by Mary Marks
DEATH OF A QUILTER
Detective Beavers cleared his throat. “I’ll need to get fingerprint samples from each of you to eliminate some of those we took from the crime scene.”
“What about our quilts?” Birdie asked.
“The three of you found Claire Terry’s body. Then her quilt gets stolen and so do yours. I’m wondering what the connection is.”
The longer I sat, the harder the chair became. “Coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“How was Claire killed?”
“OD.”
“She did drugs? She didn’t seem the type.”
“Not recreational. Prescription.”
“How do you know it wasn’t an accident or suicide?”
“We believe she fought with her killer.”
Beavers stood and handed us each another card. “If you have pictures of your quilts, make sure we get copies for identification purposes in case we ever find them.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful,” I sighed.
“You never know. You ladies be careful. I don’t want to alarm you, but a possible connection between the murder and the theft bothers me . . .”
FORGET ME KNOT
MARY MARKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
DEATH OF A QUILTER
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
SATURDAY
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
SUNDAY
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
MONDAY
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
THURSDAY
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
FRIDAY
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
SATURDAY
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
SUNDAY
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
MONDAY
CHAPTER 36
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 37
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
For Lisa, Justin, and Amanda,
my children over whom I kvell.
And for my beloved sister
Mici Marks
of blessed memory.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the part of the book that sounds like an acceptance speech at an awards ceremony. (I should be so lucky.) Nevertheless, if not for the help and encouragement of so many people, this book would never have seen the light of day.
Top of the list: deepest thanks to my daughter Lisa Rojany Buccieri, who prodded me to take writing classes at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. You were right, honey. I needed help. Your support has meant the world to me.
Eternal gratitude to my teachers and mentors Jerrilyn Farmer and Barbara Abercrombie for believing in me and pushing me and telling me (oh so gently) when my work was crap. You brought out the best.
Appreciation and affection go to my writing posse, who gave me such valuable encouragement and feedback over the years: Cheryl Jacobs, Rabbi Julie Pelc Adler, Tracy Tatta, and Barbara Lodge. Too bad we missed being on Oprah’s Book Club by a couple of years. I am also indebted to my fellow workshop participants Cyndra Gernet and Lori Dillman for their perceptive feedback.
Special acknowledgment goes to a number of experts who generously shared their knowledge: Linda Greenberg Loper, Deputy DA (retired) Los Angeles County; Officer Rob Trulik, Senior Lead Officer LAPD; Barbara De Pol and Terry Hayes for their expertise in Catholic Church practices; and Hazel Wetts, who gives so generously of her time to the blind.
I am also grateful to my awesome agent and editor, Dawn Dowdle at Blue Ridge, for believing in my book and making me a better writer.
Finally, thanks to John Scognamiglio and all the wonderful folks at Kensington for helping me to put a check mark on my bucket list. You made my dream come true.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 1
For years, Tuesday mornings were sacred. No matter what, my friend Lucy, her neighbor Birdie, and I spent the day together working on our quilts. This particular Tuesday was supposed to be just another quilty morning, but that was before we found the body.
We headed toward another quilter’s house, a potential fourth member of our little group. Lucy drove down Ventura Boulevard carefully, the way women over the age of sixty often did. If I were driving, we would have been there by now. At fifty-five I was the youngest and hadn’t yet reached the age of hugging the right shoulder of the freeway at forty-five miles per hour. So I leaned back in the rear seat of Lucy Mondello’s vintage 1960 Cadillac, sank into the luxurious creamy leather, and enjoyed the ride.
As we drove, I stared at the back of her head. It resembled the Santa Monica Mountains during a brush fire. Bright orange tufts of hair sprang up like burning chaparral from her scalp. “You’ve done something different to your hair, Lucy.”
“Well, I decided to try a new color late last night. When I finally got to bed, Ray woke up and turned on the lamp. Then real quick he turned it off and rolled with his back to me. The bed started to shake, and I got scared. I said, ‘Ray! We’re having an earthquake.’ Then he snorted and laughed out loud.”
“He didn’t.” Birdie turned to look at Lucy.
“Oh yes he did. He told me, ‘All you need are floppy shoes and a big red nose.’”
We all laughed. I could picture him stifling his laughter in the pillow to avoid hurting Lucy’s feelings.
Lucy sighed. “He’s lucky I love him so much or he’d be in bow-coo trouble today.” Then she glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Is it really so bad?”
What could I say to my best friend? Ray was right—you do look like Bozo? I just smiled and shrugged.
“I guess I’ll have to cut this mess off.”
