Dying for Chametz & Other Mystery Stories for Passover

By Libi Astaire

Barnet Court's connoisseurs of crime are back! Join retired Jewish detectives Herschel Perlow, Miss Janice Eppel, Ronny and Rubles Bernfeld, and author Agatha Krinsky as they tackle new mysteries to solve in this humorous, Passover-themed homage to Dame Agatha Christie. Included are these three novellas:

 

Dying for Chametz: Barnet Court is all abuzz when it's announced that Claudette Kelly, a film star from the Golden Age of Hollywood, will be filming an interview at the home a few weeks before Passover. But the event takes an unexpected turn when the star is found in a chametz closet, murdered.  

 

Deceit on the Nile: What could be more charming and relaxing than a cruise down the Nile? Unfortunately, the vacation quickly turns vexatious when the Ten Plagues become the weapon of choice for someone bent on revenge.

 

A Murderer Is Denounced: A mock Seder is the unusual setting for a settling of accounts involving a murder dating back to World War II.       

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aster Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224569410

Libi Astaire

Libi Astaire is the author of the award-winning Jewish Regency Mystery Series, a historical mystery series about Regency London’s Jewish community. Her other books include: Terra Incognita, a novel about Spanish villagers who discover they are descended from Jews who were forced to convert to Christianity during the Middle Ages; The Banished Heart, a novel about Shakespeare’s writing of The Merchant of Venice; Day Trips to Jewish History, a volume of essays about some lesser known areas of Jewish history; and several volumes of Chassidic tales. She lives in Jerusalem, Israel.

Book preview

DYING FOR CHAMETZ

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AGATHA KRINSKY SET DOWN the letter she was reading and looked expectantly at the open door. Who she expected to walk through the doorway she could not say. She was much too old to believe in Prince Charming. And even if she were to finally meet this gentleman, she would find it terribly sad to learn that he too had ended up at Barnet Court, a residential care facility in London for those who were more likely to spend their time dozing in a comfortable chair in house slippers than waltzing about a ballroom in glass ones.

Not that Agatha spent her days dozing. It was true her body had aged — a regrettable fact of life that had caused her to give up her own home and independence for a small apartment at Barnet Court. But her mind was still as sharp as ever. With thirty-six best-selling mystery novels to her name, she daily reminded herself she could write more. Fifty had a nice ring to it. But then so did forty, given the steep decline in her productivity since the move, which had been unsettling in so many ways.

Still, she was determined to snap out of the depression that greeted her in the morning and tried to sap her energy before the day had even begun. If her readers weren’t exactly beating down her door in breathless anticipation for her next novel, she did get the occasional fan letter, as the letter in her hand showed. Someone — in this case a Mrs. Edith Smilowitz from Manchester — would be pleased to know she was still writing.

And still alive! Agatha had to remember that life was a gift not to be taken for granted whenever she stood in front of the computer table in her sitting room and the pesky, niggling voice inside her muttered, with a bored yawn, Why bother?

Because if I don’t bother, I’ll turn into a pumpkin, she muttered softly to her computer screen, as she sat down before it. (That she talked to herself was nothing new. That her hearing was excellent, and she could still hear a whispered mutter, had become a matter of pride.) I’ll turn into one of those old dears wrapped in a shawl and propped up in a chair from morning until night. And that I refuse to do, if I can help it.

This inner conversation was interrupted by the sound of voices in the hall — a male voice and a female one.

Heads it’s Bryan, come to fix the leaky faucet, she told her computer screen. Tails it’s Kimberley.

It was Kimberley Currie, the new activity director, who knocked on the open door and walked into the room.

Good morning, Mrs. Krinsky, she said cheerily.

All activity directors were cheerful, Agatha had discovered. And blonde. But apparently a cheerful disposition and the color of one’s hair wasn’t a good predictor for how long they stayed on the job. Agatha had been living at Barnet Court for three months and a bit and Kimberly was the third activity director to bounce down the facility’s tasteful, teal-carpeted halls.

Scrabble is in the library at two, after lunch. I know you won’t want to miss it. And here is your new schedule for the week. Kimberley deftly slipped the new schedule into the plastic frame hanging on the wall, near the small kitchenette. We have an exciting surprise planned for tomorrow morning. You’ll never guess what it is.

Kimberley, who had nary a wrinkle on her pleasantly pretty face nor an extra pound about her waist, waited with an expectant smile for Agatha to react. Agatha, who had already learned that what a young activity director thought would be exciting for the elderly rarely was, gave Kimberley a look which was polite but not encouraging.

