Forget Me Knot (A Quilting Mystery)

by Mary Marks

  In the purple tax section, there was a folder with some check registers going back a couple of years. She made out checks to a Jerry Bell on a monthly basis, ranging from one thousand dollars to ten thousand dollars, as far back as the record went. Who was Jerry Bell, anyway? Her lover? If so, did he manage to con a small income out of her? Or maybe he was a blackmailer. What could he have blackmailed her about? I made copies of the registers on Claire’s copier and put the originals back in their folder.

  Then I found a folder labeled Jerry Bell. Inside was his name, phone number, and address, which I copied into my notepad. Strange. Why such a dearth of information? Claire was an obsessively detailed person. Why wouldn’t there also be a record in his file of the payments she made to him? This was beginning to smell more and more like blackmail.

  I noticed she paid for appointments at a well-known spa located near Little Armenia in Hollywood. Los Angeles was known to have natural hot springs made possible by the unique geology of the area; something having to do with the subducting of the Pacific tectonic plate beneath the North American plate. Back in the 1920s and ’30s, a number of Turkish bathhouses around the city tapped into the various hot springs and capitalized on the natural steam and mineral water.

  As the city grew and developed, the pipes were eventually capped off and the bathhouses disappeared under high-rises. To my knowledge, this spa was the only one of its kind remaining in LA. A person could soak in the hot bubbling water or get a massage, body scrub, acupuncture, mud wrap, or facial. Judging from the weekly checks, Claire liked her little luxuries on a regular basis.

  On spa days, Claire also wrote a check to Mai’s Nail Palace. What a life. Go to the spa, get a massage and a facial, and then go get a mani-pedi. Must be nice.

  There were also weekly checks in her check registers made out to a Dr. Alexander Godwin, but they stopped about eight months ago. What kind of doctor did someone see on a weekly basis? A chiropractor? Acupuncturist? Psychiatrist?

  I pulled out a folder with his name. Dr. Godwin was a shrink. Why was Claire in therapy? Knowing why might lead straight to the killer. Godwin could be a gold mine of information, but I doubted he’d divulge anything to me. I wrote down his name, address, and phone number anyway. I could always give him a shot.

  I looked through the folders in the yellow section marked Charitable Contributions and found one for the Blind Children’s Association. There were several receipts for thousands of dollars she donated on a regular basis.

  At the back of the file was a letter on the association’s stationery thanking Claire for including them in her “long-term giving” plan. Claire named BCA as a beneficiary of her will. Some nonprofits were relentless in their pursuit of bequests. Looked like BCA managed to snag a big fish with Claire. Did someone in the organization get tired of waiting for her to grow old and die?

  In the left-hand margin of the BCA letterhead was a list of board members. At the top of the list was the name of the chairman: Alexander Godwin, MD. Well, well . . .

  I went on to search the orange section marked Miscellaneous. Bingo! A folder labeled Quilts. My heart sped up a little as I opened it.

  Empty.

  Darn! The thief must have taken the list of quilts. How did he know the list existed? He might have known Claire or known about the custom of keeping a quilt journal, like another quilter would. Carlotta Hudson’s sour face popped into my head.

  Was Lucy right? Did Carlotta Hudson kill Claire in a fit of jealousy? Carlotta couldn’t have stolen the quilts from the show, but an accomplice could have. Was she the one trying to get her hands on the rest of Claire’s quilts?

  I hoped Claire kept a backup copy of the missing list somewhere on her computer. I booted up the laptop on her desk. Password protected. Darn again.

  Then I realized—whatever the thief touched in the filing cabinet I also touched. If he left any fingerprints, I just screwed them up. Detective Beavers was going to be really, really mad. The only thing I hadn’t touched was the sewing room cabinet, so maybe they could still get fingerprints from that.

  I looked at my watch; nearly six. I closed the file drawers and stuffed the copies of the check registers and the notepad in my purse. I took the laptop out to my car and put it in my trunk. If only I could find the password, I could look at her document files. There was sure to be a copy of the list there.

  I sat on the bench outside the front door. The card Detective Beavers gave me at the quilt show was still in my purse. I called him on my cell phone.

  “Arlo Beavers.”

  “This is Martha Rose. I’m afraid someone has broken in to Claire Terry’s house.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m here, at her house.”

  “Impossible. How did you manage to pop up at yet another crime scene?”

  I didn’t much care for his tone of voice. “I came to get something Claire’s mother wanted and discovered someone broke in. The window in the guest room was shattered. The door to her quilt cabinet was jimmied open. I think the thief came looking for the four quilts I took home with me.”

  “Sit tight. Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I called Siobhan next.

  “Siobhan, this is Martha Rose. I’m at Claire’s house looking for the list of quilts you mentioned.”

  “Did you find one?”

  “No. Someone else beat me to it. The folder where she kept the list was empty. The thief came in through a window and broke into her quilt cabinet. You were right about his coming back for the rest of her quilts.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but I’m concerned about the Mary Cassatt painting in her bedroom. The thief apparently didn’t know enough to take it. Shouldn’t you move it to a safer place?”

  “Oh, I forgot all about that painting. Thanks for reminding me. I’ll have Will take care of it.”

