The Second Rule of Ten: A Tenzing Norbu Mystery (Dharma Detective: Tenzing Norbu Mystery) by Gay Hendricks Read Free Book Online Page B

right.
    Bill’s calm voice tugged me back. “We just have a few questions we need to ask, Mrs. Rudolph.”
    “Yes, yes.” She waved vaguely at the dining room. “I should offer you something to drink.”
    “We’re fine,” Bill said. I thought longingly about coffee, but I knew he was right. She pulled over the most uncomfortable chair in the living room, a straight-backed antique number, and perched on its edge, facing us. She sat very still, looking at the floor, neither patient nor impatient. Everything she did seemed to be a beat or two behind normal, and it was hard to get a read on her. Grief does strange things to people.
    Then again, so do pills. I remembered the last time I’d seen her daughter, stoned to the gills. Maybe Mom was her role model.
    “Is Harper home?” I asked, gently. She looked blank for a moment, and then said, “Harper? No, no, she’s at school. I thought it was best that she go. She’s doing so much better at her new school.” Her expression brightened at the thought of her daughter then sagged again, as if weighted down by the recollection that her husband was dead. She met my eyes. Hers were huge, but the pupils didn’t seem dilated.
    Bill said, “I’m very sorry for your loss. Please accept our condolences.”
    “I asked my Rabbi, why? Is this a punishment from God? For him? For me?” Her eyes filled. “Marv wasn’t always like this, you know,” she said. “He wasn’t always so . . . “ She blinked, and tears spilled over.
    “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Bill repeated. I was silent.
    Homicide detectives are trained to say, “I’m sorry for your loss,” to the next of kin, but I seldom connect to these words. Maybe it’s a Buddhist thing. I know it’s important to acknowledge another’s pain, but if I tune in, deep down inside, I usually don’t feel comfortable using the word sorry. Why apologize for someone else’s loss, especially when all involved are strangers? It borders on egotistical. In this case, it would also be a lie. I did not feel sad. Not for the demise of Marv Rudolph and not for his surviving wife. Most of us are in for a rough ride as we get older, even more so if we’re overweight, chronic cigar-smokers. Maybe Marv got lucky; his limited time on earth came to a fairly painless and swift end rather than a long, slow, painful one. And as for Arlene, I had a hunch she was well rid of him.
    Marv’s wife wrung her hands. “This is all such a shock. I don’t know what to do.” Her voice rose. “I need to bury him. I need to put him into the ground, so he . . . so he can have some peace, and we can sit shivah. It’s almost Shabbat. Why are they keeping him so long? What are they doing to his poor body?” She doubled over, moaning.
    And now, I did feel a surge of compassion. I walked over to her and put my hand on her thin shoulder, but she pulled away. After a moment, she straightened up, folding her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl. I returned to my chair.
    “This won’t take long,” Bill said. “I apologize. There’s no easy way to ask these questions, ma’am.”
    “Ma’am,” she said with a thin smile. “Ma’am makes me feel so old. Please. Arlene.”
    “First, and again, ma . . . Arlene, I apologize, but we have to ask. Can you tell me where you were late Wednesday night and early Thursday morning?”
    She blinked. “I was, I was at a lecture at my temple on Wednesday night. Temple Beth Adel. It was a talk about redemption—Jewish Women and Redemption. I took Harper. Then, I went to bed early. A few hours later, Harper woke me up. She wanted to know when her father was getting home. I said I didn’t know. Late.” Arlene’s voice faltered. She licked her lips. “She said she needed his signature for something, umm, some school trip coming up.” She smiled a little smile. “She’s doing so much better at her new school,” she repeated.
    I was glad. She needed to be doing better.
    Bill was jotting down Arlene’s