The Passover Murder by Lee Harris

before she died. Some of the entries were so cryptic I could not determine what they meant. “L’s wedding 4” on a Sunday referred, I assumed, to the person and the time of the event. Whether Dr. J. was a doctor or a dentist—or perhaps a chiropractor—I could not tell. Appointments continued beyond the date of her death. Had she lived, she would have attended a bridal shower for C on a Saturday afternoon. I took a sheet of paper and wrote down the family events, including the shower, to ask Marilyn about. I didn’t know if that would lead anywhere, but I had little else to work on. I also made a list of all the letters Iris used, presumably to refer to people, the M of the second seder, Dr. J., the C of the shower, and several others throughout the little book.
    What struck me was the absence of any reference to her friend Shirley Finster, or to Harry, the presumed boyfriend. Perhaps she hadn’t bothered noting with whom she attended the plays and operas since she would remember that without a reminder. And what about all those empty pages on Saturday nights, the traditional going-out night for single people? Did she have a steady beau for those evenings?
    I looked at my watch and decided it was time to think about dinner. I had some lamb and vegetables to stew, and the preparation would take a while. This being Friday, Jack would be home for dinner barring a problem at work.
    I browned the meat and cleaned the vegetables, appreciating the aroma from the pot. The house had warmed nicely, and cooking helped to make the kitchen even warmer and more inviting. When everything had been added, the pot covered and the flame turned down to a simmer, I boiled some water in my Christmas present from St. Stephen’s, a whistling teakettle, and got some tea out of the cabinet. Then I sat at the kitchen table with the paper and my cup of tea to enjoy the pleasure of my own company.
    When the phone rang a little before six, the time when Jack would ordinarily be leaving the station house, I sensed that my evening would be disrupted.
    “Hi, honey,” Jack’s voice said. “How’d it go?”
    “More interesting than either of us thought. We found something in Marilyn’s closet. I have a lot of things to talk to you about.”
    “It’ll have to wait, Chris. There’s a problem.”
    “You on a case?”
    “No. It’s family.”
    I felt a disquieting chill. His father had seen a doctor recently, and his mother had seemed worried about it. “Your dad?”
    “No. He’s fine. It’s something else. I can’t talk about it now. Look, I know it’s lousy, but I’m going to spend the night at Mom’s. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
    “Jack, is someone sick?”
    “Nobody’s sick. There’s just something I’ve got to work out here. You don’t mind staying alone, do you?”
    “I’ll be fine.”
    “Make a reservation for dinner tomorrow, OK?”
    “OK.”
    “I’m really sorry, honey.”
    “I just hope everything’s all right.”
    “We’ll work it out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    I sat down at the kitchen table feeling empty and bereft. Although I had spent some nights away from him over the Christmas holiday, Jack had never spent a night away from me. He had sounded strange over the phone, and his explanation had been vague. If it wasn’t illness, what else could it be? His parents were reasonably young and reasonably healthy. They both worked and had begun taking trips in the last few years for their vacations. I thought about calling them but decided not to interfere. For the first time since my marriage, I felt excluded from Jack’s family, and Jack’s family is pretty much the only family I have.
    It didn’t help that my fragrant stew was on the stove and that I had a million things I wanted to talk to Jack about. I sat for a few minutes, recovering as though I had had the wind knocked out of me. Then I went back to the phone and called Greenwillow, where Gene lived, and arranged for him to visit me for