Gone But Knot Forgotten

by Mary Marks

  The sound of shuffling some papers came from the background. “Two shifts. Twelve on, twelve off. How’s fifty an hour sound?”

  “Totally doable. When can they start?

  “Give me the address. I’ll send Malo over tonight. Do you have a spare key to the house?”

  “I’ll get a duplicate made tomorrow.” I gave him Harriet’s number on North Bundy Drive.

  “Need anything else?”

  “I don’t know, but this is good for starters. I’ll be in touch. And thanks.”

  Next I telephoned my best friend, Lucy.

  “About time you called me, girlfriend. I’ve been dying to ask what you’ve been up to. How did the meeting with the lawyer go?”

  “Gosh, that was two days ago.” I filled her in on my appointment with Abernathy and my trip to the cemetery. “Harriet’s funeral is scheduled for Monday. I also visited her house today.”

  “Ew. Her body laid there for ten months. The place must have been totally disgusting.”

  I didn’t want to think about the flies. “It wasn’t as bad as I feared. Some jewelry seems to be stolen. I can’t be sure. Maybe Harriet kept it in a safe. I’ll conduct a more thorough search.”

  Lucy sounded worried. “If things are missing, do you think it’s wise to stay in the house by yourself?”

  “I’ve hired a couple of Eagles for security twenty-four/seven. I won’t be alone.”

  “Need help?”

  “Yeah, I need to create an inventory of every item in her house. Can you ask Richie to recommend some kind of database software I can use?” Richie, Lucy’s middle son, trained as a computer engineer. He also happened to be gay and my daughter Quincy’s best childhood friend.

  “No problem. I can loan you the bar-code software Ray uses to keep track of inventory at his business.” Lucy’s husband, Ray, an auto mechanic, built a string of successful auto shops in LA. “I don’t mean to be nosy or anything, but you know me and antique stores. I love going through old stuff. Want me to tag along?”

  God bless Lucy, always willing to lend a hand. “Absolutely! Why keep all the fun to myself?”

  “Okay. Birdie and I will meet you at your house tomorrow at nine with all the inventory stuff. Then we can drive to Brentwood.”

  “I’ll have coffee.”

  I picked up Harriet’s blue leather address book and opened it. Only fifteen names were listed. I found my name with my old Brentwood address and phone number. Lines were drawn through eight of the names, including Herschel and Lilly Gordon, Harriet’s deceased parents. I looked under “O,” hoping to find members of Nathan’s family. There was a Henry Oliver, in Newport, Rhode Island. Written below was Estella Oliver in Pawtucket at the other end of the state. I decided to take the chance they’d still be up at ten Eastern time. I didn’t know how they were related to Nathan, but I’d soon find out. I dialed Henry’s number first and left a message on his voice mail. I got luckier with Estella.

  She answered the phone with a certain Yankee straightforwardness. “This better be important, it’s after ten at night.”

  I introduced myself as Harriet’s executor. Estella remained silent for a moment. “Harriet’s dead?”

  “Yes.” I briefly explained the circumstances.

  “Too bad. How long did you say her body just lay there?”

  “Ten months.” I informed her of the funeral arrangements on Monday.

  “Don’t know if I can travel on such short notice. Did she leave a will?”

  Wow. Cut to the important stuff, why don’t you? “She did. May I ask how you were related?”

  “I’m Nathan’s sister. Harriet got everything when the courts declared Nathan legally dead. Was I mentioned in her will?”

  “Not specifically, no.”

  “Well, she kept some items belonging to our family. I’m sure Nathan would’ve wanted me to inherit them.”

  I’ll bet. “There might be some leeway with things not earmarked for specific donation. What did you have in mind?”

  Estella was all business. “A pair of silver candelabras, several place settings of antique Spode china, and an old quilt. Plus some silver serving pieces and maybe a few old books.”

  Even though Harriet didn’t name Estella in her bequests, I felt the heirlooms should stay in the family. “Are there other relatives who might also have a claim?”

  “Only myself and my younger brother, Henry, but I doubt he’d want those old things. I can fly out next week and pack everything up.”

