I glanced at the dark blue slacks, scuffed shoes, and white shirt I had on. "Hardly that, I'm afraid."
She laughed, a sound like tiny bells tinkling. "You may not be dressed the part, but it's the spirit that counts. Besides, it's not as if I'm dressed like a lady, am I?"
She had that right. Her clothes were as simple as mine. Sensible flat shoes, a dove gray skirt that went past her knees, and a black short-sleeved shirt. The shirt was buttoned to her throat and tucked into the waistline of her skirt.
These were the sort of clothes most Israeli women wore. Unless it was a special occasion, in which case they would reach into the depths of their closets and retrieve the one dress, or maybe one of two, that was too fine and precious to risk tearing or staining on any regular day.
"But," she said, untying the knot that sealed the mouth of the sack, "that's easily remedied." And from the sack she drew out a very long old-fashioned burgundy dress and held it up for me to see. "In this, any woman would look like a noble lady, especially if we paired it with the right necklace. Like one of these."
She pointed at a nearby worktable topped with an open box glinting with bracelets, rings, earrings, and necklaces. At my startled gaze, she laughed again. "They're not real. They only look real. Which is why we use them."
"They're props?"
"Yes. As are the clothes you were kind enough to carry for me. And these as well." She indicated a hanging bar that ran the length of one wall. Additional articles of clothing hung on it, most of which clearly belonged to faraway lands and distant times. She located an empty hanger for the burgundy dress and then offered her hand. "Varda Navon."
"Adam Lapid," I said.
Her firm, businesslike grip confirmed my initial impression of her. She was no idle lady, but a woman who was no stranger to work. Her accent, or lack thereof, marked her as locally born, her speech and subtle humor as fiercely intelligent, her wedding band as a married woman. I wondered if her husband considered himself a lucky man, and decided he probably did.
She was of average height and had intelligent brown eyes. A womanly figure, with wide hips and large breasts. A round, mildly attractive face, with a snub nose and a fetching mouth. I could tell it was a mouth that smiled easily, as it was doing now.
"Knight or not, Adam, you're living proof that chivalry is indeed not dead. I'm lucky you were passing by when you did."
"Actually, I wasn't passing by. I had just exited the theater when I saw you struggling in your trunk."
"And you rushed to my rescue. How noble of you. But what were you doing in the theater? Are you in show business?"
"Not at all. I'm a detective."
"Oh? And why have you come here?"
"I'm investigating the murder of Anna Hartman."
That erased the cheerfulness from her face. She looked at me as though seeing me for the very first time. "You're a policeman?"
"A private investigator. I've been hired to see if the murder might finally be solved."
"Oh," she said, and then repeated herself, "Oh." There was a chair by the table, and she lowered herself into it. "So it seems you are a knight after all."
Her eyes, which a moment ago had sparkled with mirth, now glittered with sadness, belying the levity of her words.
"I'm glad you're doing this," she said. "Something tells me that if anyone can solve this case, it's you."
"You don't even know me, Mrs. Navon."
"No, but it's an impossible quest, isn't it? After all this time? And who better for an impossible quest than a knight? And please call me Varda. I've already called you by your first name, so you might as well call me by mine."
"All right, Varda. I'd like to ask a few questions about Anna, if that's all right."
"Of course. Why don't you take that stool over there?"
It was a tall, three-legged wooden stool, and I perched myself on it. I studied her for a moment. Her expression was somber, her eyes moist. Her posture was relaxed but attentive, a hand on each thigh.
I began, "How did you first learn about the murder?"
"I arrived at the theater in midmorning the day her body was discovered. Some of the actors were already here. They told me what happened. It was a huge shock."
"I can imagine. Forgive me, but I have to ask: Where were you the night of the murder?"
She answered without hesitation: "At home, with my husband."
"All night?"
"Yes. I arrived home at about six thirty and did not go out until the morning after."
"You remember the exact time after all these years? You have a good memory."
"Not all that good. But everything about that dreadful day is engraved in my mind."
"And your husband was with you the entire night?"
"Yes."
It was what she'd told Meltzer five years ago. I decided to move on.
"How long have you worked for Shoresh Theater?"
"Since 1937."
"And when did you first meet Anna?"
"The day she was hired. She came to me so I could take her measurements."
"Measurements?"
"For the outfits she would need in her work. This is what I do, Adam. I make the costumes for all our plays, and most of the set design as well." She paused for a beat. "I remember thinking she had the most wonderful figure. I just knew every dress I made her would look perfect. And they did. She said so herself."
"How did you get into dressmaking?"
"My mother was a seamstress and my father a tailor. Between the two of them, they taught me everything to know about how to work with every sort of fabric you can imagine. I still run the shop they opened twenty-five years ago. My work for Shoresh Theater is a mere sideline."
"You must be doing well," I said, "to be able to afford a car."
Color tinged her cheeks. Her eyes were downcast. "It's...it's not mine. I borrowed it, you might say." She raised her eyes and got it all out in a rush. "My husband is a mechanic, and, well, someone needs to take the repaired cars for a ride to make sure they run smoothly before their owners pick them up."
"Ah. I see."
Apparently she felt a need to explain herself further. "The theater used to pay for a taxi any time I needed one, but these days I have to make do by myself somehow. It makes no difference to the car's owner, you understand."
I smiled. "It's all right, Varda. We all skirt the rules to get by." I wondered why Isser did not offer his costume designer the use of his car. Perhaps he felt it was beneath him. Or maybe he was just stingy. I said, "I heard rumors the theater was in trouble financially, but I didn't think it was that bad."
"Oh, it's pretty bad. Our wages were cut five percent last year and another three this year. I hope it's temporary, but who knows?"
The same question could be asked about the economy in general. It seemed no one, including those in government, knew where things were headed.
"Can the actors get by on their salaries?"
"If they tighten their belts. It's easier for the senior ones. You get a higher salary the longer you've been with the theater."
I nodded, then returned to the matter at hand: "How did you end up working for the theater?"
"One of our actresses...well, she's a former actress now. Dahlia Rotner. Have you heard of her?"
"I have," I said, keeping my expression flat. "I understand she's no longer acting."
"No. It's a terrible thing. She was injured in a car accident a few years ago, and she hasn't fully recovered. But well before that, in 1937, she came into the shop to buy a dress, and she liked what she saw, so she offered me a position with the theater. They needed someone immediately, and I leaped at the opportunity."
"You like the theater?"
"At first I did it for the extra income, but then I grew to like it. The theater is glamorous and mysterious, and I love how every night the actors turn into different people, and that I play an important role in creating an illusion for the audience. Of course, the actors get the applause, but you know what?" There was a conspiratorial smile on her lips.