by Mary Marks
“No, she was attending some kind of quilting conference in San Jose the night of the killing. She also alibied out for almost every night after. We checked them out. When we pressed her, however, she did confess to putting those packages on the porches.” He smoothed a layer of coleslaw on top of everything, closed the sandwich, and before he took a bite he asked, “Do you know why she would be driven to such a juvenile act?”
“Pure jealousy and spite. She’s the kind of quilter who enters a quilt in half a dozen shows in the hopes of earning a prize. The best she’s ever been able to pull off is third place because she’s just not that good.”
I noticed a bit of sauce clinging to his mustache and stopped myself just in time from reaching over and wiping his mouth. “So did you throw her in jail?”
Beavers shook his head. “At worst it was malicious mischief. That doesn’t earn you jail time.”
“Well, what about trespassing?”
“She could only be trespassing if she went through a barrier onto fenced-off property. All of your houses are open to the streets.”
My voice rose with indignation. “Well, what if we insist on pressing charges?”
“The DA doesn’t prosecute ‘mal mish’ cases. At the most you’d get a referral to a dispute resolution counselor.”
I put down my fork and jabbed at my chest with my thumb. “You mean I was forced to stay in that putrid jail overnight for nothing while this crazy woman gets a free pass?” I slapped the table with the palm of my hand. “How fair is that?”
He raised a bottle of Heineken to his lips. “I’m sorry, Martha. Your arrest was a mistake, but Carlotta Hudson gets to walk this time.”
“When were you planning to break the news about Carlotta to Lucy and Birdie?”
“This afternoon.”
I vigorously cut my meat into small pieces. “Maybe I should pay Carlotta’s front porch a visit some night.”
“I didn’t hear that. To change the subject, how’s the food?”
“Tastes really great.” I wasn’t ready yet to forget about Carlotta, and certainly not ready to forgive. “Are you a barbeque expert?” Judging from his western attire, I guessed Beavers probably came from some state where they ate barbeque all the time; like Texas or Kansas. Almost everyone in California came from somewhere else.
“Well, I’ve developed a taste for it. Where I grew up, we ate a lot of fish.”
“Where was that?” I was now thinking Louisiana or the gulf coast of Alabama.
“Oregon. Siletz Reservation on the north coast.”
“You’re Native American?” Nothing could have surprised me more, and yet the more I looked at him, the more I saw it in his dark eyes.
“Half. My mother. Never knew my father. He was some white dude she picked up in a bar. I grew up with my grandparents on the rez near Lincoln City. They were good people.” He looked at me and grinned. “I’m a good guy, too. They raised me right.”
“What happened to your mother?”
“Died of an overdose in the sixties.”
I don’t know why I decided to tell him about myself, but hearing about his childhood made me go all soft inside. “I never knew my father either. His name was Quinn. My family always maintained he died in a train wreck before I was born, but mean Aunt Esther always called me a mamser.”
“What’s that?”
“Illegitimate. So I’ve always had my doubts. When I met Jerry Bell and heard how he located his birth mother, it started me thinking. I’ve never actually seen my mother’s marriage certificate, so the only thing I know about my father is his first name, Quinn. I once asked my mother why my last name was the same as hers and Bubbie’s and Uncle Isaac’s. She just told me, ‘It was easier that way.’
“Anyway, my mother never seemed to recover completely. She wasn’t very functional and needed to be taken care of. We lived with my grandmother and my uncle Isaac. Bubbie died when I was nine, so my uncle Isaac just sort of took over. He even put me through college.”
“Sounds like he was just as good as a father.”
“Yeah. He warned me against marrying my ex. He said, ‘He’s not for you, faigela.’”
“What does that mean?”
“Little bird.”
Beavers smiled. “That sounds Indian.”
I smiled back. “My uncle is a wise man. He warned me Aaron would break my heart, but I was too young and infatuated to listen to him. I stubbornly defended Aaron because he was going to be a doctor and help sick people. My uncle said, ‘Doctor, schmokter. He’s a schmuck.’”
