Free Fall

35

Arnold Rosen’s funeral takes place early Sunday morning at the Grossman amp; Mehringer funeral home’s memorial chapel.

Ceepak, Rita, Ceepak’s mom, and I go to pay our last respects.

Grossman amp; Mehringer’s is located on Sea Breeze Drive, just about a block from the Salty Dog Deli, which, I’m told, caters a lot of the post-funeral receptions for those utilizing the services of the funeral home. Probably because the owner, Saul, makes the best Reuben sandwiches in the state, even though Saul once told me they’re not kosher.

“It’s corned beef, Swiss cheese, and sauerkraut on toasted rye bread,” he said. “The combination of Swiss cheese, a milk product, with corned beef, a meat product, violates the rules for kosher food.”

“So if you eat one, you’re going to hell?”

“No. Because Jews don’t believe in hell.”

And then he told me that a forgiving and compassionate God would never create such a thing as Hell to punish souls for all eternity.

“Except maybe Hitler.”

Saul’s a very interesting guy. Makes good sandwiches, too.

Ceepak and I pick up our disposable yarmulkes in the lobby and head into the funeral chapel. Stained-glass windows filled with jagged geometric shapes filter and color the beams of morning sunshine streaming into the room.

I notice Christine sitting all alone in the last row of chairs. I think about going over to sit with her, but she warns me off with a subtle shake of her head.

“Oops. It’s Sunday,” I hear Mrs. Ceepak whisper to her son. “Does this count as going to church?”

“I don’t believe so, mother. However, I am not that conversant with all the rules and regulations of the modern day Roman Catholic church.”

“Well, Jesus was Jewish before he became Catholic, so I say it counts.”

Monae Dunn is sitting on the left-hand side of the chapel with Michael and another African-American woman who looks like she might be Monae’s sister, Revae. They’re both in very nice, very black church dresses. Michael is wearing a nicely tailored black suit. I’m sort of curious as to how he knew to pack it for his weekend trip home.

Judith, David, and Little Arnie Rosen are seated on the right. Shona Oppenheimer and her son, Samuel, are right behind Judith, Arnie, and David. Shona leans forward to give her sister a gentle shoulder massage and all I can think of are those same hands throttling Christine Lemonopolous’ neck.

Guess that’s why Christine picked a seat six rows away.

Mrs. Ceepak leaves our row to go sit with that handsome gent Hank (the good dancer) and a few of Dr. Rosen’s other “bingo buddies” from the senior center.

Other than that, the golden, padded chairs are pretty much empty. Not exactly a sold-out crowd.

I guess when you live to be 94 you lose a lot of friends and family along the way.

I’m glad Dr. Rosen’s coffin lid is closed.

Whenever you can see the body in an open casket at a funeral it looks, to me anyway, like the guy who the show is all about got so bored with the whole thing he had to lie down and grab a quick nap. I have to figure that a casket, lined with those soft silken pillows, is the most comfortable seat anybody ever gets in church. Too bad you can’t really enjoy it.

Rabbi Bronstein leads the service.

It’s actually very moving. The rabbi tears black ribbons and hands them to family members to pin on their clothes to symbolize their loss. Psalms are recited, including some that Mr. Ceepak hasn’t quoted at us yet. Rabbi Bronstein gives an eloquent eulogy for “this good and honorable man” Arnold Rosen. He even tells a small joke. “Arnold once told me he was named Dentist of the Year, back in the late 1970s. When I asked him what the award was, he said, ‘Nothing much. Just a little plaque.’”

Everybody smiled. Well, everybody I could see.

Later, the whole congregation (except me) recites a memorial prayer. In Hebrew. Fortunately, there is a translation in the slender programs printed up for the event. Everybody’s asking God to shelter the soul of the deceased “under the wings of His Divine presence.”

The casket is then wheeled out of the funeral chapel while all the mourners, me included, recite the 23rd Psalm and follow the coffin up the center aisle.

I don’t see Christine. She must’ve slipped out early.

We don’t go with the family to the cemetery. Instead, we all head down the block to the Salty Dog Deli and order Reuben sandwiches or corned beefs on rye.

“It’s what Arnie would’ve wanted,” says Adele, deconstructing her towering six-inch-thick sandwich and rebuilding it into something that might actually fit in her mouth.

All of our sandwiches are stacked so high with sliced meat, vegetarians everywhere are weeping.

Neither Ceepak nor I mention a thing about her ex-husband’s recent million-dollar request to Mrs. Ceepak. However, Ceepak does, once again, lobby hard for his mother to reconsider the installation of a home security system.

“I don’t need a burglar alarm, John,” she says. “Joe doesn’t scare me. Not anymore.”

“I’m worried, mother,” says Ceepak.

“Me, too,” adds Rita. “Your ex is a mess.”

I raise my hand to add my vote. I can’t speak because my mouth is full of ten pounds of pastrami.

“Well, you’re all very sweet. But like I said, we have the security guards at the front gate.”

“He could grow desperate, mother,” says Ceepak. “Purchase a weapon.”

“Can he do that?” says Rita. “I know he didn’t serve much time in prison, but he is a convicted felon.”

“Under federal law,” says Ceepak, “those with felony convictions do, indeed, forfeit their right to bear arms. However, due in part to an overhaul of federal gun laws orchestrated by the National Rifle Association, every year, thousands of felons across the country have those rights reinstated, often with little or no review.”

“Well, don’t tell your father,” jokes Mrs. Ceepak. “He might try the same thing.”

The waitress brings Styrofoam cartons to our table so we can all box up the second half of our sandwiches and take them home. I’ll probably be eating pastrami till Wednesday.

“Where are they sitting shiva?” asks Rita, probably to steer the conversation away from scary stories about Old Man Ceepak getting a gun.

According to my buddy Joe Getzler, “shiva” means seven in Hebrew. Traditionally, the mourning family receives guests and accepts condolences for a week. “Reform families only do it for three days,” Joe told me. “Sometimes, if people have to travel, it only lasts a day.”

I have a hunch that Arnie Rosen will be given short-shrift-shiva.

“The family will be accepting calls at David and Judith’s house,” says Ceepak.

“Should we go?” asks his mother. “Arnie was such a good man.”

That’s when Ceepak’s cell phone chirrups.

“Work?” says his mother who, I guess, has memorized her son’s different ringtones. “On a Sunday?”

“Apparently so,” says Ceepak, squinting so he can read the caller ID window. “Dr. Kurth,” he mumbles.

The medical examiner.

I’m glad the lid is down on my Styrofoam box. There’s something slightly sickening about hearing gory medical details while staring at a juicy mound of meat.

“This is Ceepak. Yes, ma’am. I see. Well, be sure to thank them for the quick turnaround. We weren’t expecting your answer until much later in the week. Any indication as to where it came from? Very well. Yes, ma’am. I will, indeed, tell her.”

Ceepak closes up his phone.

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ll be with me again this week.”

“More rides to inspect?”

He shakes his head. “Mom?

“Yes?”

“The county medical examiner said to tell you that you were correct. Arnold Rosen was murdered. Potassium cyanide.”

Adele brings her hand to her lips. “Oh, my. Poor man.”

“Dr. Kurth hypothesizes that the poison was given to Dr. Rosen with his morning medications. That someone poured a lethal dose of cyanide into a gel cap and slipped the tainted capsule into Dr. Rosen’s pillbox.”

“He was taking so many meds,” I mumble. “It’d be so easy to do …”

“Roger that. Ladies? We need to take you home and then Danny and I need to pay a visit to the Rosens.”

We’re not going there to sit shiva.

We’re going there to officially open our murder investigation.