When I arrived at Saul Abramovitz’s house the next morning, there was a heated argument in progress. I could hear them from the driveway. I rang the doorbell and when the maid answered, I finessed my way passed her and into Saul Abramovitz’s home.
The loud voices belonged to the senior and junior Mrs. Abramovitzs. It seems the junior Mrs. Abramovitz was not going to sit shiver. Sylvia Abramovitz had shown up un-invited bringing with her a Rabbi to recite prayers and black cloth for covering all the mirrors.
Rose Abramovitz, a striking brunette in her late thirties, was screaming at the top of her lungs. “I hope that SOB rots in hell!” She turned and saw me standing at the edge of her living room and directed her anger towards me. “Who the hell are you!”
I’m Margaret Larson, I said, stumbling over my own introduction. My husband died in a plane crash a few months back, and I wanted to talk with you.”
“Oh! A God damn grief counselor. Well, you can go back and tell your airline that there has been some sort of mistake. Saul Abramovitz isn’t dead. But that son of bitch is going to wish he were.”
“No, I said, I’m not a grief counselor. I’m here trying to find out why Saul, if I may call him Saul, was on that plane.
“She wants to know why Saulie was on the plane, she said spinning around to face Sylvia Abramovitz. “I’ll tell you why he was on that plane, and it had nothing to do with business like he told his mother, here. No, he was on that plane on his way to Mexico trying to divorce me. See, right here!” She came charging across the room waiving a legal document at me — recognizable by its distinctive blue backing.
“My divorce papers arrived this morning. My guess is, his lawyer was so busy trying to keep his ass out of jail, for opening that door on the plane, that he forgot to stop the divorce papers. I was supposed to get this after it was too late for me to do anything about it,” she screamed.”
“You and Saul were getting a divorce?”
“Nobody is getting a divorce around here. Not now. Not ever. And he’s certainly not divorcing me and putting some twenty-two year blonde bimbo in my place. I don’t care how knocked-up she is.”
“Saul is jail?” I asked.
“It’s all some horrible mistake, said Sylvia. He was scared. You and Frankie had told him not to fly because someone was trying to kill him and then the plane crashed. He was scared out of his mind. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“You know her, Rose said pointing in my direction.
Sylvia went on with her defense of her son. “It’s like I told you and Frankie. He’s a good boy. He never raised a finger in anger to anyone. Not even when that horrible Rebecca Schuster killed his dog. She’s a weird one that girl. I’ll bet it’s her cousin Lester that’s trying to kill my Saul.”
And with that she started crying and clutching her chest. The rabbi, who was doing his best to blend in with the Waverly wallpaper helped Sylvia to one of the living room’s floral printed Queen Ann chairs. Rose opened a bottle of Perrier water, poured some in a Waterford glass and handed it to Sylvia.
“If you had curved some of your spending, and had treated him better, perhaps my Saul would not have been on that plane. You were bankrupting him! And it’s the right thing to do – to sit Shiva for the dead even if they’re not members of our family. It shows respect.”
The argument started again. I left and went back to the hotel. I’d call Frank later and let him know what I’d found out.