Chapter 36

Why would a woman like Judy Cohen stay married to an arrogant shmuck like Bill McRae? People act like this is some big mystery, but in fact it’s pretty simple.

Judy was the eldest of three sisters, all overachievers, daughters of ambitious, education-endorsing, Depression-era Jews. As a Bryn Mawr grad, and a product of Jefferson Medical School, there was no question of her intelligence, her endurance, or her ability to make decisions under pressure.

So why settle for someone like McRae, when she could have had someone smarter, more sensitive, providing emotional support, a more compatible background, and a better income? In short, why didn’t she marry a good Jewish boy, there were so many nice ones available?

The reason, to be perfectly blunt, is that Judy Cohen was even more arrogant than her husband, though possibly less of a fool. She needed a man with a thick hide; otherwise the poor jerk would be pulverized by her. No Jewish men from families who have been in America a generation or more have this quality any longer, though many have been destroyed in the vain attempt to prove that they do.

Judy had always liked Bruno. She found him amiable, eccentric. She enjoyed hearing about his misadventures—from a distance. She’d also thought he was a terrible match for her sister and never hesitated to say so. McRae had liked to think of himself as the virtuous defender of … what? He was too sophisticated to use terms like “morality” or “virtue.” Instead he talked about what was “right,” or “just,” or when he was really inspired, “appropriate.” He liked to brag that he “could have made four times as much working in a law firm,” as if that made him a better person. Never mind that Judy’s income more than made up the difference.

According to McRae’s worldview, Bruno’s behavior wasn’t appropriate. He wasn’t a proper husband. He didn’t fit in with the family. He was a bad influence on the kids. He deserved it when Sharon cheated on him and divorced him. And if McRae had to break his skull to teach him a lesson, Bruno should thank him for the privilege.

Thankfully, Judy was a bit more rational. Once her baby sister was free of Bruno’s lunatic influence, she knew there was nothing to worry about. It gave her a leg up on her sister to be on friendly terms with “the ex.” She’d have welcomed Bruno’s attention to the kids, as it would’ve given her another potential babysitter.

Her acceptance of Bruno further enraged Bill, and his anger gave her additional leverage over her husband. So Judy invited Bruno in for a glass of wine when he appeared, panting, at her door.

“Been a while,” she noted laconically.

It was only then Bruno realized he hadn’t planned what he would do or say once he made it to Judy’s house. He couldn’t just blurt out, “Where’s Mimi? I need to interrogate her.” On the other hand, every second counted.

As Judy rummaged through the fridge, looking for an open bottle of chardonnay, Bruno said the first thing that came into his head: “Judy, you look fabulous.” And she really did. She was decked out in a smart, close-fitting wool dress, accessorized with a stunning gold brooch and matching earrings. Her dark eyes were expertly made up so there was no trace of wrinkles or signs of sleep deprivation in the young mother.

“Joey, you can’t be serious. I’m up until all hours with the baby. It’s even more exhausting than being on call. Fortunately I’m on extended maternity leave. Which is wonderful. I’m also using the time to catch up on some of my board work.”

“Judy, I’m in trouble,” Bruno said.

“Nothing surprising there. Actually, I’ve been reading about you in the paper. Quite a nasty little drama we have going on here in Gardenfield. I’ve been telling Bill we should move back to the Main Line; it actually seems safer.”

“Judy, I need to see Mimi. It’s urgent.”

“I knew you’d ask that.”

“So what’s your answer? I hear she still upset, which is understandable, and I promise …”

“Is Bill still going around saying she has PTSD?” Judy scowled.

“Yeah. He’s totally belligerent.”

“He’s just trying to protect his family, but I don’t want us—and Mimi especially—to become objects of pity.”

“So Mimi’s all right? Is it OK to talk to her? I promise it’ll be a nice little mazel for her and we’ll all get naches from it.”

“Since when do you speak Yiddish, Joey? I don’t know. Bill …”

—“Bill’s not here right now, and he won’t be back for a while. Something came up at the office tonight …”

“How do you know that?” Judy started.

“I was downtown earlier, with the police …” Bruno fibbed, though the statement was literally true.

“Let me think about it. I’ll show you the baby.”

Bruno was chafing to see Mimi. He looked at his watch. He had maybe 10 minutes until the police showed up. Admiring the baby was the price of admission. Not much, really, under the circumstances. It was just that the clock was ticking.

Judy led him to the nursery, which was fully equipped, to say the least. The bedroom looked like a combination of the Mayo Clinic and FAO Schwarz.

The baby was sleeping soundly, but Judy picked her up. A tactical error in Bruno’s opinion. He could have easily admired her in the crib. There wasn’t much to see in any case. She was swaddled in a fleece sleeper and she had a nightcap. She was a healthy kid equipped with generic features—golden hair, round face, fat cheeks and upturned nose—that would modulate into individual attributes as time went by.

