by Mary Marks
Crusher shrugged off his leather jacket, gathered me in his arms, and pulled me into his massive chest. His heart thumped underneath his T-shirt. He must have just come from his shop because he smelled faintly like gasoline.
With my ear pressed to his body, his voice rumbled in his chest. “I can see you’ve been crying. Let me be a part of it. Wherever you want to go, let me take you there.”
I pulled away and looked up at him. “Thanks, Yossi, but I’m mentally exhausted right now. I really just want to be alone.”
He bent to kiss me softly on my forehead. “I’ll be back tomorrow, babe. I talked to your uncle. You and I have something serious to discuss.”
“Oh my God, is he all right?” I lived in fear of the day when something happened to Uncle Isaac. I knew his mind was still top-notch. What about his health? Why would he confide in Crusher and not me?
He smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s not anything bad. I just needed to ask his advice about something.” He put on his jacket. “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
I closed the door behind him and slumped against it. Thank God he hadn’t seen Arthur. I opened the back door and let the boys come inside while I filled their dinner bowls.
What kind of advice did Crusher need from Uncle Isaac? I didn’t even want to think about the possibilities.
CHAPTER 15
Arthur woke me up Wednesday morning at eight. I slowly eased my aching and stiff body out of bed and swallowed a Soma, my go-to medication. Then I stepped into a clean pair of size-sixteen stretch denim jeans and a long-sleeved pink T-shirt. While I waited for the coffee to finish brewing, Farkas called.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Not at all.” I poured a dollop of milk into my coffee. “We never got to talk about the funeral, Detective. What did you think?”
“Nice ceremony.”
“No, I mean suspects. Did you notice anyone shady?”
“Only Sybill Trelawney in the purple cape.”
I laughed. “You read Harry Potter?”
“Negative. But I sit through the movies every weekend. Got my kids the set of eight DVDs.” He cleared his throat. “I called to inform you we’ve finished with the Oliver house. I can meet you in Brentwood this morning to hand over the key.”
“Did forensics uncover anything? I seriously doubt they found any useful evidence after so many months.”
“Probably not, but they’ve taken samples back to the lab. Including the vacuum cleaner with all your dead flies.”
“You’re actually going to examine a million flies?”
“We’re looking for other trace evidence you may’ve picked up. Normally SID does the vacuuming, but you saved them the trouble.”
“What’s SID?”
“Scientific Investigation Division.”
“Is that the same as CSI?”
“Exactly the same. We’ll need a set of everyone’s fingerprints for elimination purposes.”
“My, Lucy’s, and Birdie’s prints are already on file in the West Valley Division.”
Farkas wheezed heavily in what might have been a chuckle. “Funny, you don’t look like a gang of desperados.”
“We stumbled on a crime scene last spring. They took our prints then for the same reason.”
“I’ll check it out. The guys you hired to guard the house are already in the system. Interesting choice of friends you have.”
“To me they’re just a group of regular guys getting together to ride motorcycles.”
“Right.” Papers shuffled in the background. “Do you know something about a watch collection?”
“The collection is worth a quarter of a million, according to the insurance rider.”
“We found a display case in a drawer upstairs. One of the watches is missing. Has anything else disappeared from the house?”
“Not sure. I haven’t finished exploring Harriet’s house or compiling an inventory of her possessions. Once we go back inside, I’ll have a better idea.”
“Keep me informed. Robbery gives us a clear motive for the homicide.”
I’m way ahead of you, Detective.
I checked the clock on the microwave. “Can I meet you at Harriet’s house at ten?”
“You have my number. Call me when you get there. I’m ten minutes away.”
I called Lucy. “Farkas says he’ll give back Harriet’s key today. Want to come with me?”
“You know I do. I’ll bring Birdie. What time shall I pick you up?”
“Before nine-thirty. I promised him I’d be in Brentwood by ten. Oh, and, Lucy, I’ll have Arthur with me.”
“Who?”
“Arlo’s dog.”
“Are you serious? What are you doing with his dog?”
“Arlo called yesterday. He planned to leave town on vacation. When Arthur’s dog sitter dropped out at the last minute, he asked for a favor. I said yes.”
“Why, for heaven’s sake?”
“Because I owe Arthur big time for saving my life. Turns out Arlo’s in Hawaii with his skinny blond vet.”
“NO! And you took the animal anyway?”
“Of course I did. Arthur can’t help it if his owner’s a jerk.”
Twenty minutes later Lucy showed up dressed in fifty shades of orange. From her brassy dyed curls to her tangerine canvas shoes, she shone like the sunset over a Moroccan brothel. In contrast, Birdie wore a hand-knit fisherman’s sweater over her denim overalls and had bundled her feet in gray woolen socks and Birkenstocks.
