The Cereal Killer: A Sadie Weinstein Mystery

By Reva Spiro Luxenberg

Sadie Weinstein, wife and joint owner with her husband, Nathan, of Weinsteins Grocery, is a wacky amateur defective detective modeling herself after Agatha Christies Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. She enlists the help of the Cereal Killer Squad in her quest to aid the police capture the infamous Cereal Killer who murders dope pushers and sprinkles cereal on their bodies. Nathan objects to the squad of two prostitutes, a guidance counselor, an aunt of a victim, and an Indian psychic, but zany Sadie doesnt heed his warning. Her persistent sleuthing fails to uncover a single clue until she comes face to face with the Cereal Killer who finally loses his appetite for cereal and murder.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463437572

Reva Spiro Luxenberg

REVA SPIRO LUXENBERG embarked on a writing career after she retired as a school social worker. She has written nineteen books—mysteries, dramas, non-fiction books, anthologies, and humorous versions of two of the books of the Bible. She is married to Dr. Edward R. Levenson, who has edited eight of her books. She is a member of Florida Authors & Publishers Association. Her hobbies are reading, painting rocks, and taking care of her puppy Sekhel and her tortoise Mordy. She is a proud grandmother of seven and great-grandmother of six and one on the way.

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The Cereal Killer

A Sadie Weinstein Mystery

SKU-000484139_TEXT.pdf

Reva Spiro Luxenberg

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously used, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

© 2011 by Reva Spiro Luxenberg. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 07/23/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-3758-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-3757-2 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011912775

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Editing by LC Cooper

Cover design by Joleene Naylor

Dedicated with love to

Allen M. Luxenberg

SKU-000484139_TEXT.pdf

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Lined up on the kitchen table were an English bone china cereal bowl, a box of Eat ‘N ‘Njoy cereal, a pitcher of cream, a 9-millimeter pistol, and an open journal. Hunched over, he wrote in his journal in a tiny script, the angular letters slanted to the left indicative of a rebellious nature.

One more hour. Bam. One clean shot to the heart. My fourth execution. Great idea. The last time, a block from Weinstein’s Grocery. Thanksgiving. Victor Lennox deserved what he got. The stupid police will never find me. And on New Year’s Eve at midnight—perfect timing. Perfect spot—Holy Cross Cemetery. What a way to start 1966. This will be the year of the Cereal Killer.

The man snapped the journal shut and hid it in the false bottom of an ivy planter. He opened the kitchen cabinet and withdrew a sterling soup spoon and a linen napkin. He sat at the table, munched the flakes of Eat ‘N ‘Njoy, remembering how he had dumped it on Lennox’s body. He made soft smacking sounds with each mouthful. He cocked his head when the beating of the rain against the window intensified.

Need to remember to take my umbrella. Don’t want to catch pneumonia. It’s not like there’s anyone to take care of me if I get bedridden.

After finishing the meal, he pushed the bowl away, and slid the pistol closer to him. Studying it playfully, he fingered it like he was running his hand over the firm body of a woman. Distracted by other thoughts, he set the gun down. Steady and deliberately, the man rose and carried the empty cereal bowl to the sink. He washed and dried it lovingly, and then placed it in its appointed spot among his collection of cereal bowls in the kitchen cabinet. From the same shelf, he pulled out a box of Raisin Rocks and set it on the counter. He lifted his Samsonite briefcase onto the table and opened it flat. There lay the murder note, encased in a plastic sandwich bag to protect it from the rain. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as he thought about his craftiness. He set the box of Raisin Rocks on the note and closed the briefcase. Grabbing the pistol off the table, the man strode into the foyer.

Then, he sat down on the telephone bench in the foyer near the hall closet and slipped off his loafers. He took a heavy pair of socks from a drawer in the telephone table, and layered them over the cotton socks on his feet. From the drawer, he pulled out two sandwich bags filled with sand and stuffed them in the toes of his boots. All the while, he hummed Amazing Grace. He donned his boots and wiggled his toes against the bags of sand. He stood up and slid his black overcoat off its wall hook, dropped the 9mm in the coat’s right pocket, and grabbed the umbrella out of its stand. He returned to the kitchen for the briefcase and left.