“Can I hold her?” Bruno whispered.

Judy handed him the sleeping child. She struggled to get comfortable in Bruno’s arms, but didn’t wake up. He guessed she weighed about 20 pounds. “How old is she?” he whispered.

“Forty-nine weeks,” answered Judy, glowing with pride. Bruno wrestled with the math, then realized she was just shy of her first birthday. Why did parents have to be so precise?

“She’s an angel,” Bruno cooed. “Does she have a name?”

“Of course she has a name. Ernestine,” said Judy proudly. “We named her after our favorite singer, Ernestine Anderson.”

“Ernestine Cohen-McRae,” sang Bruno, bouncing the child slightly in time with the refrain. “Sort of a mouthful.” Bruno chuckled. “I’m gonna call you Ernie. Beautiful little Ernie. Ernie the Angel.”

It’s hard to get too upset when someone is calling your daughter a beautiful angel, but Judy tartly informed Bruno that no one was ever going to call her child “Ernie” and live to tell about it. It was Ernestine, plain and simple.

“Beautiful little Ernestine,” Bruno acquiesced, handing the baby back to her mother, humming, “Look out, baby, you might’a made your move too soon …”

“Bill wanted a boy,” Judy explained vaguely. “He still does. But it’s not going to be Ernestine and I’m never getting pregnant again, so he’ll just have to …” She noticed Bruno’s expectant look and realized she didn’t have to finish the thought. “I’ll go get Mimi,” said Judy. “She’s downstairs watching TV.”

A moment later, an excited eight-year-old in flannel pajamas decorated with Dalmatians wearing fire helmets bounded up the stairs and threw herself in Bruno’s arms. She was followed by a lanky creature the size of a small giraffe, which turned out to be the Cohen-McRaes’ Russian wolfhound.

Bruno was amazed to receive such a wonderful hug from his niece, whom he had not seen in more than three years. Was it the Hanukkah presents? Or just one of life’s little mysteries? Nothing to do but enjoy it. For a minute or two. They were quickly running out of time.

“Mimi, it’s so wonderful to see you.” Bruno returned the hug. He had to be careful. His eyes were tearing up. “Did your mama tell you why I’m here? I wish it were more of a fun visit, but I have to talk to you about the day you found that girl in the meeting house.”

“Oh that? That’s no big deal. Ask me anything you want.”

What a relief. Somebody was actually cooperating. He led Mimi to a soft leather armchair and knelt in front of her so he could take her hands in his upraised palms.

The wolfhound took advantage of this to come over and sniff Bruno’s rear. Then he tried to lick his face. “What’s your puppy’s name, honey?”

Mimi giggled. “Trotsky.”

“Ah, of course. If I were a dog psychic I would have known. Why’d you name him Trotsky?”

“Because the McRaes stick up for the underdog.”

“What about the Cohens?”

“I dunno.”

“Mimi, would you mind if we send Trotsky into exile? Just for a minute or two while we’re trying to do this?”

Judy stepped forward. She still was holding Ernestine in her arms. “I’ll lock him in the TV room,” she offered. “But don’t do anything till I get back. I need to watch every move you make.”

“That’s fine, Judy. I just need quiet.”

He looked at Mimi in the big leather chair. She had dark hair like her mother’s and eyes that were almost black. Her skin was olive-hued, but the excitement had brought a rosy glow to her lips and cheeks. There was no trace of McRae in Mimi’s looks, which gave Bruno a sense of satisfaction.

Judy returned and Bruno again held Mimi’s hands. He told her to close her eyes and try to remember exactly what she saw that morning in the meeting house. He closed his as well and tried to concentrate.

Nothing was coming, so he tried another approach. He told Mimi to fold her hands in her lap. He stood in front of her with his hands about a half inch from her temples. To Judy, it looked as though he was using her daughter’s head as a crystal ball. Whether that was accurate or not, it worked. Incredibly well.

There was a loud zapping noise like lightning and contact was made. At that moment, Bruno had a clear view of the murdered girl, just as Mimi had seen her, disheveled and slumped over on the bench. The suddenness and clarity caused him to cry out. And Mimi cried out too; it didn’t hurt, she reported later, it was just the surprise of something so totally unfamiliar.

Then, just as the noise of Bruno and Mimi’s outburst subsided, there came a furious banging on Judy’s front door.

“Must be that furshlugginer Biff,” Bruno muttered with frustration. He could have used a few more minutes and he tried to reestablish contact with Mimi.

A moment later there was a heavy thud and the explosive sound of splintered wood. In burst McRae. He’d just broken down the door of his own house with a sledgehammer.