Birdie clutched the grab bar above the passenger door with one hand while she nervously twirled the end of her long white braid with the other. Birdie Watson had been uneasy around cars ever since her driver’s license was confiscated. While attempting to park her car a couple of years ago, she hit the accelerator instead of the brake and ran her car through the wall of our favorite quilt store. Because she was over seventy, the DMV made her go through a driving test, which she failed when she rammed a police car while attempting to parallel park.
“You could wear your hair like Jamie Lee Curtis or Dame Judi Dench. You’d look really good in short hair.” Leave it to Birdie to try to smooth things over. She was the earth mother type, a magnet for the lonely and wounded. Clearly Birdie’s kindness was the main reason Claire was drawn to our group. None of us really knew much about the woman we were visiting, so we all agreed—today would be a sort of trial. If we liked Claire Terry, she was in. If not, well, we hadn’t thought that far yet.
We drove west on Ventura Boulevard, approaching Woodland Hills. The Google printout directed us to
drive south on Canoga Avenue. “Claire’s street should be about a mile up.”
Lucy got into the left turn lane. “You know, I’m having second thoughts about this. As a matter of fact, I’ve had one of my funny feelings all morning.”
I did a mental eye roll. Lucy often claimed she had a sixth sense about things, but I attributed her insights to natural intuition sharpened by raising five sons. “What are you channeling now?”
“Claire Terry is only in her early forties. Why would she want to hang out with a bunch of ‘old broads’ like us?” Lucy waggled her fingers in one of those air quotes she was so fond of.
“Speak for yourself. I’m not old yet. I’m still having hot flashes.”
“Seriously, how much do we know about her anyway?”
Birdie looked at Lucy. “She’s the best quilter in the guild. Always wins first prize in the shows. I always make a point to talk to her at the guild meetings, and when I suggested we get together, she seemed truly pleased. I think she’s just shy.”
Lucy smiled. “You’re always befriending somebody. Let’s hope she doesn’t turn out to be a psycho like that other woman—what was her name? The one who voted for Bush and stole your antique scissors?”
“Eleanor Peavy.”
I pointed my finger to the left. “Here she is.” We were in an upscale neighborhood with Beamers and Mercedeses parked in the driveways. Lucy steered the huge old Caddy awkwardly onto Claire’s circular drive, black fenders thrusting up in back like shark fins.
Claire’s large Mediterranean-style house had a red tile roof and stucco the color of ripe cantaloupe. The front door was painted cobalt blue.
Birdie spoke first. “Will you look at this! I had no idea Claire lived in such a beautiful home.”
Lucy turned off the motor. “Wow. What does her husband do for a living?”
I remembered hearing some stories at the board meetings about Claire Terry’s divorce several years ago. I couldn’t stand people who gossiped and I never repeated a confidence. However, telling stuff to my best friends wasn’t gossiping, it was data sharing. “Messy divorce. Her money.”
“Kids?”
“I don’t think so.”
Lucy was way taller than me and all elbows and angles. She seemed to unfold as she got out of the car like a large manila envelope refusing to stay closed. In addition to always wearing perfect makeup, Lucy was known for dressing with a theme. Once I’d seen no fewer than four Christmas sweaters hanging in her closet. Today’s theme was gold. Her size ten slacks were honey colored and her blouse was a leopard print. She wore a hunk of amber the size of a hard-boiled egg on a gold chain around her neck.
I gathered my rather large fabric tote bag and dragged it across the seat. Inside was my latest quilt, made of blue and white fabrics in a pattern called Corn and Beans. Also inside was a wooden quilting hoop and a little plastic box full of quilting notions—special coated thread designed to slide easily through the fabric without tangling, small scissors to cut the thread, needles for quilting called “betweens,” a metal thimble to push the needle through the fabric, a round circle of rubber to grab a needle stuck in the fabric, and an emergency package of M&M’s.
I scooted out Birdie’s side of the car and tugged the hem of my white T-shirt down over my size sixteen Liz Claiborne stretch denim jeans. When you had a figure like mine, you used every trick in the book to camouflage the excess weight. Shirts stopping at midhip were the most flattering, but they did tend to ride up.
I opened Birdie’s door to help her out of the car. When I bent over, my hair flopped in my face. Having curly hair is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, you don’t have to blow-dry your hair, because it could become frizzy. On the other hand, your choice of hair styles is limited. My curly mop hasn’t changed since I marched in antiwar demonstrations in the seventies. Well, almost. Now it’s gray.
Birdie winced as she grabbed my hand and slowly got out of the car, putting her weight on her arthritic knees. Once she was vertical, she adjusted her signature denim overalls.
I suspected Birdie was a hippie back in the day. A while back she showed us a blue chambray work shirt she embroidered with brightly colored rainbows and peace signs in the 1960s for her husband, Russell. Somehow, I just couldn’t picture prissy old Russell Watson wearing mutton chops and love beads.
