A Pain in the Tuchis: A Mrs. Kaplan Mystery by Mark Reutlinger Page B

asked.”
    “That’s a good idea, Ida. So who is it that particularly disliked Vera? At least disliked her more than everyone else did? I do not think she was really liked by anyone, except perhaps her son and her sister. But most of us just ignored her. Who might want to do more than that?”
    “Well, we could begin with Rena Shapiro,” I said.
    “Yes,” Mrs. K said, “I have never seen her so angry as when Vera told Pupik about her cat. And she has been angry ever since, refusing even to speak to Vera.”
    “But of course it is difficult to imagine Rena deliberately harming someone, even Vera,” I said.
    “Difficult yes, impossible no,” Mrs. K replied. “And I think we must include Hannah Bissela. She and Rena are very close, and you remember how upset she was at what Vera had done to her friend, making sure that absolutely everyone knew about it.”
    I agreed. “And what about that poor fellow, what was his name, William something. The one who was waiting on Vera in the dining room when he accidentally spilled a little soup on her dress?”
    “Yes, I remember. I think his last name was Johanson. No, Johnson. What a hoo-hah she caused. Called him such terrible names and he had to stand there and apologize and she just kept shouting at him. I never saw him serving after that day.”
    “No, I believe they gave him another job working outside, because I have seen him sweeping the walkways and raking leaves, about which he never looks at all happy.”
    I added William Johnson to the list.
    “And then there is George Bennett,” I said. “The one who committed the terrible crime of putting Vera’s wastebasket back in the wrong place.”
    Mrs. K laughed. “Yes. To Vera, anything that annoyed her was deserving of severe punishment. She had what you would call a short fuse, and it did not take much of a flame to light it.”
    “No. And I remember how angry you said George was when you gave him that money.”
    “He was. But angry enough to want to kill Vera? That seems unlikely.”
    Nu,
unlikely or not, George joined the list.
    Before we could continue, our waiter returned with a smile on his face.
    “Okay, ladies, I think I’ve got it now. All we have is plain and Earl Grey tea and peppermint herbal tea. And we don’t have any bagels. Just toast. But that’s about the same thing, right?”
    Oy,
the same thing? But what could we do?
    “I’ll have the peppermint,” Mrs. K said. “And do you have a bran muffin?”
    I was afraid he was going to run off again to check, but this time he smiled and said, “That I know. Yes, we have bran muffins. Would you like one?”
    “Yes, please.” He then turned to look at me, his pencil poised over his pad.
    “The same, please,” I said. Why complicate things?
    As the waiter walked away, I looked around the restaurant, which now was becoming more crowded. I noticed something.
    “Rose, do you see anything…anything different about the people in here?”
    Mrs. K looked up from the menu, which she had been studying, and swept the room with her eyes.
    “No, not really…well, yes, now that you mention it, Ida. I…”
    But before she could finish what she was saying, a tall young man in a rumpled gray suit interrupted.
    “Excuse me, ladies, my name is Bob Andrews. I’m a reporter for the
Citizen.
” He handed each of us a business card, which said just that. “Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?” He sat down at the table opposite us—we were still sitting close together on one side—and took out a notepad as if we had already agreed.
    Why in the world would a reporter want to ask us questions? I looked at Mrs. K, and she looked as puzzled as me. I put down my notebook.
    “What kind of questions?” Mrs. K asked the reporter. “What about?”
    “Well,” he said, “this place has just opened and our readers are interested in hearing about it.”
    Again we looked at each other and Mrs. K shrugged her shoulders a bit and said, “So, go