'Yes, and more's the pity. So what we need to know is,' she continued, 'how many Katherine Williamses are out there? A dozen? A hundred? More? You have quite the dossier at the licensing board.'

Wisely, Carl kept his mouth shut.

'You have to wonder,' Mattie Perez continued, pacing slowly in front of Carl. 'Is someone dishing out just desserts to the local dealers? And, Carl, I suspect there are one or two little details you've left out. If I were you ' she stopped and leaned over his desk 'I'd cough up everything now.'

'I want my lawyer,' he said.

'Whatever for, Carl?' Hank asked. 'No one's charging you with anything.'

'She's badgering me. I don't have to take this,' he said, whining like a schoolboy, his thoughts fixed on the waiting bottle, needing it desperately.

'We're trying to look after you, Carl. While Detective Perez may come across a little hard; we don't want to see you turn up dead.'

McElroy blanched. He gripped his hands tighter; he couldn't make the shaking stop. His entire body felt like it was vibrating, a darkness closed in on his thoughts, making it hard to think; just keep your mouth shut. They've got to leave some time.

Mattie and Hank watched and waited. The silence was complete.

Finally, Carl spoke. 'I have nothing to say; I'd like you to leave.'

Hank wasn't surprised. They'd pushed too hard.

Disappointment flashed across Detective Perez's face.

'Have it your way, Carl,' Hank said. 'Think about it, though. Whatever you're sitting on is going to come out. Better sooner than later. And, Carl ' his words dropped slowly 'whatever you do . . . lock the door, set the alarms, be careful.'

Carl peered through a dirt-streaked window as Hank and the woman detective got into the Grenville police cruiser. His hands shook and his knees felt like if he tried to stand they'd give out. Half moons of sweat soaked his shirt from armpit to waist. Sure, he thought, reaching down for the liter and a half bottle of CC, there were a couple things, but what good would it do to talk about them? Just get him in trouble. It wasn't worth it. Mildred was robbed and that's a shame. And Conroy, well who knew what sick stuff he was up to? Probably a lover's spat. Nothing to do with me. But what if they were right? He'd thought it himself; Conroy's finger was a warning. But from who? Faces of angry consignors flashed in front of him. Dozens over the years, most of them backing down, a few he'd had to buy off. He took three long, grateful swigs; the liquor burned the back of his throat and spread warm into his belly. He looked at the bottle, two-thirds gone; it had been new yesterday; you're gonna have to cut down, just not now. He listened into the darkness, and spooked, he got up and switched on the security system.

Slowly, he reined in his racing thoughts. And as darkness fell over a red-streaked October sky, he settled down to sipping whiskey straight and the familiar task of reviewing the catalog for tomorrow night's auction, never once considering it would be his last.

THIRTEEN.

I watched as Ada lit the Sabbath candles. She waved her hands in front of her face, and in a rich beautiful alto sang, 'Baruch atah Adonai . . .' The flames cast a golden glow on her skin and her eyes sparkled. She looked absolutely lovely in a dark gray silk blouse, black slacks and iridescent peac.o.c.k pearls around her throat.

Aaron hummed the melody as his grandmother blessed the candles, and we both chimed in with the 'Amen'.

It was Friday night, a time that Ada and I had shared ever since Bradley died. It was a week after his death, she'd invited me over, and after that it had become a part of the rhythm of my life. Aaron's presence changed things, as did my growing unease about the two murders. She bustled around her condo as smells heretofore unknown emanated from her kitchen.

The oven timer clanged. 'My kugel!' exclaimed Ada, sprinting to rescue the steaming concoction from the oven. I trailed after her, noting her dismay as she removed the slightly charred contents of a Pyrex ca.s.serole dish.

'Oh well.' She chuckled, moving toward the sink. 'I'll cut off the burned bits.'

Her stovetop was cluttered with saucepans, skillets, opened spices, mixing cups and measuring spoons. The comforting smell of chicken soup wafted through her condo; I peeked under the stockpot lid and got a strong whiff of that most primal brew.

'I made k'naidlach,' she beamed.

'Those are the dumplings?' I asked as I watched several pale objects bob in the soup.

'You bet,' she said. 'My mother makes the best k'naidlach; "light as air" my father used to say, although legend has it that the very best were made by my grandmother.'

'What was her name?' Aaron asked, having followed us into the cramped kitchen.

'Rachel,' said Ada.

'And Great-great-grandpa?'

Her smile evaporated. 'Morris.'

'They came from Russia, right?'

