Death Of A Dream Maker by Katy Munger Read Free Book Online Page B

cautiously raised his head a few inches until his
eyes were just above the level of the windowsill. Through the thin
gauze curtains, he saw the widow—cleaned up and encased in what
looked like a black cocktail dress. She was sitting on a plain
wooden crate, leaning back on one elegant arm. A new veil swept
back over her miraculously restored hair and there was not a trace
of mud in sight. She was laughing prettily at a male guest while
she sipped from a martini held in her free hand. A butler hovered
nearby with a silver tray, waiting for the refill request.
    “She thinks sitting on a crate excuses her from
flirting at her own husband's funeral?” Auntie Lil was so agitated
that she pushed T.S. out of the way and stole another look inside.
“I can't believe this. Take a look at the hallway.”
    They peeked together at a short passageway leading
off the living room toward the back porch. Someone had tacked a
piece of plain cloth over the floor-length mirror in accordance
with Jewish tradition. But a cluster of ladies had pulled up one
corner of the cloth and were busy inspecting their lipstick and
adjusting their sodden hairdos.
    “Disgusting,” T.S. was quick to agree, although he
was referring to their hairstyles and not their failure to uphold
the true spirit of Judaism.
    “I agree,” a harsh voice answered inches behind
T.S.'s ear. “They are all absolutely disgusting.”
    T.S. and Auntie Lil jumped. They turned to find the
hooded eye of Max's older sister fixed coldly upon them.
    “I know you,” she said to Auntie Lil. “So don't
pretend you don't know me.”
    “Of course I know you. How are you, Rebecca?” Auntie
Lil held out a white-gloved hand. The old woman did not take it.
Auntie Lil let it drop, then very casually flicked several damp
vines from her shoulders. It was probably not a coincidence that
they landed on Rebecca's black-booted feet.
    “I'm terribly sorry about your brother,” Auntie Lil
said. Whether she liked Rebecca or not, Auntie Lil knew her
manners.
    “Of course you're sorry. Never stopped loving him, I
suppose.”
    “No, I never did.”
    “None of them ever did,” Rebecca answered nastily.
“He always left them before they stopped loving him.”
    “Actually, I left him.” Auntie Lil's gaze was steady
and cool. “What he chose to do with the rest of his life was his
business, not mine.”
    Rebecca's good eye narrowed; the hooded eye jumped.
Her mouth curled in what may have been an attempt at a smile as she
said, “I want to talk to you. I saw you peeking in the window. You
Hubberts have got the biggest heads in town. I presume you have a
car, so we can talk in private?” She was ancient and skinny, but
she had the no-nonsense rapid-fire delivery of an auctioneer.
    “Follow me,” Auntie Lil said. She used her umbrella
to hack through the bushes and vines as if she were on an
anthropological expedition. T.S. and Rebecca obediently
followed.
    They made a furtive parade back to the car. As much
as T.S. and Auntie Lil wished to avoid being spotted, Rebecca
Rosenbloom seemed to want it more. She clung close to the hedge and
pulled her shawl closely around her face. She slipped into the
backseat silently and sank down against the upholstery, where she
would be hidden by the fogged car windows.
    “Some people are saying Max was involved with the
Mob. Or that someone in the family killed him,” she announced. “The
papers all say it. News stations, too. Even the neighbors.
Pah!”
    Surely she had not spit on the floor of his car? T.S.
fervently hoped not.
    “Of course they are,” Auntie Lil replied in a
superior tone of voice. “Ninety percent of all mur—”
    “I'm not interested in your damn statistics,
Lillian.” The old woman turned to T.S. “She was always so annoying.
Spouting facts and figures. The two of them together. Ach! There
was no disagreeing with those two. No such thing as a peaceful
family dinner. Could we talk about something simple like weather?
Oh no,