  You’re moving awfully fast, lady. You want to grab the heirlooms before anybody else can ask for them. And yet you can’t make time to bury your sister-in-law?

  “I won’t be making any decisions until after the funeral.”

  “What funeral?”

  I understood why Estella may have been overlooked in the will. “Harriet’s,” I reminded her.

  “Oh. Right. So when do you think you’ll decide?”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I should have saved my breath. Estella had already hung up.

  I tried the four remaining numbers in Harriet’s small address book. I left three messages and talked briefly to a woman who turned out to be Harriet’s old college roommate, Isabel Casco.

  Isabel sounded like a habitual smoker because her voice registered ten octaves lower than normal. “I can’t believe Harriet’s dead.” Cough, cough.

  “I’m contacting everyone in her address book. When did you last speak to her?”

  “Oh gawd, I’d say almost two years ago. Why?”

  I tried to think of a polite way of asking why nobody cared about Harriet. “I’m wondering how she lay dead for more than ten months without anyone knowing. Do you have any ideas?”

  Isabel took a long drag off a cigarette. “I moved to Los Angeles in the mid-nineties just before Harriet lost her son. I did my best to help her through that terrible time. Then Nathan disappeared and she really needed a friend. But about two years ago, she stopped returning my calls and just slipped off the radar. Now I’m sorry I didn’t try harder. How did she die?”

  “Her body lay there for so long, the coroner couldn’t tell.”

  Isabel went into a coughing fit lasting for several seconds. She finally came up for air. “Dear Lord. Bad luck followed Harriet everywhere. Just let me know when the funeral is and I’ll be there.”

  Unless I heard from the others, Isabel and I would be the only ones from Harriet’s address book to bury her. I’d ask Abernathy who else should be contacted. At this rate, I’d need Crusher for the minyan at her funeral after all.

  I poured myself the rest of the Chianti from the bottle I opened last night and put the flash drive from Harriet’s insurance packet into my laptop. Dozens of photographs appeared and I scanned for the objects Estella wanted. Item number five listed a pair of repoussé sterling silver candelabras dated from fifteenth-century Spain. On close examination of the image, I realized they were the ones sitting on Harriet’s dining room table, dusty and tarnished.

  A brief caption under the photo stated the candelabras came to Newport, Rhode Island, from Spain via Holland with Jacob Josè Oliver and his wife, Estella, in the 1600s. A photo of an article written in the Newport Mercury mentioned the Oliver family loaned the candelabras to the famous Touro Synagogue in Newport for its dedication in 1763—thirteen years before the American Revolution.

  The Olivers were among many Sephardic Jews who escaped the Spanish inquisition at the end of the 1500s and found shelter in Holland. Some of their descendants immigrated to the British colonies in North America in the 1600s. By the time of the American Revolution in 1776, the Sephardic community had been established in Newport for over 100 years. The Touro Synagogue, the first Jewish house of worship in North America, now stood as a national historic site.

  Even though the candelabras would no longer be handed down from Nathan to his son, Jonah, this treasure belonged with a family member. If Estella spoke the truth a
nd Henry didn’t want them, I hoped she didn’t intend to sell these precious artifacts for the fifty thousand they were worth.

  Item number fourteen consisted of a set of antique Spode china. Another potential windfall for Estella. An image of a beautiful blue and white Chinoiserie plate looked like the porcelain in Harriet’s china cabinet. Another photo showed an old receipt with spiky cursive made out in 1833 to Henrique Adelan Oliver for the purchase of a service for fifty people. Fifty people at a sit-down dinner? How many pounds of brisket would a person have to prepare? On the bottom of the receipt a note in bolder cursive read, “Para Sara, mi novia encanta-dora” (for Sara, my enchanting bride).

  Clearly the Olivers were both wealthy and prominent. Sara undoubtedly retained a staff to prepare and serve so much food. Although several pieces hadn’t survived the intervening 170 years, the remaining collection appraised at $40,000.

  Now I knew a little more about Nathan Oliver. He was a Grandee, a descendant of wealthy Sephardic Jewish colonists, among the first families in America. His roots ran deeper than most. At Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, he met Harriet Gordon, a Jewish girl from California, whose family carried no such credentials.