'Poland,' she corrected. 'A little town outside of Krakow.'

'Did you know your grandparents?' Aaron asked.

'No,' she said, while stirring the soup. 'They were both dead when I was born. Here, are your hands clean?'

He held them out for inspection.

'Wash them in the sink,' she bossed. 'Then cut up some tomatoes for the salad. So your mother never told you about your great-great-grandparents?'

'No, I don't think she knows a lot about them.'

'I wouldn't bet on that. Our family is filled with stories; she's heard them, but some she might not want to repeat.'

'Good dirt?' he asked as he quartered tomatoes.

'You might say that,' she agreed. 'Your Great-great-grandpa Morris was something of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And sadly, you're getting to look like him.'

I choked and Aaron laughed. 'Why? Was he ugly or something?'

And the look she gave her grandson was so filled with love. 'No, the opposite. Too good looking for his own good; he got away with murder. I've got some old photos of him I'll pull out for you later.'

'OK,' he said, 'you've got to tell me.'

'Do you want to hear this, Lil?'

'You know I do,' I said. I had always been fascinated by the anomalies that Ada embodied. I was daily struck by the improbability of our friendship, how two such different people could find so much in common.

'Let me be the Bubba Meiseh,' she said, ladling broth into her good Rosenthal china.

'Can we ask questions?' I laughed.

'Of course.'

'What is a Bubba Meiseh?' I asked.

'An old woman who tells stories.'

'This is great,' said Aaron as he carried the fresh-baked challah bread that Ada had whipped up in the bread maker that she'd bought at Costco over a year ago, but had never taken out of its box before today.

'First the blessings,' she said as we settled around the linen-covered table.

Usually, Ada and I have Chinese takeout for our Friday meal, and while she does say the blessings, it's always to herself. Today was different. She blessed the wine and the bread, and I sensed her listening to Aaron, to see if he knew the words.

'Now,' Ada began, 'my mother your Great-grandma Rose was a little girl when she came to this country. It was her, your great-great-grandparents, and your Great-great-uncle Ben. My mother was five, but to this day, she's not certain how old she really is. She has no birth certificate.'

Aaron and I quietly sipped soup and nibbled at the edges of the strange dumplings, which, while not "light as a feather", did have an appealing dense texture that held the flavor of the rich oniony broth.

'She could be ninety, maybe ninety-one, maybe older, maybe younger.' She tore off a hunk of challah and dipped it in her soup. 'They were the greenies, the last ones to come over. Which was how it was done. My Great-uncle Natie and his wife Esther came first, and one by one they sponsored the rest of the family. Not everyone came, and you should know this, Aaron, but there are whole lines of our family that were murdered by Hitler.' Her voice caught. 'I can't believe your mother never told you these things. I have pictures of some of the relatives who were killed. I think it's important that you see their faces. I used to look at them and wonder what were they like. How did they live? Why didn't they leave?

'Anyway, my grandparents, your great-great-grandparents Rachel and Morris came to New York, the Lower East Side. All of them crowded in with aunts and uncles, Grandma pregnant again. So many cousins, and people who weren't even related, but had come from the same village. They spoke Yiddish, and lived in two different worlds. There was Delancey and Orchard, and then there was the other world. They stuck together,' she said, looking at Aaron. 'It was important because family was everything. That's how it worked back then. My grandfather got a job working in Uncle Natie's store.'

'What kind of store?' Aaron asked.

'Shmatehs.'

'Excuse me?' I said.

'Shmatehs, rags. The clothing trade. It was Shmatehs. My uncle Natie had a good store, first on Orchard Street and then he opened a second with two floors of seamstresses on Eighth Avenue.'

'So they were doing pretty well,' Aaron commented.

'Eventually, but not at first. Every cent they earned went into bringing over family and building the business. And almost every year my grandma had a new baby.'

'How many?' Aaron asked.

She stopped to think. 'Nine.' She counted on her fingers: 'Ben, my mother Rose, Bette, Lewis, Abe, Mortie, Pearl, your Great-uncle Hector who died of influenza, and finally, Adele.'

'Mom said Grandma Rose ended up raising them all.'

'That comes later, and is part of why my Grandfather Morris was such a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Was the soup OK?' she asked, obviously pleased that both of our bowls had been emptied.

'Excellent,' Aaron said, and I heartily concurred.

'Bet you didn't think I had it in me,' she quipped and winked at me while gathering our bowls.

We watched as she disappeared back into the kitchen.

'She's pretty amazing,' Aaron said.