The man trudged through the pouring rain for seven blocks. Deserted alleys generated bizarre shadows but he wasn’t frightened. He found comfort with the cold heft of the semi-automatic in his pocket. Once he got to the iron gate of Holy Cross Cemetery, he looked around furtively for possible witnesses. As he stood next to a tombstone at the right side of the cemetery entrance, he reassured himself as he touched the gun in his pocket. While waiting, he read the inscription on the gray granite tombstone:

Rest in Peace

JOHN GAMACHE

1910-1965

Loving Husband,

Devoted Father, and Grandfather

The rain stopped, so the man closed his umbrella and laid it atop the Gamache tombstone. He knew without looking at his watch that midnight had arrived when car horns blared and firecrackers popped. His eyes followed a shrieking rocket as it blazed into the heavens; its wavy tail of sulfuric smoke stung his nostrils. High over the skyline, the missile burst into red, white, and blue flying fish, then hissed and sputtered as the fish fizzled toward the ground. The display backlit a hooded figure standing outside the cemetery’s gate.

The man stayed calm as the apparition opened the gate and approached him. This was not a ghost, but rather the young man he was expecting. The teenager slid the hood off his head, and his dark eyes reflected the glow from a distant street lamp.

Satisfied that he had the right person, the killer jerked out his gun and fired off several bullets into his hapless victim’s body. As the dying teenager slumped to the ground, the murderer sang out Happy New Year. He bent over the prostrate form on the rain-soaked ground and wrenched the paper bag from the youth’s clenched hand. He opened his briefcase, removed the Raisin Rocks cereal box out of the case, and dumped the entire contents on the body. Carefully, he placed the murder note on the young man’s bloody and shattered chest. His scan of the cemetery produced no witnesses. He took advantage of the shadows’ cover along the way home as he tried to conceal himself.

* * *

At dawn on New Year’s morning, a modest sun struggled to shine on the deserted streets of Flatbush. Its muted ruddiness highlighted the debris of spent firecrackers, confetti, trash bags, and loose garbage. The town’s sanitation workers always dreaded this day.

Inside the unpretentious home of the late John Gamache, his matronly widow, Patricia, stood in the kitchen wrapping a dozen lilies in wax paper. She put on a blue and green plaid overcoat, gathered up the wrapped flowers, and shuffled out the front door, remembering to lock it. She lumbered down the steps of the stoop with the bundle of lilies tucked under her arm. Patricia looked back sadly at the Christmas tree in her front window. She trimmed it alone—this was the first Christmas since her husband’s death.

Patricia shuffled up the block to Holy Cross Cemetery. With a heavy heart, she pushed open the unwieldy iron gate and plodded in, head down, toward her husband’s final resting place. The perverse sight that met her at the grave startled her out of her stupor, for there lay the grotesquely disfigured body of a man, covered with something that resembled cereal. A plastic bag containing a piece of paper was visible from atop his blood-encrusted chest.

Patricia dropped her lilies and released a primal scream, but the streets remained empty and quiet. She stumbled frequently and gasped for air as she scrambled to get away from the horrid vision. The comfort of her home seemed miles away, though once she reached the path to her house, she vaulted up the steps. Fumbling with her keys as if the dead youth’s specter was about to grab her, Patricia ripped open the door, burst into her house and slammed the door shut behind her. Trembling, she called the police. Nauseous and woozy, Patricia fell into a lounge chair before fainting.

* * *

It was evening, New Year’s Day. The streetlights cast shadows on the six-story umber-colored apartment house. In apartment 4D, Nathan and Sadie Weinstein watched TV in their living room.

Nathan, a man in his forties, of medium height and brown hair, sat at one end of the sofa, resting his hands on his stomach. Sadie, also in her forties, was blue-eyed, blonde, and pretty. She sat at the other end of the sofa, her short legs not quite reaching the frayed flowered rug. Sadie shifted her gaze from Nathan’s pregnant-looking paunch to a replay of the day’s inauguration of John Lindsay as mayor.

See how handsome he looks in that pinstripe suit, Sadie said.

