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

help with anyone who does not live here at the Home, but only with the residents and staff who do live here.”
    “What do you mean? Surely you are not suggesting that you and I break into their rooms and snoop around? What if someone caught us, with me already under suspicion for theft of those earrings? I can just see that
nudnik
Jenkins sneering at having caught me with the red hands…” Mrs. K was really working herself into a tizzy about this.
    “Don’t worry, Rose,” I said, handing her teacup to her and waiting until she took a sip or two and calmed down. “I do not have in mind that we should break into anyone’s rooms. At least not ourselves in person.”
    “Then in some other way?” Mrs. K was getting upset again, so I thought I had better explain.
    “Here is my thought. Do you remember my niece Sara, who always comes to see me and brings a little present at
Chanukah
?”
    “Isn’t she the one who used to work as a secretary for that Mr. Franklin the lawyer?”
    “That’s right. A very nice girl, Sara. A
shayna maidel
, and a
mensch.
Well, hardly a girl anymore, I guess—she must be at least forty by now. Her mother and I were quite close, even though she was several years younger than me, so I saw a lot of Sara when she was growing up. I have not seen her much lately except once a year, but we have kept in touch by telephone and I still write to her mother.”
    “So what about her?”
    “Well,” I said, leaning toward Mrs. K with my voice very much lowered, “and this is just between you and me and the sofa, Sara once told me that she had a good friend—I do not recall her name, if Sara even mentioned it—who has a most unusual profession.”
    “And what is this profession?” Mrs. K asked. “Is she one of those mystic persons who can see through walls? Will she look into a crystal ball and tell us what is in the rooms?”
    “No, no,” I assured her. And here I lowered my voice even more, not wanting that any of the snoopy ladies sitting nearby should hear. “She is by profession a burglar—she breaks into people’s houses and takes things!”
    “A burglar!” exclaimed Mrs. K, so loudly that I had to put my hand over her mouth and say “
sha!
” before we attracted attention.
    “Yes,” I said quietly, “and apparently she is good at it. And so I am just thinking, if we could convince my niece Sara to talk her friend the burglar into helping us to search the rooms of the people on that list…”
    At this Mrs. K looked skeptical. In fact, she looked at me like I was a little
meshugge
. And I have to admit that when I heard myself actually say this to her, it did not sound like as good an idea as when it was still in my head.
    “Are you suggesting,” Mrs. K said, now in a whisper, “that we hire a real burglar to break into and search these people’s rooms?” And here she indicated the list in her lap. She sounded indignant that I would even suggest such a thing.
    I was not surprised she was indignant. After all, it took some
chutzpah
to imply that a proper lady like Mrs. K would stoop to committing a crime against another person, even to save herself from trouble such as she was in.
    “Well, not exactly hire,” I said. “More like ask a favor.”
    “And just why should this burglar person do us, perfect strangers, such a favor?” Mrs. K asked. And it was a reasonable question.
    “I hadn’t thought of that. But I suppose she would be doing the favor for Sara, and Sara would be doing it for me, and I would be doing it for you.”
    To my surprise, Mrs. K now looked as if she was actually considering the possibility, which just shows you how badly she wanted to get to the bottom of this
mishmash,
this mess she was in. “Yes,” she replied, “but even so, that is an awfully big favor for us to ask your Sara, and for her to ask her friend the burglar.”
    I had to admit she was right about that. But we finally agreed that there was no harm in asking, so it was at least