The dog sat with me in the backseat of Lucy’s Caddy, smearing his window with nose slime and fogging it up with his breath. We took the Sunset Boulevard off-ramp at ten-fifteen, and I called to inform Farkas we were almost at Harriet’s.
Malo jumped out of his maroon SUV and opened the Caddy doors for us. “Buenos días, ladies.” When he smiled, the vertical lines tattooed on his cheeks stretched wider.
I grabbed Arthur’s leash and got out of the car. “Thanks for braving the cold for the last few nights. You’re really earning your money.”
Malo briefly thrust his chin forward. “You pay me good.”
Farkas pulled up behind Lucy’s car and rolled down his window but didn’t get out. “I got a call. Fresh homicide. Take this.” He put his arm outside and handed me two keys.
“Thanks.”
He rolled up his window and drove away.
The dog walked over to Malo and sniffed his hand.
The biker squatted down and scratched him behind the ears. “Chucho.”
“Malo, what happened when the police were here?”
He stood. “They were in the house day and night. Carried out a lot of plastic bags and a vacuum cleaner. Finally finished about one this morning.” He spat on the ground. “Those pendejos wouldn’t let me go inside. They said I’d have to wait for the all clear from the cops.”
I tried to hand him one of the keys, but he waved me off. The roar of a high-test engine filled the air. “Nah. Carl’s here. Give the key to him.”
Carl parked his yellow Corvette behind Lucy’s Caddy. A lock of his sandy hair slid down his forehead as he bent down to give Birdie a hug.
She patted the arm of his black leather jacket. “Oh, such a pretty car, dear.”
He stuck out his chest a little. “Thanks. Since the house is off-limits, I had to work from somewhere, so I brought my wheels.”
Arthur trotted over and licked Carl’s hand. Carl helped me save the dog’s life four months ago when a lowlife stabbed him in the shoulder. He pointed to Arthur. “Is this . . . ?
“Yeah. He remembers you.”
Carl bent over and ruffled the dog’s fur and got a funny expression on his face. “Doesn’t he belong to that cop friend of yours?”
Malo tensed and frowned at me.
“Not this week. For the next eight days, he belongs to me while his owner is on vacation”—I winked at the biker—“with his girlfriend.”
Malo relaxed and did the fist dance with
Carl before he drove away.
I opened the house, not knowing what we’d find inside. Nothing much seemed to have changed. The pictures still hung on the walls and the books still sat on the shelves. But gray and white fingerprinting dust covered almost every surface.
I unhooked Arthur from his leash and he immediately began to explore. He started in the foyer, sniffing his way in a circle around the baseboards. We walked to the library and found, to our relief, Lucy’s inventory equipment on the table hadn’t been disturbed by the LAPD. Carl sat down, opened his laptop, and scrubbed Arthur’s belly.
Birdie leaned heavily on Lucy’s arm as we slowly climbed the stairs.
“Take your time,” said Lucy.
Birdie winced. “Rain is coming soon. My knees are barking.”
When we reached the top, I said, “Let’s start in the linen closet at the end of the hall.”
The long and narrow space only accommodated two of us.
“You wait here, Birdie.” I brought her a chair from the guest room so she wouldn’t have to stand in the hallway with her bad knees.
The ironed sheets, neatly stacked before the forensics team arrived, now sat slightly askew. We opened the cupboards one by one and removed and unfolded every blanket, sheet, and towel. We didn’t find the quilt.
Lucy pulled the shelves and pushed on the wall, trying to detect a secret compartment.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh, for the love of God. Are you still looking for a hidey-hole?”
“Yes. My gut is telling me I’m right about a secret hiding place.”
A search of the guest suite yielded nothing. We stripped the bed and lifted the mattress and emptied the drawers and the closet.
Lucy poked and knocked and jiggled every surface. Finally, she pronounced, “Nada. Nothing here.”
Birdie pressed her fingers against her lips and tears filled her eyes when we entered Jonah’s room. “Why, I bet this room’s been preserved exactly since the day the little boy died.”
I picked up a small frame with a photo of a smiling fair-haired child. He reflected Harriet’s soft eyes and generous smile. “You’re probably right, Birdie. I don’t think Harriet could bear to part with anything belonging to him.” I put the photo back down next to a pile of perfectly folded little T-shirts and tiny clean socks divided into pairs.
Lucy picked up a hairbrush. “Look, there are fine strands of hair still in the bristles.”
