Free Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death by Mark Reutlinger

left, I assume to talk with other residents.”
    “Did you recognize him?”
    “No. He was not one of the
goyim
I am used to seeing at the Home.”
    “Well,” Mrs. K said, “that is strange, since we are usually told ahead of time when Gentiles are to visit our
seder,
so we know to welcome them, and I do not recall this being mentioned. But since we do not know who he was, and he was apparently sitting there for only a minute, and a priest would be unlikely to steal a pair of earrings, we will have to leave him off the list for now. I will try to remember to ask about him at the Home.”
    On this we agreed. She now consulted her list again and said, “So we are down to suspect number three, all of the help.”
    “What do you mean, ‘all of the help’?”
    “I mean everyone who helped to serve dinner could have stolen the earrings and then accidentally dropped one into the soup. Maybe out of a pocket of an apron where they were hidden.”
    “That is possible, but it too seems to me unlikely,” I told Mrs. K.
    “Maybe I agree with you it is unlikely,” she responded. “But we are making a list of who
could
have dropped the earring, and at this point, because we have no likely suspects, it must include even the unlikely. Besides, if Daisy did leave her door open, as we both know she has done many times, almost anyone in the building could have taken those earrings, including most of those who later were serving. So let us think about who was serving.”
    I did think, but I was not noticing such things at the time. Why should I? I did not know that I had reason to be noticing them until now.
    Nevertheless, I took a stab at it. “Well, we know of course that up front was Mary, who caused all the commotion. I am sure that if she had tried to drop anything in the soup, it would have fallen on the floor instead.”
    Mrs. K laughed. “Yes, she is perhaps least likely. Now, who was serving us?”
    “I think we were served by either Jerry Anderson, the night watchman’s boy—he was filling in because of the extra guests—or by Frank—I always forget his last name—you know, one of the regular waiters. I am pretty certain it was not a woman.”
    “Yes, I agree, and now that you mention him, I think it was Frank,” Mrs. K said. “I believe his last name is Neilson or Nelson or something like that. No, it is Nelson, I’m sure.” She made an entry in her notebook.
    Just then I remembered something: “Wasn’t it Frank whose wife was so sick last year that he had to miss work to take care of her? It must have cost him a lot of lost wages, not to mention her being out of work as well.”
    “I think you are right, Ida.” Another scribble in her notebook.
    “I also remember,” she said, “hearing that Adele, who usually serves at dinner, has been ill, so she was not there for the
seder
. I distinctly recall that Betsy, the plump woman with the unruly hair she always has to keep pinned down under her cap, was serving at the table across from us. I remember thinking that a woman of that size should not be bending over quite so far; it is not a pretty sight. That leaves one more server, whoever replaced Adele.”
    We both were silent for a few minutes while we tried to think of the fifth server.
    “I have it,” Mrs. K said finally. “I remember now that there was a middle-aged man, whom I did not recognize, serving at breakfast, and I am almost certain he was there again for the
seder
. I don’t know his name, but he had a dark complexion and wore a somewhat shabby blue suit. Did you notice him too?”
    I did not notice, but then Mrs. K always notices a lot more things than I do. I sometimes think she and I are living in two different but parallel worlds, hers being filled with many more interesting details than mine.
    “Is not the one who was serving Bertha Finkelstein, and so might have dropped the earring into her soup, the only one who counts?” I asked.
    “Well, that would be the most likely,” she