  Nathan may have loved Harriet, but I sensed Estella bore no such feelings. Perhaps she thought a sweet, middle-class girl from the Pico-Robertson area of Los Angeles and the daughter of Holocaust survivors didn’t deserve the oldest son of an oldest son. I hated the thought of Harriet suffering her disdain.

  I scrolled through dozens of shots cataloging Harriet’s assortment of antique watches, a half million dollars in jewelry, and an impressive collection of priceless books dating back to the eighteenth century. Another group of images showed items of American folk art, including rare Native American baskets and Early American wooden toys.

  A tsunami of fatigue hit me and my vision began to blur before I reached the end, so I sent the whole file to the printer and started getting ready for bed. The phone rang and I hurriedly spit out a mouthful of toothpaste before rushing to answer.

  “Deke here, returning your call. I hope this isn’t too late.”

  “No, I’m glad you called me back.” I wiped my mouth with a towel. “I went to Harriet’s today and I think you’re right. Someone rummaged through her place. Did the police search the premises and disturb things?”

  “No. The coroner couldn’t tell for sure because of the state of her remains, but he said Harriet probably dropped dead of a heart attack. So the police found no reason to search.”

  If the police didn’t disturb the house, who did? “Didn’t Harriet have domestic help?”

  Abernathy cleared his throat. “Yes, a woman who came in five days a week.”

  “Yet she didn’t discover Harriet’s body?”

  “Apparently Harriet let her go around the time of her death. Our accountant received instructions to cut her a final paycheck, which she sent to her via FedEx.”

  I began to get irritated. Nobody bothered to check on Harriet after that? Especially those who were responsible for her day-to-day maintenance and financial well-being? “Nobody became concerned when Harriet didn’t hire another cleaner? A woman in her position would have needed help with such a large house.”

  Abernathy yawned. “Look. I would’ve been worried if I’d known. But our accounting department took care of the day-to-day matters of paying Harriet’s bills.”

  I ran my fingers through my hair in exasperation. “Did the housekeeper have a key?”

  “If she did, I assume she returned it when Harriet let her go.”

  Did the housekeeper come back with a key to loot Harriet’s house?

  I struggled to hide the irritation in my voice. “For heaven’s sake. Has anyone spoken to the woman?”

  “I gave the police her contact information.”

  I didn’t like the casual way everyone wrote off Harriet’s death. A very wealthy woman died from unknown causes and nobody seemed suspicious? Now some of her things seemed to be missing. My anger grew with my unease. What if something bad happened to my friend?

  I understood from experience the people who knew the most were often those who worked behind the scenes. “Can you e-mail me the contact info for the housekeeper and the gardener?”

  Deke sounded weary. “Sure, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  Obviously nobody else really cared about Harriet, or the fact her house may have been looted. I cared. I’d find out the circumstances surrounding my old friend’s death.

  “I spoke with only two people in Harriet’s address book. Are there others who should be informed about the funeral on Monday?”

  Abernathy yawned again. “I’ll ask my assistant, Nina, to contact everyone connected to Harriet’s finances and her philanthropy. Will that help?”

  “Yes. Thanks for calling me back.”

  I crawled into bed pissed, worried, and exhausted. I closed my eyes and dark thoughts, like hundreds of black flies, buzzed in my head.

  CHAPTER 6

  Before Lucy and Birdie arrived Friday morning, I ran over to Larry the Locksmith and Bea’s Bakery to pick up a chocolate babka for this morning and a raisin challah for Shabbat. They showed up at nine, just as the coffeepot stopped gurgling and blew out the last bit of steam.

  Lucy wore her working clothes—jeans, with a crease pressed down the leg, and a dark blue cashmere cardigan over a blue and white gingham blouse. A red bandana covered her orange curls, and gold gypsy hoops hung from her ears. Under her arm she held a cardboard carton with an iPad and some electronic equipment.

  I pointed to the box. “What did you bring?”