I walked slowly with Birdie, who limped in her brown suede Birkenstocks. Lucy loped ahead of us with her long-legged, no nonsense stride. Anyone watching us would have seen three ordinary women of a certain age carrying large tote bags full of quilting stuff. Nobody would have taken a second look at us. Older women became invisible, especially in the culture of LA.
Lucy reached out and rang the doorbell. No one answered. After a minute, she rang the bell again. Still no answer.
“We’re on time, aren’t we?” Birdie whispered.
Lucy raised her eyebrows and gave us a meaningful look. “My bad feeling is getting worse.”
I walked over to a front window, shoved my glasses back on my nose, and peered inside. The walls were painted a golden yellow. Wide hardwood planks covered the floors. A quilted masterpiece featuring appliquéd flowers and birds hung prominently on the wall behind a comfy-looking sofa.
There was something on the hallway floor. I squeezed closer to the window and put my hands around my face to cut out the glare.
A pair of red shoes . . .
Feet inside the shoes, and legs . . .
I couldn’t see more because the wall was in the way.
“I think there’s someone lying on the floor.”
CHAPTER 2
“See if you can open the door.” I stared at the body on the floor.
Lucy turned the knob, but the door was locked. She rushed over to the window. “Let me see.”
Birdie came over, too, mashing her nose against the glass. “Good heavens. Is that Claire?”
I was about to pull my cell phone out of my bag to call 9-1-1 when a slender blonde in a red halter top and white shorts came out of the house next-door. She was carrying gardening shears. I hurried over to her yard and asked, “Do you know the woman who lives here? Claire Terry?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I think something has happened to her.”
“Wha’?”
“Nobody answered the doorbell, so I peeked in the window. Someone is lying on the floor.”
“Oh my God. I know where she keeps a spare key.” She threw down the gardening shears and ran over to the corner of Claire’s house, reached through a locked wrought iron gate, and took a key from somewhere on the side of the house. Then she sprinted like an athlete to the front door and opened the lock while I power walked right behind her.
She stuck her head inside the door. “Claire?” No answer.
“Over there.” Birdie pointed to the red shoes.
We rushed forward and stopped suddenly at the sight of Claire Terry, lying on her back with a ring of dried yellow vomit around her mouth.
The blonde gasped. The whites of her eyes showed, and the skin of her face turned green. Her voice, small and high pitched, squeaked, “Is she dead?”
Claire lay on her back with one arm at her side and the other resting on her stomach. She wore a red cotton sundress and those red shoes. Faint freckles dotted her pale pretty face, turned slightly to the right, and her eyes stared vacantly at the wall. Her long dark hair spread out behind her head in a tangled fan. Under her right cheek her hair was crusted with vomit. She looked like a delicate porcelain doll discarded by a careless child.
I got on my knees and put my fingertips on her neck. Her flesh felt cold and wooden, and she smelled sour. I shuddered and felt light-headed. Tiny polka dots danced before my eyes and I thought I might faint. I blinked rapidly, took a deep breath, and quickly pulled my hand away. “No pulse.”
Birdie clutched Lucy’s arm. “Oh dear. What about CPR?”
The blonde looked at the vomit on Claire’s face. “You don’t mean mouth to
mouth. . . .”
Lucy pointed. “Look at her eyes. People don’t sleep with their eyes wide open unless they’re dead.”
She was right. This pretty young woman was gone. Pity squeezed my heart.
Birdie’s voice hovered on the edge of hysteria. “Well, put a mirror under her nose. Does anyone have a mirror in their purse?”
I looked at Birdie and shook my head. “We’re too late, Birdie. She’s gone.”
Lucy put her arm around Birdie’s shoulders. “Come on, hon’. Let’s go outside and wait while Martha calls nine-one-one.”
I reached over and pushed her eyelids closed. Then I got on all fours, grunted, and stood up butt first; there was no other graceful way to do it. Being overweight was such a bummer.
I pulled my cell phone out of my tote bag and dialed 9-1-1. One recent TV muckraker reported the emergency lines in Los Angeles were often so busy a person could wait several minutes to get through. This must have been one of those times. How long would Claire have lain there if we hadn’t come along? Who would have been the first to discover her? How awful to end your life alone.
I thought about how I wanted to die: in my own bed, surrounded by sobbing family and friends. My ex-husband, Aaron, would grab my hand and tell me tearfully, “I was so wrong to leave you. I was a total jerk. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. Can you ever forgive me?”
Tears stung my eyes as the poignant scene played out in my head. I’d look at him and whisper with my dying breath, “It’s too late, moron.”
Then a voice came on the line. “Nine-one-one Emergency.”
“I want to report a death.”
“What’s the address?”
I turned to Claire’s neighbor for the information. The dispatcher instructed us to go outside and wait for the police.
