Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death by Mark Reutlinger Read Free Book Online Page B

drugstore. I was relieved. Other residents climbed aboard, and pretty soon the shuttle van was almost full. Most residents like to get away into the outside world every now and then.
    Mrs. K and I chatted about nothing in particular as we waited for the shuttle to leave, being careful not to mention the recent events. Jenkins, the not-so-nice detective, had warned us not to tell anyone about what we were discussing in Mr. Pupik’s office, because it was not generally known about Daisy’s earrings being stolen or any of the other details of Bertha’s death. He didn’t have to bother: Believe me, neither Mrs. K nor I had any desire to announce publicly that she was under suspicion of theft and maybe even murder.
    Mrs. Rachel Silverman, a nice lady who had been at the Home for only about a year, got on the bus just in time. In fact Andy was already closing the doors when Rachel inserted her foot onto the step and he had to quickly open them again. Such a look he gave her!
    Rachel, who is not built for sprinting, or for any running at all for that matter, was quite out of breath from hurrying so as not to miss the ride downtown. She looked around for a seat and saw that there was one open on the long bench next to Mrs. K. She sat down and smiled at both of us, but she seemed unable to speak for the moment.
    Andy again closed the doors, after checking carefully that no one else was putting their foot in the middle. He shifted the gears with hardly any grinding sound, and we were on our way.
    It was not until after the bus left that Rachel finally was able to say to us, still somewhat breathless, “Good morning.” She paused and took another breath. “I just made it, didn’t I?” Another pause. “I need to do some shopping, so I didn’t want to miss the shuttle.”
    Mrs. K put her hand on Rachel’s and said, “We all seem to be running for something these days, don’t we? Even here at the Home it is not always so relaxing.”
    “But maybe that is good for us,” Rachel said. “Maybe running to catch a bus is better than sitting and looking out the window at the bus going by.”
    “Perhaps you are right,” I told her as the bus hit a bump and I almost fell onto Mrs. K’s lap, “but I don’t like to think that we have to run for buses in order to have some excitement in our lives.”
    Mrs. K seemed about to say something, probably about having more than enough excitement in her life at the moment, thank you, but apparently she thought better of it and only nodded in agreement.
    After a few minutes of silence, we both noticed that Rachel was looking quite upset about something, as if whatever thoughts she was thinking were not at all pleasant. Mrs. K finally asked Rachel whether there was something wrong.
    Rachel looked up as if she was startled. “Wrong? Not really. I was just thinking about my daughter Doreen.” As I recalled, Doreen, who I did not know personally, was one of those “second family” children, born maybe ten years after her brothers and sisters, when Rachel was already in her forties. That would make Doreen somewhere in her middle twenties perhaps.
    Mrs. K, although not one to butt into other people’s business uninvited, is nevertheless always ready to give an opinion if it is requested. And sometimes the request requires some prompting.
    “I have met Doreen,” Mrs. K said, “and she seems like a very nice girl. Very friendly.”
    “Perhaps too friendly,” Rachel said with a rueful tone and something close to rolling her eyes.
    “Too friendly?” I asked, now curious myself.
    “Yes,” Rachel said. “You see, Doreen is now living on her own, working at a local department store. She is twenty-six. She lived at home until last year, when my husband, Harry, passed away, and I came here to live.” Here Rachel paused and looked down at her hands, and it was clear that it was still painful for her to talk about her husband’s passing. But after a moment, she looked up again, cleared her