Nathan nodded. Lindsay should be in pictures, not politics.

Hmm, Sadie said. She never wanted to discuss politics with Nathan because she always lost the argument.

Nathan continued. LaGuardia, he was a mayor. The best we ever had.

Sadie smiled. I liked him because he read the funnies on the radio when we had that newspaper strike.

Shush, Sadie, Pressman is talking about a major transit strike that will hit the city tomorrow.

Oh, no! I won’t be able to take the train to Bloomingdale’s.

Shopping? That’s all that’s on your mind? Eight million people in this city will be bounced around like baseballs. Folks won’t be able to get to work. Not many live a few yards from their work like we do.

Sadie squirmed in her seat.

Nathan frowned and leaned toward the TV. Did you hear that? The schools will be closed. That’s great for business. The kids’ll come in and buy candy.

Sadie shook her head disapprovingly. Who has the power to stop the trains and buses?

Nathan sat back. Mike Quill—the union, that’s who. I give the strike one day, two days tops. New Yorkers won’t stand for it.

Nathan, listen, Sadie said, tilting her head. The stiff bouffant atop her head followed. Pressman is talking about a murder in Flatbush.

 . . . . The murderer, who calls himself the Cereal Killer, has struck for the fourth time. A young man’s body was discovered near the entrance of Holy Cross Cemetery. The note found is the same as in the previous murders. ‘Death to all dope pushers. Don’t do dope, eat cereal instead.’ It was signed, ‘The Cereal Killer.’ This time, the murderer sprinkled Raisin Rocks cereal on the body.

Sadie jumped up and turned off the TV. She smoothed down her striped housedress. What do you think about this killer, Nathan?

Nathan rolled his brown eyes. I’ll feature Raisin Rocks tomorrow. I’m all sold out of Eat ‘N ‘Njoy after the guy’s last murder. The more killings, the better the cereal business is for our grocery.

That’s in bad taste, Nathan. A crazy guy dumps cereal on the dope pushers he kills, and you want to capitalize on it.

Nathan got up and switched the TV back on as a camera panned the crowd outside the cemetery. It settled on a dark, young woman who had her arm around a sobbing older lady who had nappy hair. The young woman said, My brother was only seventeen. Why did he have to die? Tears rolled down her cheeks.

The reporter announced, The murder victim has been identified as Louis Smart of the Ebbets Field Housing Projects.

Sadie leaped up, ran to the TV screen, and peered closely at the photo of a black youth with a wide grin.

My God, that’s Lou, the boy who cleans our store.

* * *

The killer sat in his kitchen, watching the news on the tabletop TV. The reporting of Mayor Lindsay’s inauguration was eclipsed by the fourth murder committed by the Cereal Killer. Lieutenant Salvatore Cagliano, the detective in charge of the case, spoke with determination about how the police were on top of this situation.

The morning after the shooting, the uniform division got the first call from the widow of a man buried in Holy Cross Cemetery. Louis Smart’s body was discovered lying atop her dead husband’s grave. The crime scene has been worked over carefully by experts, and the perpetrator will be apprehended in short order.

The killer smirked. The false clues I left behind should keep the stupid police busy for the next decade. Now, it’s time to plan my next project. I always enjoy Edible Delight . . . think I’ll use it. I’m tired of deserted places. This time, it needs to be in a crowded place to throw the police off. I’ll need a disguise so I can fit in.

Instead of raising suspicions by buying a silencer, I know I’ll have to make one, but doing so isn’t much of a challenge for me. A six-inch steel pipe with a metal collar at one end will do nicely. I’ll file off the gun sight so the pistol can fit tightly into the pipe. Then I’ll fill the inside with fiberglass, and weld shut the other end with twenty-gauge tin. I’m certain the police won’t be expecting me to construct my own homemade silencer.

* * *

That night as the Cereal Killer slept peacefully in his bed, Sadie tossed in hers. She pulled down her flannel nightgown that had bunched up under her knees. She grumbled, Nathan, wake up. I can’t sleep. I keep seeing Lou with blood and cereal all over him. I can hardly believe he was a dope pusher. Maybe he’d just started and didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t the smartest boy.

