to LaGuardia airport.

Nathan turned off the lights and locked the door. Sadie pressed both elevator buttons, just to be sure. They were on their way to England and Jeffrey, come what may.

***

Hand-in-hand, Sadie and Nathan held their breath until the plane leveled out at 38,000 feet.

Nathan’s eyelids drooped. When his eyeballs were no longer visible, Sadie, tapped his shoulder, and whispered, Don’t go to sleep. I want to talk to you.

Nathan stirred. It’s late. I’m tired and the Dramamine is making me sleepy. I can’t talk.

Then listen.

We’ll talk when we get there. Let me go to sleep, Sadie. I ain’t fully awake now.

Just one thing. You know I’m a good detective. So I’ll do all the investigating and you can take it easy.

Forget it. You ain’t got a license as a detective, and if you go ahead and make believe you’re one, you’ll land in an English jail.

I don’t need a license. Did Abraham Lincoln have a license to practice law?

You’re not Abraham Lincoln. He was tall and you’re small. Nathan closed his eyes.

I’m talking to you. Wake up, Sadie said, elbowing his side.

Sighing, Nathan said, For sure, you’ll get yourself in a mess of trouble. Leave the detecting to the police. Nathan turned his head away from Sadie sitting next to the window, now dark as night filled the sky.

If the police knew what they were doing, they wouldn’t ’ve arrested my son, Sadie protested.

Our son, Sadie. Our son. If we have to, we’ll hire a real detective. Get a lawyer. It’s enough I have to worry about Jeffrey. I ain’t gonna worry about you.

Chapter 2

It was midmorning and although sunspots danced wildly a considerable distance away, they had no impact on the dismal weather in London. No sunrays bounced off the Scotland Yard structure. Inside a conference had begun between the distinguished-looking Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard and the Chief Inspector of the Oxford Police.

Please be seated, Chief Inspector Gordon, Sir Donald Ward said politely, his deeply hued blue eyes alert and friendly.

Gordon, his face a map of worry lines, lowered himself into a mahogany chair next to the huge carved desk of the Assistant Commissioner.

May I offer you a spot of tea, Chief Inspector? Sir Donald asked.

Thank you. No.

Then let’s get down to the case at hand, Sir Donald said, picking up a thick green folder and opening it.

You know we have one of the gang in custody charged with Dr. Grimes’s murder, Gordon began.

"Tell me