Beavers chuckled. “Maybe you should have listened to him.”
“Ya think? But much to Uncle Isaac’s credit, when my heart did get broken, he never said a word. He just loved me as usual and helped me and my daughter, Quincy, to get through it. He’s still alive and well, and I adore him.”
“I can see why. What about your mother?”
“She continued to live in her own world. She died of cancer about ten years ago. Her last words to me weren’t ‘I love you,’ but ‘Where’s Quinn?’”
Beavers listened intently. “Are you interested in finding out more about your father? You’re obviously good at research. Not that I approve, but look at the way you uncovered so much information about Claire Terry.”
“I’m still thinking about it. I’m fifty-five years old. If there’s a chance he didn’t really die in a train wreck, he might still be alive. He could even still be in his seventies. But I’m not sure I’m brave enough to go there.”
“I think you’re brave. Reckless, but brave. But it’s time for you to back off this case, Martha. I’d much rather see you researching your father’s identity than digging into this dangerous murder.”
I waved my hand dismissively. I wasn’t going to stop until Claire’s murderer was found, and deep down I’m sure he knew it. “What about you? What was it like growing up on the reservation?”
“Well, I guess I have a similar story. My grandparents did for me what your grandmother and uncle did for you. We didn’t have much, but I was lucky. My grandfather worked me so hard I didn’t have time to get in trouble, and my grandmother insisted I get an education. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for them.”
“They must be very proud of you, being an LAPD detective and all.”
Beavers smiled. “They wanted me to become a lawyer. Fight for Indian rights, but I decided to pursue the law in a different way.”
“Are they still alive?”
“No. If they were, they’d be over a hundred.”
“You were lucky to have such loving grandparents. Think of Jerry Bell and the awful situation he’s facing.”
Beavers nodded. “Claire Terry lived a tangled-up life.”
“So you’re no closer to finding the killer? What about Claire’s quilts? Have you translated them? What do they say?”
“The Terrys have powerful friends. There’s been a lot of pressure on my captain and on the DA to back off and leave the grieving family alone. Consequently, the DA has been reluctant to move on getting a warrant. Bottom line, the quilts are still with the Terrys.”
“I don’t believe it! The rich and powerful always seem to escape the rules the rest of us have to live by.”
“Don’t worry. We, and I don’t mean you, aren’t through with our investigation. We, the police, will get the guy who did this.”
He cleared off the table while I rinsed the dishes. Working together seemed as natural as if we’d been doing this for years. I was pissed about Carlotta and even more pissed about the quilts. I still kept a little something up my sleeve I didn’t want Beavers to know about. I wanted him to leave so I could get to it. I thrust the last dish in the dishwasher, wiped my hands on a dish towel, and looked pointedly at the clock. “Thanks for the lunch break; the food was delicious.”
Beavers glanced at my foot and started to say something but must have thought better of it. “I’ll get going as soon as you sign for your laptop.”
> I completed the release form, and he handed me a copy as I walked him to the front door.
“I’m beginning to figure you out, Martha. You’ve got that look that tells me you’re up to something. Even though we know who is responsible for the dog poop, we still have a killer on the loose, a killer who put a knife in your pillow.”
He folded up his copy of the release and put it in his breast pocket. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me so keenly I couldn’t concentrate. “If you know something else, now’s the time to tell me. Don’t do anything stupid.”
He really looked worried. Impulsively, I stood on my tiptoes to give his cheek a reassuring peck. The next thing I knew, he was kissing me. Deeply and thoroughly. I closed my eyes and lost all sense of space. East, west, north, south, up, down, all swirled around me. I could drown in this man. Finally I pulled away and we stared at each other, shocked by the electrical storm that just sizzled through us.
“Sorry.” He grinned and pointed down. “That little gold thing . . .”
Hallelujah. I was happy to know that after all these years my lucky toe ring still worked.