Sadie switched on the lamp that stood on the nightstand between the beds. Nathan reached out and turned it off. Try and forget. Go make something to eat, like a bologna sandwich. Go to sleep. Tomorrow’s a work day.

Food is your answer to all problems. I’m not hungry. I’ll read Agatha Christie’s ‘Cat Among the Pigeons,’ in the living room.

Okay, Nathan said as he pulled the quilt up to his chin. Read about animals. It’ll help you sleep.

Sadie sat up until the wee hours of the morning reading. By the time she finished the book, she was obsessed with the idea that there had to be more than one murderer. If only I was smart like Hercule Poirot. After all, Poirot discovered two murderers when the police thought there was only one. I wonder if the real Cereal Killer could have committed the first murder, out to get the dope pusher, and an imitator did the others. I could search for clues to help the police catch the murderer. It would be so much more exciting than selling Swiss cheese.

Sadie sighed, closed the book, and fell asleep on the couch. She dreamt about her black patent leather pumps, kind of like the patent leather shoes Poirot wore. She woke up thinking, If a small Belgian with a waxy mustache could be a detective, why couldn’t I, a small grocery lady?

Sunday was a workday for Sadie and Nathan. They left their apartment at dawn. Nathan was unshaven and bleary-eyed. Sadie’s eyelids were half closed, too tired to read the graffiti on the walls of their apartment building’s elevator. She recalled that last week someone wrote, Living in a nudist colony takes the fun out of Halloween. Nathan protested that it was crude, but Sadie thought it was cute.

Once outside the building, Sadie kept her eyes on the sidewalk for a few yards, until they turned the corner onto Nostrand Avenue. Other than the place where their business stood for many years, Nostrand Avenue was a treeless commercial street that snaked through several neighborhoods of Brooklyn like Sheepshead Bay, Marine Park, Midwood, Flatbush, and Crown Heights. Sadie drew in a deep breath once they stopped in front of Weinstein’s, their grocery store. The grocery was sandwiched between a barbershop and a fish market.

The subway was visible through an iron grating built into the sidewalk. Sadie glanced at the grating near the gutter and remembered how Nathan had stopped Lou from sweeping refuse into the steel holes. Instead of resenting Nathan’s scolding, the boy apologized and never repeated his error. Such a boy with a good heart shouldn’t have been murdered.

As Sadie and Nathan stood in front of the store’s accordion steel barrier, an ambulance flew by with its siren wailing, followed by the pulsating alarm of a police car. Sadie thrilled to the sounds of the city’s dramatic bustle.

Nathan unlocked the padlock on the barrier while Sadie looked at the neat window display she set up last Sunday. Nathan always decided what leaders they would present in the windows. Today, she would feature Raisin Rocks and other breakfast products. She had argued that promoting this cereal was insensitive, considering how Lou’s body had been sprinkled with the cereal. Sadie wished Nathan would change his mind, but giving in to arguments regarding grocery matters wasn’t his way.

Nathan leaned down and picked up a loose pile of the ‘Daily News’ papers. As he pushed the door open with his foot, a cowbell clanged. A startled longhaired black cat sprang out of the darkness and smashed into Nathan’s legs. He stumbled, dropping the papers, which scattered everywhere.

Shlimazel, Nathan cried out, look what you did!

Sadie turned on the lights. Shlimazel’s squirrel-like tail stood up as straight as a bottlebrush. He had a hurt expression in his green-marble eyes. After Nathan dropped the papers on the counter, he bent down and rubbed the cat’s head. Shlimazel relaxed. Purring loudly, he rolled over on his back, feet up in the air, while Nathan scratched his belly. Nathan raised Shlimazel. Ever since it was a kitten, the store remained mouse-proof. Nathan had dubbed him Shlimazel, meaning not much luck, for the fact that the kitten was born in Flatbush in the sixties and whose mother cast it out.

Weinstein’s was a rectangular-shaped grocery with ‘his’ and ‘hers’ check-out counters. Nathan’s was near the door, next to the delicatessen and the cutting machine. Sadie’s checkout counter was across from Nathan’s, also at the front of the store. When she stood at her counter, she could smell the heavenly scent of vinegar from the pickle barrel.

