The old woman regarded us blankly. I wondered if she was on medication.
Ryan held out his badge.
Dora looked at it, her expression passive. It was obvious she didn’t know who we were.
I offered the bouquet and cookies.
“Shabbat shalom,”I said.
“Shabbat shalom,”she said, more reflex than greeting.
“We’re so very sorry about your son, Mrs. Ferris. I’ve been away, or I would have called sooner.”
Dora took my offerings and bent to smell the flowers. Straightening, she inspected the cookies, then returned them to me.
“Sorry, miss. They are not kosher.”
Feeling like an idiot, I put the cookies in my purse.
Dora’s eyes floated to Ryan, then back to me. They were small and moist and frosted with age.
“You were there at my son’s autopsy.” Slight accent. Maybe Eastern European.
“Yes, ma’am. I was.”
“There’s no one here.”
“We’d like to talk to you, Mrs. Ferris.”
“To me?” Surprise. A little fear.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Miriam’s gone to market.”
“This will only take a moment.”
She hesitated, then turned and led us through a smoky-mirrored entry to a plastic-covered grouping in a small sunny living room.
“I’ll find a vase. Please sit.”
She disappeared down a hallway to the right of the entrance. I looked around.
The place was a testimonial to sixties bad taste. White sateen upholstery. Laminated oak tables. Flocked wallpaper. Wall-to-wall gold semishag.
A dozen smells bickered for attention. Disinfectant. Garlic. Air freshener. From somewhere a closet or chest threw in a bid for cedar.
Dora shuffled back and we spent a few moments flower arranging.
Then, dropping into a wooden rocker with pillows strapped to its seat and back, she spread her feet and arranged her dress. Blue cross-trainers poked from below the hem.
“The children are with Roslyn and Ruthie at the synagogue.”
I assumed those were the daughters-in-law from the other duplexes.
Dora clasped her hands in her lap and looked down at them. “Miriam has returned to the butcher for something she left behind.”
Ryan and I exchanged glances. He nodded that I should begin.
“Mrs. Ferris, I know you’ve already talked with Detective Ryan.”
The frosted gaze came up, level and unblinking.
“We hate to disturb you again, but we’re wondering if anything new has come to mind since those conversations.”
Dora shook her head slowly.
“Did your son have any unusual visitors in the weeks before his death?”
“No.”
“Had your son argued with anyone? Complained about anyone?”
“No.”
“Was he involved in any political movements?”
“Avram’s life was his family. His business and his family.”
I knew I was repeating the same questions Ryan had asked. Interrogation 101. Sometimes the ploy works, triggers previously forgotten recollections or details initially deemed irrelevant.
And this was the first time Dora had been questioned alone.
“Did your son have enemies? Anyone who might have wished him harm?”
“We are Jews, miss.”
“I was thinking of a specific individual.”
“No.”
New tack.
“Are you acquainted with the men who observed your son’s autopsy?”
“Yes.” Dora pulled on an ear and made a gurgling sound in her throat.
“Who chose those individuals?”
“The rabbi.”
“Why did only two men return in the afternoon?”
“That would have been the rabbi’s decision.”
“Do you know a man by the name of Kessler?”
“I once knew a Moshe Kessler.”
“Was he in attendance at your son’s autopsy?”
“Moshe died during the war.”
My cell phone chose that moment to sound.
I checked the screen.
Private number.
I ignored the call.
“Were you aware that your son sold antiques?”
“Avram sold many things.”
My phone rang again.
Apologizing, I turned it off.
Impulse. Frustration. Inspiration. A name in my head like an unwanted jingle. I’m not sure why I asked the next question.
“Do you know a man named Yossi Lerner?”
The furrows cornering Dora’s eyes deepened. The wrinkled lips tucked in.
“Does that name mean something to you, Mrs. Ferris?”
“My son had a friend named Yossi Lerner.”
“Really?” I kept my face neutral, my voice calm.
“Avram and Yossi met as students at McGill.”
“When was that?” I didn’t look at Ryan.
“Years ago.”
“Did they keep in touch?” Casual.
“I have no idea. Oh, dear.” Dora gulped air into her lungs. “Is Yossi involved in all this?”
“Of course not. I’m just throwing out names. Do you know where Mr. Lerner lives now?”
“I haven’t seen Yossi in years.”
The front door opened, closed. Seconds later Miriam appeared in the living room.
Dora smiled.
Miriam stared at us, face so devoid of expression she could have been studying moss. When she spoke, it was to Ryan.
“I told you my mother-in law is unwell. Why are you bothering her?”
“I’m fin-” Dora started to speak.
Miriam cut her off.
“She’s eighty-four and has just lost her son.”
Dora made atsk sound.
As before, Ryan gave Miriam silence, waited for her to fill it. This time she didn’t.
Dora did.
“It’s all right. We were having a nice discussion.” Dora flapped a blue-veined hand.