'Agreed,' I replied, finding myself inexplicably close to tears.

'Did you know all that stuff about my family?' he asked, fixing me with his intelligent eyes. The bruise around his right eye and cheek had faded, mostly yellow now. I found myself thinking about my own grandchildren. How far away they were, how seldom I saw them. I realized that part of what I was feeling had to do with the ease with which Aaron had found his way to Ada. I was jealous, and wondered if in a time of need my grandchildren would look to me as a safe harbor. And is that it, Lil? Are you also jealous of Aaron? Of how she so easily loves him. What is wrong with you? 'She doesn't talk much about her past,' I said.

'It's cool, isn't it?'

'It is.'

When Ada reappeared she held a white ironstone platter with a steaming roast surrounded by small white potatoes and slices of carrots. From her pleased expression, I knew that whatever it was, it had turned out close to her goal.

'It's brisket,' she declared proudly. 'I haven't had this in years.'

'What's brisket?' Aaron asked.

'I'm not entirely certain,' she replied, slicing the steaming roast and giving us each a potato, two carrots and a ladle full of juice. 'It has to be some part of the cow, and because it's kosher we know it's from the front half. But it's cured. It's really good, though.' She popped a bit of end-piece into her mouth. 'Just scrumptious.'

It was delicious. 'A regular Julia Child,' I commented, enjoying the melt-away meat with its savory flavors. 'I had no idea you could do this.'

'Hidden talents, Lil. Although, to be honest, I wasn't quite sure how it would come out. I did this once before and got distracted with something for the business; the whole thing came out like shoe leather with a side of burnt potatoes. It's funny, all this talk about family, but as I was cooking I kept picturing Mama, and my Aunt Esther in the kitchen. Oh, the things we would make. The Sabbath was very special, but the holidays, now that's when you saw cooking.'

'Were you very religious?' Aaron asked.

'We were observant, but everyone was. There was none of this Orthodox, Conservative and Reform. We were all observant, everyone went to shul; the women up behind the screens and the men downstairs carrying the Torahs and davening.

Aaron and I shot each other looks.

'This is terrible,' Ada said, catching our confused expressions. 'Lil, you have an excuse, you're not Jewish. But Aaron don't you know what davening is?'

'That would be a no.'

'Oh my. It's the style of praying, where the men wrap themselves in their tallisim and sing the prayers and the responses to the scripture. While upstairs, we'd look through the screens and follow along. I was always jealous of the boys, who every day after school went to study with the rabbi. That was just for boys. And unlike your sister Mona, who had a bat mitzvah, there was none of that when I turned thirteen.'

'Kind of a rip-off,' Aaron commented.

'It was disappointing. But you wanted to know about your great-great-grandfather.' She bit down on a flavorful morsel. 'Hmm,' she said, letting the taste of another time send her back. 'They moved to Queens, to a big three story house, and that's when things started to fall apart. My grandmother got sick with cancer and Morris apparently had a roving eye.'

'Really?' Aaron's expression lit at that scurrilous bit of history.

'It's true. Growing up I'd catch snippets from the aunts and the uncles. It was always, "Poor Rachel" this and "Poor Rachel" that. I just a.s.sumed they were talking about how hard it must have been to have nine children. She died before I was born, leaving my mother to raise her brothers and sisters. She was probably twelve or thirteen, had a huge house to run and a father who would disappear for days at a time. Adele and Hector weren't even toilet trained when my grandmother died.'

'This is like TV,' Aaron offered, while helping himself to seconds.

'And then Morris moved out altogether,' Ada said.

'How could he do that?' I asked. 'He abandoned his family?'

'Yes, he had another woman, one of the seamstresses. She was an Irish girl who wanted nothing to do with a house full of children. She was supposedly quite pretty, and he gave her expensive gifts, while his own children wore hand-me-downs from the cousins. Things got very bad. There were no child-support laws in those days. Morris had no obligation, other than the ethical one, to care for his children. The family tried to pressure him to make sure there was at least coal for the furnace. My mother would tell me how she and her brother Ben would go scrounging among the neighbors. Or how she'd dress the little ones in rags and take them down to the welfare office to try and get some money. I also think no, I know that's why she married so young.'

'What do you mean?' I asked, trying to reconcile this history of Ida's mother with Rose Rimmelman, the cantankerous nona-genarian who'd stayed here last year.

'She was fifteen when she got married; my father Isaac was twice her age, and was managing his family's store. I think the idea of having someone to support all those children and that house must have been hugely attractive. And then, just like her mother, the babies started coming.'