CHAPTER 31
As soon as Beavers left, I ran to the phone and called Lucy. Three o’clock. She’d be home from her grandson’s soccer game.
“Lucy, guess what?”
“Hi, hon’. How was your first night at home?”
Just then Arthur nudged me with a desperate look. As I told Lucy about the Eyes of Encino leading the police to Carlotta Hudson, I opened the back door for the dog, who immediately ran out and anointed the trunk of the peach tree. Then the cat scooted past me for a friendly game of catch the cat. Arthur and Bumper hardly knew each other, yet they were fast friends.
Why not? Arlo Beavers and I met less than two weeks ago and yet we had already kissed for the first time. I had to admit I hoped it wouldn’t be our last.
“You mean Carlotta Hudson admitted pulling a dirty trick on us and they won’t throw her sorry self in jail?”
“I know. When Barbara North gets back from her vacation, I’m going to petition the board to ask Carlotta to leave the guild. That’ll be a worse punishment for her than jail.”
“You’re right. I’ll tell Ray he can dismiss the boys from guard duty. By the way, did the bodyguard Detective Beavers talked about ever come to your house?”
“Yes. He’s retired from the police force and he’s outside right now peeing in my yard.”
“You should call nine-one-one right now, Martha!”
“Relax, Luce. Arthur’s a German shepherd.”
Fifteen minutes later I was in Lucy’s living room downloading Claire’s files from her flash drive onto my laptop. “It’s more important than ever we have these files. The Terrys aren’t about to hand over the actual quilts, and who knows, maybe they’ll even destroy them. So, whatever I can read from the file photos may be all we ever get to know.”
Birdie came over with a freshly baked loaf of pumpkin-walnut bread, and Lucy made a pot of strong Yorkshire tea served with milk and sweet agave syrup. “Much healthier than sugar.” Then she helped herself to a large slice of cake.
Birdie sipped her tea. “So I no longer have to worry about the threat on my life? Those nasty notes and the dog doody were just Carlotta’s way of getting even for only getting a third-place ribbon at the quilt show?”
I nodded.
“Well, the fact I’m not going to be killed after all will be small consolation to Russell. He bought a new pair of shoes because I refused to clean the ones he wore when he stepped on the bag, and you know Russell. He gagged just carrying them to the trash.”
We laughed hard enough to wipe away tears.
When we were quiet again, I looked at them. “He kissed me.”
Both their heads snapped in my direction.
“What?”
“When?”
“Today, after lunch.” I looked at my teacup. “I kissed him back.”
Lucy slapped her knee. “I knew it! I just knew it. I could feel the chemistry between you two almost from the beginning.”
Birdie smiled. “He seems like such a nice man, Martha. I hope everything works out for you, dear.”
“It’s way too soon to tell. I hardly know him.” I told them what little he’d revealed about himself. “I know nothing about his history as a grown man—marriage, kids, divorce, girlfriends. . . .”
“Well, you should have fun finding out.” Lucy winked.
She and Birdie were always pushing me to get out there and date. They even tried fixing me up a couple of times.
“I don’t know, Lucy. Remember the car salesman you and Ray fixed me up with two years ago?”
Lucy waved her hand. “How were we supposed to know he liked to dress up in women’s clothes?”
I turned to Birdie. “Or the schizophrenic podiatrist in your garden club you insisted I meet?”
“I admit he turned out to be a little peculiar, but he did have splendid azaleas, poor man.”
Around five I declined Lucy’s dinner invitation because I was anxious to go home and examine Claire’s files. As we said good-bye, Lucy and Birdie offered to come over in the morning and help me put my sewing room back together.
As I pulled into my driveway Sonia peeked out her window at me. She waved and mouthed “Thank you.” She must have received the flowers.