  Lucy pulled out her tablet and waved it. “This has a bar-code generator app. You type in the name or data you want to use and a code is generated. Tap a button and the program sends the code wirelessly to this printer, which then spews out a label to stick on your item.”

  The simplicity of the system impressed me. “How do I decipher the code?”

  She picked up a small metal wand. “You use the handheld scanner to read the bar code. You can print out a hard copy of the master inventory with all the details.”

  “I love technology. This’ll save me a ton of work.”

  Birdie always dressed for work in her blue denim overalls and white T-shirt. She cut the babka while I poured three cups of Italian roast. We settled in the living room and my friends listened intently as I brought them up to date on my conversation last night with Abernathy.

  Birdie tugged on her braid. “Heavens, dear, do you think the maid came back after Harriet’s death and poked around her things?”

  I shrugged and swallowed a bite of heavenly pastry laced with ribbons of hard chocolate. “The intruder must have been someone with a key because Abernathy said the police forced their way in.”

  Birdie sipped her coffee. “Are you sure there were no signs of a B and E?” My 75-year-old friend never missed an episode of Law & Order or CSI and spoke forensics as a second language.

  “I didn’t search very hard yesterday. Mainly I wanted to get a feel for the place. Today we’ll go methodically through as many rooms as we can. We’ll find out if any of the insured pieces are missing.”

  Lucy grinned and rubbed her hands together. “Oh, this sounds like Nancy Drew. Did Harriet have an attic? A basement? Shall we take flashlights?”

  A half hour later we hit the 405 south toward Brentwood. We pulled up into Harriet’s driveway in Lucy’s vintage black caddy with the shark fins. Malo jumped out of his maroon SUV and headed our way, wearing a black leather jacket and heavy motorcycle boots. This pumped-up Latino sported a long black ponytail and a series of short black vertical lines tattooed on his cheeks. Crusher told me Malo operated an earthmover by day. At night he played drums in a pickup band. They occasionally performed in a biker bar called Bubba’s—also known by the regulars as Tits and Tequila.

  He sized up the three of us, then grinned at me. “You Crusher’s lady?”

  Although it’s perfectly fine f
or me to tell Lucy and Birdie everything, I hoped Crusher never revealed we once slept together or that he wanted to marry me. On the other hand, who knew what guys talked about? If I did, I might not have so many trust issues. Or maybe I’d have more.

  I offered Malo a handshake. “I’m Martha, and these are my friends Lucy and Birdie. Thanks for agreeing to work on such short notice. I’m sorry you spent the cold night in your car.” I reached in my purse and handed him the duplicate key. “From now on, you can stay inside. Just pass this along when you go off shift.”

  The noisy guttering of an engine announced the arrival of a motorcycle.

  “Sounds like my replacement is here.”

  Carl, the youngest member of the Eagles, parked his bike and removed a helmet from his sandy-colored hair. His black leather jacket had a purple “VE” on the back for Valley Eagles. Carl spotted Birdie and grinned. Without a word, he strode over to her, bent his six-foot frame, gently encircled her with his arms, and twirled her around as she whooped in delight.

  Four months ago Carl helped clear my neighbor, Ed, from a murder charge. He met Birdie and immediately bonded with her because she reminded him of his grandmother. She, in turn, adored Carl and treated him as the child she’d never had.

  Birdie patted the shoulder of his leathers with a blue-veined hand. “Put me down before I fall, dear.”

  Carl set her down gently and kissed her forehead. Birdie put an arm around his waist.

  I walked over to them. “Hey, Carl, are you going to work this security day shift? Don’t you have a job?” Carl earned a degree from Caltech in computer science. He developed fraud detection and prevention software for the SEC. He also carried a gun.

  “Crusher said you need help, so I volunteered. I can hook up my computer anywhere.” He stared at the ground. “So, you and Crusher. Are you two, you know, a thing now?”

  Malo paid particular attention.

  See what I mean? Who can tell what guys talk about?

  I crossed my arms. “I thought Crusher was dating one of the Kardashians.”

  “Dude!” Malo howled with laughter and slapped his knee. “Crusher warned me you were tough.”