If I guess correctly, it will no longer be a surprise, she said. Therefore, I prefer to wait.

A look of displeasure appeared on Kimberley’s face. It was quickly replaced by her usual smile. I’ll give you a hint, anyway, she said. Hollywood.

Kimberley left. If she thought her hint would leave Agatha in a state of delighted anticipation, she was mistaken. Hollywood meant nothing to Agatha.

Nothing! she snarled at her computer screen. She then began to type with furious speed.

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2.

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The dining room, which was decorated in shades of lavender, was nearly full by the time Agatha arrived for lunch. Agatha presumed the color had been chosen because someone thought it would be soothing for the digestion. Unfortunately, the food was often disappointing and only highlighted the disparity between it and the elegant oval-back chairs surrounding the circular tables topped with white tablecloths and place settings which suggested to the uninformed — family members who visited once a month on a Sunday afternoon, if that often — that Barnet Court’s dining experience was on par with any decent restaurant in town.

Agatha’s assigned table was at the back of the room, and so she had to pass through what she called a field of lavender dining chairs and lavender-haired elderly ladies to get to her place. As she propelled her walker before her — to her dismay, she had not yet fully recovered from the fall which had landed her in Barnet Court — she saw that her four tablemates were already seated. As usual, they were engaged in animated conversation.

Good afternoon, Mrs. K., said Ronny Bernfeld, jumping up to assist her. As Agatha slowly eased herself into her chair, he deftly folded her walker and leaned it against the back wall. He was already back and seated in his chair by the time Agatha was comfortably seated in hers.

Ronny and his wife Rubles were what were called, in today’s jargon, active seniors. Although they had been employed on some top-secret intelligence missions during World War II, a fact which suggested their chronological age was creeping toward the top of the longevity charts, they were still impressively spry and possessed a joie de vivre which made them seem more like sixty than — well, as their true age was also top secret, Agatha didn’t know how old they were.

Ronny handed Agatha the day’s menu. I recommend the tomato soup.

"You mean the mushroom soup, mon ami," said Herschel Perlow, smoothing down his wavy black hair — dyed, of course, for he was no youngster either. The hair, which he wore rather long and parted in the middle, sprang back up on either side of his head with alarming speed, making him look like a crow in flight. Although he was originally from Galicia, Ukraine, and his native language was Yiddish, his English was often peppered with French words and phrases.

Perlow, who had been a private investigator in his younger days, pointed to the tell-tale remains of mushroom soup in Ronny’s bowl. You ate mushroom soup today, Monsieur Bernfeld.

That’s why I dropped Mrs. Krinsky a hint to order the tomato. If it tastes as vile as the mushroom, at least she can pour some vodka in it and pretend she’s drinking a Bloody Mary.

Ronny laughed heartily at his own joke, until Rubles gave him a kick under the table and said, I don’t think Mrs. Krinsky has a stash of vodka in her room, Ronny.

That reminds me, said Miss Janice Eppel, a white-haired, frail-looking woman, whose angelic face masked a keen and sometimes severe intellect. In her pre-Barnet Court days, she had been chairwoman of the financial committee of her synagogue’s Sisterhood group — a position which had led to her solving an unfortunate case of embezzlement of synagogue funds that had left even the local police puzzled. But her real claim to detective fame was thanks to her friendship with Sir Harold Withering, now deceased but once the head of Scotland Yard, when it was still known as the Yard and not the Met. She had more than a few times aided Sir Harold when the solution to a perplexing crime needed an astute understanding of human nature.

The others waited a few moments for Miss Eppel to continue. When she did not, and her eyes began to stare into distant space, Ronny said, with an indulgent smile, Something about your Sisterhood, Miss Eppel?

You may laugh, she replied, turning her gaze upon him. But there is a great deal of wickedness in a synagogue Sisterhood, Mr. Bernfeld.

I’m sure there is. And I’m sure no one would have blamed you if you kept a bottle in your purse for when those meetings got dull.

Miss Eppel blushed furiously.

Rubles gave her husband another kick under the table. You were saying, Miss Eppel?

I do wish my thoughts weren’t always in such a muddle.

Order and method, Madame, Mr. Perlow said softly. It will come to you.

Perhaps it has nothing to do with vodka, Agatha suggested. Perhaps you were thinking of something else stashed in your room.

