Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(39)

“Could be,” she says. “My husband and I are not from Roseville. I grew up in Pennsylvania. Asher came here for his work in … Oh! You should go to Pessie’s work. Something happened there, a week or two before she died, I think. She didn’t want to talk about it but I heard there was a big scene.”

“Where did she work?”

“She did the books at the women’s clothing store in the shopping center. Go there.”

“I will,” I say. “I’m Rebekah, by the way. Can I ask your name?”

“I am Raisa. But I do not want to be in the newspaper.”

“Okay,” I say. “Could I just call you a neighbor?”

She considers this. “Don’t write about the bedrooms.”

“No,” I say. “Of course not. I just want to be able to give people a sense of who she was. You said she didn’t gossip. And that she did things her own way.”

“Yes,” she says. “That is fine. Have you spoken to Levi?”

“I have,” I say.

“Poor man,” she says. “Pessie said he was a very good husband. Very patient and understanding. What a shock it must have been to him! If you see him, please tell him we are thinking of him and Chaim.”

Raisa gathers the little girls and takes them inside. Once she closes the door, I climb the steps to the apartment above Pessie’s. I knock several times, but there is no answer. The blinds are closed in Pessie and Levi’s apartment, so I can’t even try to peek in. Before I leave, I snap a photo of the building with my phone. I don’t think I have enough for a follow-up yet, but just in case, I’ll have art.

The shopping center Pessie worked in looks like a typical big-box supermarket, until you get up close. Posted at all three entrances are big signs: PLEASE RESPECT OUR MODEST DRESS CODE: NO SHORTS, NO MIDRIFFS, NO BARE FEET. The old me would have gawked at this sign. I probably would have made a big show of taking a photo and posting it to Facebook with some snarky remark, maybe even gone back to my car and dug around for some sandals to walk in wearing, just to see what would happen, just to show all these strangers that their rules are sexist and stupid and that I’m better than them. But I don’t feel like doing that today. Let them have their dress code, I think.

The first floor of the center is a grocery store, and according to a sign just inside there is a women’s clothing store, a boys and girls clothing store, a wine and liquor store, a toy store, and a Judaica shop upstairs. A woman with a crooked wig and a walleye stands at the main entrance holding a plastic bag. The man walking in front of me drops a dollar in and she barely registers a response. Her gaze remains in middle distance. The grocery area appears bustling, but upstairs is quiet. I follow a long, wide corridor to the back where I see a sign that says LADIES LINGERIE. A bell rings when I walk in. The store is crowded with racks of long dresses: crushed velvet and rayon and sateen, mostly black and dark blue or green or purple, some with a lace overlay or a bow or smocking at the neck. High collars and long sleeves. Two women are deep in conversation as they stand between racks of seemingly identical black mid-length skirts. Both women wear scarves around their heads, their hair presumably tucked beneath. I find another woman in the lingerie section, which consists entirely of apparel in three colors: black, white, and flesh-toned. Long old-fashioned cotton nightgowns, girdles and shape-wear, nursing bras, and full-coverage panties.

“Excuse me,” I say to the woman, who is tagging boxes of panty hose. “My name is Rebekah. I’m a reporter for the New York Tribune. I was just speaking with one of Pessie Goldin’s neighbors and she told me that Pessie used to work here.”

The woman, who appears to be in her fifties, puts down her tagging tool.

“I saw your article,” she says. Her wig is cut in a shorter style than Raisa’s. It is more matronly, with blond feathering around her face. She shakes her head and purses her lips. “I did not wish to gossip, but if her husband is asking questions … Pessie was being stalked.”

“Stalked?”

“He came to the store a week before she died. She did not wish to see him. She had Chaim with her—sometimes she would bring him to work, he was such a good little baby. Men are not allowed in the store, but he would not go away. He was yelling and yelling. He pushed right past me! Pessie gave Chaim to me and went out to talk to him. I told her not to! I called shomrim but he ran off before they got here. And she would not say who he was.”

“Do you remember anything else about him? What he looked like?”

“He was Chassidish but dressed like a goy. Clean-shaven. He was very upset. I think maybe he was on drugs. He kept saying he was sorry and that she didn’t understand.”

“Didn’t understand what?”

“How should I know?”

“Could his name have been Sam?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. Pessie was very private. Not friendly like the other girls here.”

“What did you think when you heard she had died?”

“It was terrible!”

“But did you, like, think something might have happened to her? That maybe it wasn’t an accident?”

She shrugs. “What do I know?”

“Have you told anyone else about what happened?”

“Yes,” she says. “Maybe. Why shouldn’t I?”