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

It’s obvious why my father insists on these visits, which could be handled by phone. When he retired, Tootsie surrendered his status as a successful businessman. That couldn’t have been easy for a man with my father’s ego. When he visits Solly, the two of them rehash events from when Tootsie still owned the business. His visits with Solly bring him back, for a brief period, from the invisible world of the aged.

When Solly invites us back this morning, Tootsie gives me a dismissive nod, which I ignore. I follow the men down the hall and join my father in one of two green paisley wingback chairs that flank the lawyer’s desk. Once the ceremonial cheese Danish is consumed and small talk exhausted, Solly settles back in his chair.

“So, Mr. Plotnik, you want to change your will?” His glance in my direction is an unspoken “again.”

Tootsie flattens his palms on the desk and leans in toward Solly as though offering a valuable stock tip. “I’ve been doing some thinking. About the past. I’ve been a lucky guy. A successful business. A wonderful wife and children. It’s time to give something back.”

“That’s very commendable,” Solly says.

“Yeah, well.” Tootsie shrugs. “I’ve thought it out and decided to leave twenty-five thousand to the Karpowsky Center. That’s the part of the Schmuel Bernstein that works with Alzheimer’s patients.”

Alzheimer’s patients? I think. Tootsie never gave a damn about Alzheimer’s patients.

“Any special reason?” Solly asks. Then he frowns. “You haven’t been diagnosed with —”

“Don’t talk crazy. I’m sharp as a tack. It just seems like a worthwhile cause.” He looks at me and then Solly, his face darkening. “Is there something wrong with giving them dough?”

“Not at all. It’s a wonderful organization.” The lawyer raises his hand in assurance, then scribbles on a yellow pad. “Anything else?”

“That’s it.”

“I’ll make the changes and mail it to you. Stop by when you’re ready to sign.” He rises and we follow him back to the waiting area.

“Good to see you, Mr. Plotnik.” he says, shaking my father’s hand. Then to me, “Take good care of your father. You’re lucky you still have this character around.”

I smile and drape my arm across Tootsie’s shoulders. “Don’t I know it.”

The elevator’s crowded so I wait until we return to the car, pull out of the parking garage, and stop at a light to pop the obvious question.

“So what’s the deal with the Karpowsky Wing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Since when do you care about Alzheimer’s disease?”

“I’ve always cared about Alzheimer’s.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. A lot of old guys at the Schmuel Bernstein have it.”

“Anyone you know?”

“Not offhand.”

“So what’s with the donation? And why now?”

The light changes and I take a left. Tootsie doesn’t speak for a block or two.

Then, defensively, “Everybody’s got to go some time. Why not spend my hard-earned money where it’ll do some good. There’s plenty to go around. You girls don’t need it all.”

It’s not the first time he’s accused us of hovering like hungry vultures over his so-called fortune. I refuse to take the bait.

“It’s so sudden. You ran into Mrs. Karpowsky two months ago, and now you’re making a donation to her family foundation. This wouldn’t have anything to do with Fat Louie, would it?”

My father glares. “Such as?”

“Such as trying to make amends to his widow?”

“Could be. Or not. Either way, it’s none of your business.” He stares ahead, jaw clenched.

I drop him off at the Schmuel Bernstein and return home. I’d love to know what this is about.

I swear as I pull around the semicircular paved driveway in front of my house. The lawn man’s late again and the grass is up to my ankles. When Daniel was home I wouldn’t have minded. It was his job to complain to the yard service or do the mowing himself. I slam the car door and stomp up the stairs to the front porch. The Mercedes’ air conditioner barely wheezes out cool air and I’m anxious to escape the heat. Tootsie’s refusal to explain his largesse to the Karpowsky Center irks me and I haven’t eaten in hours. I want to go inside and make lunch.

I put my key to the doorknob but, before I can insert it, the door swings open. I hesitate, more perturbed than worried. I’ve been careful about locking doors, especially since Daniel left. Then I remember. I left the house through the garage that morning but must have forgotten to pull the front door fully closed when I got the newspaper earlier in the day. Still, I’m a bit uneasy. I live in a safe neighborhood, but who knows? Plenty of strangers drive down my street on their way to cleaning and lawn maintenance jobs.

I go into the kitchen and wolf down a tuna on rye. When I finish, I head to the dining room, which I turned into an office after Daniel left. The sandwich has carbed me into a state of relaxed bliss and I’m ready to get to work. But as I turn the corner from the hall into the dining room, I slam to a halt. A chill edges up my spine. Someone’s pulled the drawers of my file cabinet off their treads and dumped the contents! Paper is strewn across every surface—the floor, the dining room table, my grandmother’s walnut buffet.

I stand frozen a full minute, holding my breath and taking in the scene. Then the adrenalin kicks in and my shock turns to anger. Who would do a thing like this? My first thought is Daniel? Was he looking for something he could use against me in a divorce? But that’s unlikely. He knows where I file my papers. And a man who calls daily, pleading with his wife to take him back, doesn’t break into his estranged wife’s house. Then again, I never thought he’d cheat on me.

But the alternative is worse. Robbers looking for jewelry or drugs? I’m so furious that I race around the room, grabbing