At first, Agatha had found it disconcerting to be seated at a table where everyone else was a former detective. As an author of detective fiction, she was accustomed to being the one in control — planting the clues, deciding when her detective discovered them, telling him and the other characters what to say. When her tablemates reminisced about real-life cases they had solved, as they often did, she had found it hard to suppress the urge to edit their stories. At first, her improvements were not appreciated, and so with time Agatha learned to curb her instinct to criticize and, instead, sit back and enjoy her companions’ tales, no matter how implausible they were. They, in turn, slowly accepted the mere writer of detective fiction as a bona fide member of the exclusive little group. Now, they sometimes even asked her how she would rewrite one of their stories and enjoyed her creative changes. Therefore, it was no longer unusual for one of her suggestions to be accepted with encouraging nods of the head, as was now the case.

That’s right, said Rubles, taking up the cue. Something that’s stashed in your room, Miss Eppel. Let me see. Tissues? Old newspapers?

Dirty socks.

Ronny, please. This is serious.

All right, then, if it’s not a bottle, it must be—

Biscuits! said Miss Eppel, her face shining with delight. It’s almost Passover and I have a drawer in my dresser filled with chametz — packages of biscuits and crackers and cereal. I really must remember to take the unopened things to the chametz closet and dispose of the rest.

We should start checking our drawers and closets too, Rubles said to Ronny. Like many Jewish women, she shuddered at the thought of finding an errant piece of chametz in her home during the Passover holiday, even if it was no larger than a breadcrumb. The laws of Passover were very stringent.

I suppose your room is already all clean and kosher for Passover, Mr. P., said Ronny.

"Bien sûr. I do not like to run about at the last minute like the goose without a head."

Chicken, Mr. P.

Chicken is permitted on Passover, Monsieur Bernfeld. It has not the five grains — the wheat, the oats, the rye, the barley or the spelt — that have come into contact with water and been allowed to rise, like the leavened bread. Chicken is not chametz.

I meant you’re mixing metaphors again. It’s the chicken that runs about without a head. The goose is silly.

Like this conversation, said Rubles. I know you, Ronny. You’re just trying to get out of cleaning our apartment. I suppose next you’re going to suggest giving Mr. Perlow some brush-up lessons in the English language after lunch.

That’s an excellent idea, Rubles. What do you say, Monsieur Perlow?

I say the hour after lunch is sacred. For me, it is the time of the nap. Even the brain cells of Herschel Perlow must rest from time to time. But here is our good Mrs. Brooks, with the next course.

That’s right, ducks, said Mrs. Brooks, an elderly but still lively woman with a round red face and an ample figure. We have some nice fish for you today and vegetables. While the server set down the plates, she noticed Agatha and said, You’ve missed your soup, Mrs. Krinsky. Shall I bring some now?

Please don’t bother. It was my fault for coming down late.

It’s just as well. Between you, me, and the lamppost, the soup was from a tin.

Mrs. Brooks departed. Agatha looked down at her plate of fish and vegetables. Both had been overcooked into an unappealing mess. It was therefore no wonder most of the residents kept a stash of food in their rooms to snack on.

What is Passover like here? she asked the others.  This would be her first Passover at Barnet Court, and she realized she had better find out the procedure beforehand. Will there be kosher food for those of us who observe?

Yes, dear, said Miss Eppel. The non-Jewish residents will continue to eat their meals here in the dining room. The management will arrange for us to eat somewhere else and have our own kitchen. Although I don’t think they have said where yet.

They prepare an amazing menu for us, said Ronny, with a twinkle in his eye.

How nice, said Agatha.

It is, if you like eggs, chicken, and potatoes. There are boiled eggs and potatoes for breakfast, boiled chicken and potatoes for lunch, and boiled potatoes and eggs for supper.

It’s the same menu for all eight days, Rubles added.

They also serve gefilte fish, said Miss Eppel, with a hint of reprimand in her voice.

From a jar. Ronny made a face.

Perlow shuddered.

I suppose that in a place like this one doesn’t feel Passover is the holiday of freedom, said Agatha, gazing sadly about the room.

It’s not so bad, once you get used to it, Ronny reassured her.

Of course, it’s not the same as celebrating the holiday in your own home, said Rubles. But at least there’s no washing up to do after the meals. The staff takes care of it.

Yes, that is something, said Agatha, trying her best to look cheerful. First, though, I must dispose of my chametz too. Order and method, as Monsieur Perlow would say.

He acknowledged the sentiment with a nod of his head.

Where is the chametz closet located? I don’t think I got the notice.

They don’t make a public announcement, Rubles replied. They don’t want the other residents to make a stampede and raid the closet. The staff doles out our unopened chametz during the holiday.

You can come with me, said Miss Eppel. I plan to deposit mine after Scrabble.

Thank you, said Agatha. A secret closet sounds exciting.

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As most of the residents followed the example of Herschel