  “Another thing, Siobhan. Did Claire have a boyfriend?”

  “If she did, she didn’t say. After her divorce from James years ago, she didn’t seem interested in dating.”

  “Did you say James?”

  “Yes. James Trueville.”

  “Did Claire ever call him Jamey?”

  Siobhan sighed. “Yes. That was her pet name for him.”

  “I know this sounds weird, but was he ever unfaithful to Claire?”

  “Yes. His infidelity was the primary reason for the divorce. Why do you ask?”

  “It has to do with one of the quilts. I’ll tell you more when I can. Meanwhile, the police are on their way so I don’t have much time. Do I have your permission to take Claire’s laptop home to search for the list?”

  “Of course. When you find it, please fax me a copy at this same number.”

  “Right. Do you have any idea what her password is?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know anything about computers.”

  I looked up. The cat stood at the front door. “One last thing—what do you want to do about her cat? The police are probably going to seal off the house again.”

  “Heavens. I forgot all about Bumper. Could you take him? I’m allergic to cats.”

  When my daughter, Quincy, was growing up, we adopted a succession of hamsters, dogs, and cats. Quincy even kept a garden snake she named Buttons when she was twelve years old—a love offering from one of the many neighborhood boys who had a crush on her. I had to persuade her to return him to the wild where he could be reunited with his family, who worried about him. We drove up Topanga until we found a dry, grassy area and released him, chanting “Good-bye dear Buttons. You’re free to be.”

  When Quincy went away to college, three cats and a dog stayed behind with me. One by one they aged and died. The last of them, a timid Siamese cat named Mazda, after Quincy’s first car, died about a year ago. I really missed him.

  I looked over at the ginger ball of fur smiling at me. “No problem. I think we’ve bonded.”

  I headed back in the house. The cat ke
pt bumping his head against my leg and purring as I gathered up his gear from the laundry room. “Now I know how you got your name.” I scratched him behind the ears and under his jaw where his scent glands were. I found his carrier and put him and his stuff in my car. Then I sat down on the bench by the front door to wait for the police.

  Again.

  CHAPTER 12

  The familiar silver Camry pulled into the driveway behind my car. Detective Beavers got out and strode over to me with a scowl on his face.

  Oh God. I dreaded the confrontation that was a nanosecond away.

  “I just got off the phone with Mrs. Terry. She confirmed your story.”

  “My story?”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “Siobhan Terry told me there was a list of all the quilts Claire made and who owned them.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I was too late. The file was empty.”

  “Was there anything else missing?”

  “How would I know? The thief was too dumb to take the Cassatt painting hanging in Claire’s bedroom, but that’s all I noticed. I can tell you if I hadn’t taken her quilts home with me last night, they would now be long gone. The thief broke into the locked cabinet where they were stored.”

  “Did you take anything else out of this house, like a laptop?”

  “Did the police leave a laptop behind?” I deftly skirted his question.

  “A simple misunderstanding. Forensics thought Kaplan had taken care of it and Kaplan thought they had taken it. We were about to rectify the situation when I got your call. Please tell me the laptop is still here.”

  “It is not.” Still not an outright lie.

  “I did take the cat and his gear.” If Beavers got hold of Claire’s laptop before I had a chance to find the list, I could kiss my research good-bye. Besides, Siobhan said I could have it.

  “How long were you in there?”

  “A little more than three hours.”

  His scowl deepened and I could tell he was about to get all pissy with me again. Fortunately a patrol car pulled into the driveway behind the Camry. Beavers walked over to them. “Secure the house until CSU gets here.”

  Then he walked back. “I’m going inside to look around. I want you to go home and lock your doors. I’ll be by your house later this evening, so stay put.”

  This was the second time in less than an hour he’d given me an order. I stood as tall as I could and looked at him. “You need to be specific about the time you’ll be there. I have better things to do than sit around and wait for you.”

  His eyes darkened. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned slightly forward. “My ETA is somewhere between now and midnight. Be there.”

  I drove down Canoga when it hit me. Statements were usually given at the police station. At least that’s how it was done on television. What was he up to?

  I stopped at Crazy Chicken Takeout and got some wings, thighs, and a side of coleslaw to go. When I got back in the car, Bumper was yowling. He told me in no uncertain terms he wanted out of his carrier. “I’m sorry, Bumper, but California law says cats have to stay in their cages while riding in a motor vehicle. My hands are tied.”

  I made three trips to carry everything into my house from the car. I put Claire’s laptop in the closet in my office. Then I set up Bumper’s food, water, and litter box in my laundry room. When I let him out of the carrier, he made a beeline for the litter box. Cats were smart that way.

  I took a Coke Zero from the refrigerator and ate my Crazy Chicken $4.99 special while Bumper loudly crunched his star-shaped kibble. “It’s been a while since I’ve eaten dinner alone with a man. What do you think about taking our relationship to the next level? Are you ready to commit, because I am.” Bumper answered by jumping up on my lap and purring. I smiled and scratched him under the chin.