In the back room, both went through their morning rituals. Sadie removed her scratchy brown woolen coat and put it on the shelf where the canned vegetables were stored. She positioned herself next to the metal kitchen table and did several single-quadriceps stretches, switching between legs until both thigh muscles were limber. Nathan opened a can of Feisty Food for Shlimazel. He filled a kettle with water from the tiny sink in the small bathroom and heated it on the electric burner.

Sadie and Nathan ate breakfast amid the clutter of unpacked boxes on the floor and ceiling-high shelves loaded with cans and cartons of groceries.

I want to pay a visit to Lou’s mother later this afternoon, Sadie said as she spooned her vanilla yogurt.

Good idea. Nathan sipped his decaf coffee. It’s nice of you to pay a condolence call. Take a few pounds of deli and a loaf of sliced rye.

You’re a good man, Nathan, and a wonderful husband.

You’re just finding out?

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Chapter 2

When the home of the Brooklyn Dodgers, Ebbets Field, had been demolished to make way for the Ebbets Field Apartment Projects, grown men with the physique of Babe Ruth had tears cascading down their puffy cheeks. However, not all Brooklynites sobbed. Camellia Smart was overjoyed when she and her son and daughter, both teenagers, moved out of their dingy one-bedroom apartment. It was one of those where the roaches played baseball in her cupboards and the rats bedded down with the mice.

Thankful to be out of that situation, Camellia and her children now lived comfortably in an attractive three-bedroom apartment on the twelfth floor. When she looked out the living room window, she could see the vast expanse of Prospect Park with its gnarled maple and oak trees, its zoo, and lakes. It was a breathtaking slice of heaven, that is, until a lunatic who wanted to rid Flatbush of dope pushers murdered Louis.

When the doorbell rang, Camellia raised her pudgy body from the armchair, and tottered to the door. Before opening it, she glanced through the peephole. Camellia was surprised to see a white woman, less than five-feet tall, with eyes the color of the sky, and blond hair the color of corn, nervously pacing the landing. She was clutching a paper bag to her chest. Camellia cracked the door slightly; the chain lock stopped it from opening more than a couple of inches. She noticed the distinct odor of salami.

I’m Sadie Weinstein, Lou’s’ employer. My husband and I feel terrible about his cruel death. You have our deepest sympathy. We wanted to give you and your daughter some food from our grocery store.

The door squeaked shut. For a moment, Sadie thought Camellia was very rude, but then she heard the rattle of the sliding chain lock followed by a thump as it clattered against the door.

Thank you, Camellia said as she opened the door wide. Come in. She led Sadie to the dining-room table and pointed to a chair. Sadie handed the paper bag to Camellia as they sat down. The woman opened it and peered in.

It’s some deli and bread—enough for a quick meal or two.

Thank you, chile, Camellia said, trying to smile. She got up and shuffled over to the sideboard from which she took a small sculpture of a koala bear. This is what my Louie was good at makin’. When my husband was alive, he taught Louie to carve in soap and wood. The boy took to it like a baby to its bottle.

It’s beautiful, Sadie replied as she examined the wooden figure, turning it around and around.

Sometimes, I think maybe my Louie was punished for what he did at the end.

Punished? Lou? For what? Sadie needed to hear Camellia’s explanation.

Sadie placed the carved figurine on the table, and leaned toward Camellia. She wondered why the boy’s mother said Lou might have been punished for what he did.

Camellia coughed loudly into her handkerchief. The watermelon man got to him only a month ago.

Confused, Sadie shook her head. What has watermelon got to do with it?

The ‘watermelon man’ means, you know, the candy man.

Sadie’s expression remained blank.

Camellia coughed again. The man, the connection, the pusher… they all mean the same thing.

Aha, Sadie said nodding, you’re talking about the man who sold him the stuff. Who was he?

"I dunno, but I heard it’s someone he met when he was workin’ in your store. When I found out that Louie was tradin’ his sculptures for hash that he sold, I made his guts work the other way. He promised to stop sellin’, said the last time would be on New Year’s eve, and then he got blown away. I told