I smiled and waved back, then hurried inside in an effort to avoid conversation. I fed the animals and nuked a container of leftover mashed sweet potatoes for myself. Between bites of steaming comfort food, I printed a copy of the Braille alphabet from the Internet and pictures of all of Claire’s quilts from her files. I wasn’t sure what Beavers would do if he knew the photos of Claire’s quilts were in my laptop. No one actually gave us permission to copy those files. Still, we weren’t withholding any evidence since Claire’s computer was at the police station with all the same evidence on it. Was it my fault I was the one who figured everything out?
I started searching for Claire’s last quilt, the one that was stolen. What was the name again? Ascending? There was nothing in her computer. No photos. Darn. Without clear photos to read, how would we ever know why it was stolen?
I thought back to the day of the quilt show and tried to picture the quilt in my mind—pink, red, and purple roses on a gray background covered with hundreds of red French knots. I remember thinking the hearts and flowers reminded me of Valentine’s Day. Maybe the quilt was all about the romance between Claire and Godwin, a romance that made her heart soar, or ascend. Jerry told me she’d been noticeably happier lately. Maybe Godwin stole it to destroy any evidence of their relationship.
So why would he steal mine and Birdie’s quilts, too? With a sinking feeling, I became almost certain we’d never see our quilts again. I was glad I’d taken so many pictures of them right before they were stolen. I hoped the red knots on the gray background of Claire’s quilt would show up clearly in those photos. With any luck I’d find the evidence I was looking for right in my digital camera.
I wasn’t sure where to start searching for my camera. I remembered putting my fanny pack in my sewing room after the quilt show, but the killer made an awful mess in there. The night of the break-in he raked through my fabric and tossed it all over the room in a futile search for Claire’s quilts. Richie and Joey put everything in cardboard boxes for me to sort through when I was ready.
I looked around the room and when I didn’t see my fanny pack on any of the shelves, I started dumping the contents of each carton on the floor. Some of the pieces of fabric were twisted and bunched, but others fluttered to the floor like rainbow-colored flags. My fanny pack tumbled out of the third carton. I jerked open the zipper, pulled out my camera, and was soon downloading the pictures onto my computer.
After scrolling through the images from the quilt show, I selected two that clearly showed the knots on Claire’s quilt and clicked on the print icon. If only I’d known what those knots really were, I would’ve taken more ph
otos.
I found a place to start, positioned the ruler under the line of text, and began the slow process of writing the translation on my notepad one letter at a time.
ddy stay away.
I was pretty sure ddy meant Daddy. Was Claire saying her father was still forcing himself on her?
A help me stop
The text ended at the edge of the photo, thwarting any further attempt to translate the rest of the line. However, I was pretty sure A referred to Alexander Godwin, who helped Claire cut her father off. Didn’t Will Terry say that happened about a year ago? This proved Will was telling the truth. I hurried on because goodness knows I didn’t want such unwelcome pictures lingering in my head.
I laid out the second and only other readable photo, hoping for the best.
my new meds
The rest of the section was unreadable. Well, this only proved she was taking meds at some point, but she probably stopped taking them because of her pregnancy. If they were the same drugs used to kill her, how did the killer get her to take them?
There was more text at the bottom of the photo.
A my secret
The next letters were lulr. What in the heck was that? After wracking my brain for words that might fit and coming up with nothing, I decided to recheck the photo. Sure enough, I’d missed a knot. The word was actually luvr—probably shorthand for lover. By now I knew A stood for Alexander. Here was the proof Godwin was Claire’s lover.
Big money 4 BCA. 4 r futur
This was the clearest string of text yet. Claire was going to give a large donation to BCA, Godwin’s nonprofit. However, I didn’t recall seeing a recent large donation in the BCA file in Claire’s office. I wonder if she ever followed through?
The clock read eight. I thought about calling Detective Beavers and telling him what I’d just discovered, only I wasn’t sure I was ready for another encounter. In fact, I was terrified. What if he kissed me again? I was so out of practice, I didn’t know if I could handle an actual romance.
I let the animals out one more time and when they came back in, I set the alarm. Then I got into my pajamas and made a pot of tea, preparing to read long into the night if necessary to get the answers I was after.
