The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) by Joan Cochran (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

“I called a few days ago. Told her I’d drive up to Broward, take her out for a nice dinner. She says she can’t afford a sitter. So I say, let your husband sit.” He dumps the remaining General Tso’s on his plate. “She was not interested.”

“Is that why you think she’s lying?”

Tootsie compresses his lips and sits back in his chair. “It’s more than that. It’s the kids, the husband. I don’t know. Maybe there’s something to this blood thing. She doesn’t even feel like mishpachah.” He uses the Yiddish term for family. “I’d call her father but—”

“He’s a gonif,” I finish for him. A crook. My father paid for Zvi’s education, including law school, and is as upset over my cousin’s lack of gratitude as he is by Zvi’s reputation as an ambulance chaser.

“I haven’t heard much from Sella either,” I continue. “She sent a card after Rosh Hashanah, apologized for cancelling dinner.”

I’d invited Sella’s family and my father for Rosh Hashanah along with my friends Aviva and Noah. It was nice but the holiday felt incomplete without Daniel and the boys. I couldn’t ask Josh to travel so far and Gabe had a hundred excuses for not coming home.

“Sella emailed me some jokes, but I haven’t been all that good about contacting her,” I tell my father. “I emailed her about a month ago, suggested we get together now that I’m not so busy. She never replied.”

“You going to try again?”

“Why not?”

One hears a good deal about blood being thicker than water. That’s how I feel about Sella. I hadn’t seen her in years. But she is my cousin, one of the few in Miami, and I want her in my life. She’s intelligent and attractive, the kind of daughter I’d have liked for myself. Her life hasn’t taken the course I’d want for my children and I feel bad about that, wondering if there’s anything I could have done.

These thoughts run through my mind Monday as I dress for a meeting with my editor. After the morning appointment to go over ideas for my article and discuss new assignments, I’m free for the day. I call Sella from the car.

She picks up on the third ring. I hear a man’s voice in the background, but can’t tell if it’s Craig or the television.

“Honey, it’s me,” I tell her, “Becks Ruchinsky. I’m going to be in your area this afternoon and wonder if you’re free.”

She’s silent.

“Your cousin. Tootsie’s daughter. I thought we could get together for lunch.”

“Sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice. Things are so hectic here. Can you hold a sec?”

I wait. When she comes back on, the noise is gone. “I’d love to see you but we have one car and Craig uses it to look for work.”

“That’s okay. I’ll stop by and pick you and the kids up. Maybe we can run over to the mall since you’re so near.”

“That’s a plan,” she says, sounding less than enthusiastic.

The line goes dead. I say her name three times and wait a few seconds. I’m about to hang up when she comes back on the line.

“Becks, you know I’d love to see you. But things aren’t going well. I don’t think it’s a good idea to take off just now.”

She sounds worried.

“Is everything okay? You want me to stop by?”

“No.” The word comes out in a rush of air. “I want to get together. Honestly. But today’s not good. Another time, okay?”

Before I can speak, the receiver clicks.

The phone call leaves me with an uncomfortable, out-of-sorts sensation. She didn’t make much of an effort to explain why she can’t see me or suggest another date. It seems odd, a bit insulting, after she sought me out. I think back to my father’s words: “The little pisher’s a liar.” I wonder if he sensed something I missed.

After the meeting with my editor, I stop in the newspaper’s research department. Maya Dipaolo, with whom I’d become friendly while collaborating on stories, agrees to run a search on Sella and Craig Miles. I feel sneaky. But I am an older relative. I have an obligation to look after her.

I sit on a wooden chair at the corner of Myra’s desk and read the newspaper as she taps at the keyboard.

“That’s weird,” she says after a few minutes.

I stand and look over her shoulder. The monitor reads: “Craig Miles, a.k.a. Craig McPherson, a.k.a. Greg Minos.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I tried a few sites and finally got a hit on the Broward criminal court system.” Maya says. “Doesn’t look good.”

I wait as she scrolls down the page.

“There might be more than one Craig Miles. It’s not such an odd name.” She tries to reassure me. “I hope it isn’t your cousin’s husband.

Look at that.” She points to a column on the far right of the monitor. The Craig Miles listed on the screen had twice been charged with identity theft, but acquitted. My stomach clenches. Does this mean Sella’s a con? Or is she being conned?

“Anything else?” Maya asks. She looks up when I don’t answer. “I’m sorry,” she says “Maybe it isn’t him.”

“Yeah, sure.” I give Maya a peck on the cheek and turn down her offer of lunch. I have no appetite.

I call my father that night and tell him what I’ve learned. He insists I let it go — that Sella’s a con artist too and I’m better off without her. I decide to drop the subject until after the high holidays, then give her a call.

The following Sunday is the day before Yom Kippur, when it’s traditional to visit the cemetery and honor one’s ancestors. Normally, I wouldn’t remember. But this year Tootsie insists I drive him to Mount Nebo, where Miami’s Jews are buried.

Plotniks have been in South Florida for over a half century and, in that time, we’ve made a nice little investment in Mount Nebo real estate. Problem is, deceased Plotniks are dispersed