  After dinner I pulled my blue and white quilt out of the tote bag and started to quilt the curving lines of the Bishop’s Fan pattern. Quilting by hand always calmed me, almost to a meditative state. Soon the rhythm of the needle biting through the fabric made me forget about Claire and her quilts. My focus was on following the gently curving lines of the Bishop’s Fan.

  I was known in the quilting community for my tiny quilting stitches. My secret was in the needle I used—a size eleven “between,” which was only one inch long because a short needle made small stitches. The higher the number the smaller the needle. The size eleven was a hybrid combining the short length of a size twelve with the bigger eye of a size ten to accommodate the thicker dimension of quilting thread.

  At eight Beavers knocked on my door. I looked into his big brown eyes, noticed the way his mustache softened the line of his upper lip, caught a whiff of his Me Tarzan cologne, and remembered again why I found him attractive.

  I shrugged. “Come in and let’s get this over with.” He followed me to the kitchen where I had already put a kettle of water on to boil.

  “Exactly when did you arrive at the crime scene today?” He slid onto a stool at the island.

  “Around two.”

  “Yet you didn’t call me until after five? What were you doing?”

  The kettle was boiling. I poured two mugs of steaming hot black tea and brought them over to where he sat. “Research.”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “No need to get huffy, Detective. Milk and sugar?”

  He took the cup. “Sugar, and please answer the question.”

  I brought spoons along with ajar of agave syrup and a cream pitcher and sat on the next stool over. “It means I was there at the request of Claire’s mother, looking for a list of Claire’s quilts. Like I told you earlier.”

  He picked up the bottle of sweetener. “What’s this?”

  “Sweet syrup from the agave plant. It’s natural and much better for you than refined sugar. One teaspoon is usually enough.”

  “Agave, the same plant they make tequila from?”

  “Exactly.”

  He squeezed a spoonful into his cup and stirred. “Which rooms did you go into?”

  I put milk and syrup into my cup. “All of them.”

  He blew on his tea and took a sip. “When did you discover the quilt cabinet had been tampered with?”

  “Almost as soon as I got there.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Why didn’t you call the police then?”

  “I needed a little more time to look for the list. I looked through all the bookshelves and drawers in her sewing room, but I didn’t find a journal or list of any kind.”

  “What did you do after you left the sewing room?”

  “I went to her office where I eventually found her empty Quilt folder.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t remember exactly. I spent quite a while looking through her files.”

  “Why didn’t you call the police when you discovered the file was missing?”

  “I thought maybe Claire filed a backup copy somewhere else, so I kept looking.”

  “Are you sure you didn’t see her computer?”

  “Heavens.” I stared at my tea. Could I get away with answering a question with a question? “Do you think the intruder took it? I was focused on the papers in the filing cabinet.”

  “For more than three hours? What were you doing all that time?”

  “You know, Detective, you need to be more trusting. I’m neither the thief nor the killer. I was there legitimately. Everything I did was with Mrs. Terry’s approval, and when I was done, you were the first person I called.”

  I was on a roll. “And, by the way, locking the quilt cupboard yesterday was my idea. I thought if the thief came back to Claire’s house, looking for quilts, he’d be forced to jimmy open the lock and leave his fingerprints. What do you know—I was right. So, if you lift any prints from the cabinet door, you have me to thank.” I leaned back and felt as self-righteous as a politician’s campaign ad.

  “Did it ever occur to you the thief will ev
entually figure out where Claire Terry’s quilts are and come after them?”

  “Of course. This morning I hid them where no man would think of going.”

  “Where?”

  “In the dirty laundry.”

  “Are they still there?”

  Oh my God. I couldn’t say for sure. Since arriving home, I’d been too busy to check on them. So far, the thief was one step behind me. The possibility of the quilts having been taken from my house made my face feel like it was dissolving into a gazillion swirling molecules. My lips went numb and my pulse rate shot up. I got up and walked quickly toward the laundry room. “I don’t know.” Please, God, let the quilts be there.

  I exhaled. The bundles were still where I left them. Darn that Detective Beavers, scaring me to death. I took a couple of calming breaths and walked casually back into the kitchen and sat down. “They’re still here.” I sipped my tea noisily.

  “You need to give them back.”

  “I will, Detective, day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, I made a promise to Siobhan that I intend to keep.”

  “Listen to me very carefully, Martha Rose.”

  The tiniest thrill of pleasure went through me in the way he used my whole name. It seemed somehow intimate, despite the sharpness in his voice.

  “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I do know you better stop right now.”

  My bully radar started pinging and my brief sense of pleasure evaporated. This man just loved to throw orders around, but he didn’t intimidate me. “Just what do you mean?”

  Beavers never took his eyes off my face. “You knowingly tampered with a crime scene, a misdemeanor. By touching everything he touched, you’ve compromised our ability to collect his fingerprints. If you’re holding anything back, that’s obstruction. A felony.”

  “Well, how was I to know he stole the office files? If I messed up the prints, I didn’t mean to. Besides, I was careful not to touch the quilt cupboard door.”

  “Listen carefully. This is not TV where crimes are solved in one hour minus the commercials. This is the dark side of LA. Poking around in people’s lives can be dangerous. You can get killed. You can get sued. You can also get arrested for playing amateur detective.”