We searched Jonah’s room in silence, handling every item with special care. After stripping the bed, moving the furniture, and emptying the drawers and closets, the only things we discovered were dust bunnies and a few dead flies. Lucy knocked on the last section of wall and reluctantly declared the room solid.
Finally, the time had come to search Harriet’s suite. I peered at Birdie, remembering how she turned green in the closet where Harriet’s body had lain. “Are you up for this?”
She nodded.
“Let’s do this.” Lucy peeled off her peach sweater. She threw open a window. “How about letting some fresh air in here?”
We investigated the room methodically, first searching through the covers and under the mattress. Despite my best efforts to vacuum the week before, more dead flies fell out of the folds of the bedding and the drapes.
Next, we pulled out all the drawers from the dressers and side tables and emptied their contents one at a time on Harriet’s bed. We didn’t discover the quilt or any jewelry, but we did find the pocket watch collection Farkas mentioned earlier.
White satin lined a black leather case. Nine of the ten pocket watches, each in a separate niche, sat in two rows. The seventh timepiece was missing. I checked the photos from the flash drive. Number seven, the heavily engraved gold case with a ruby on top of the stem, had belonged to Benjamin Franklin.
Another valuable piece of Early Americana. Gone.
Clothes in neutral black, beige, and navy blue filled Harriet’s closet. Where were the bright colors she loved as a girl? Where were the leg warmers and torn jeans?
“We should go through every pocket and purse to see if maybe Harriet stashed any of her jewelry.”
Arthur barked once, his signal for needing a potty break. I headed toward the stairs. “Go ahead and start without me. I’ll be right back.”
Arthur’s toenails clicked on the hardwood floor as he ran from the library at the opposite end of the house toward my voice in the family room. I opened the French doors leading to the backyard. “Okay, boy. Go do your thing.” I left the door open so he could come inside when he finished, and rejoined my friends in Harriet’s closet upstairs.
Lucy made her way along one wall, dipping her hands into the pockets of outer wear lined neatly in a row. She pulled her hand out of a brown tweed jacket and held up a gold locket. Two pictures sat inside. The first showed a dark-haired boy around nine. Harriet’s twin brother, David. The second held a photo of the fair-haired Jonah. “Is this on the list of missing jewelry?” Lucy handed me the golden keepsake.
“No, she didn’t insure this piece. I guess it mainly held a sentimental value.” I walked to the built-in dresser sitting in the middle of the closet and placed the locket next to a gold charm bracelet in the top drawer.
In one of her letters from Brown University, Harriet wrote she had discovered Coach handbags. “One day I’m going to own one of these,” she’d declared. Now several sat in her closet. However, despite being able to afford couture, Harriet seemed to have retained her middle-class tastes. Nothing in her closet screamed money.
“Look!” Birdie fished a plain white envelope from inside a navy blue Coach purse. “There’s no writing on it, but something’s inside.”
My heart sped up a little as I opened the envelope and gazed at a photo of a quilt spread on top of a bed. A blue medallion with thirteen white stars appliquéd in a circle occupied the center. Faint writing appeared on white snowball blocks with red triangles in the corners. Red borders finished the edges. “Oh my God! This is the Declaration Quilt.” I held it out for Birdie and Lucy to see.
Birdie drew the picture closer to her face. “We’ve just got to find it, Martha.”
“Tell me about it.”
I gradually became aware of Arthur barking outside. I strode to the open bedroom window overlooking the backyard. “Be quiet, Arthur! You’ll disturb the neighbors.”
He turned toward my voice and barked once in answer. Then he whined, lowered his head, and pawed at the soil in a bed of white chrysanthemums, purple bleeding hearts, and lots of weeds.
Oh, great. “Stop it!” I shouted. If he ruined the flower bed, I’d have yet another thing to fix before I could sell the house.
I returned to the closet, and after ten minutes, the barking started again. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” I threw a blouse on the built-in dresser. “What is bothering that dog?”
From the upstairs window I could tell he’d dug about a foot down. “No! Bad dog.”
He abruptly ran into the house and bounded up the stairs and into Harriet’s bedroom. He sniffed the air and made a beeline for the closet, whining and snuffling for more than a minute at the hole in the carpet where her corpse had lain for ten months. Satisfied, he barked and sat at attention.
I shooed him out of the room. “Leave. You’re in the way.”
He returned to the yard and after five minutes raised the alarm again. Back at the window, I observed him digging in the same spot.
Wait. Arthur was a retired police dog. He’d been trained to sniff out and locate . . . what?
“Oh my God! Arthur’s found something in the backyard.”
The three of us rushed downstairs and joined the dog near a gaping hole about two feet deep. Arthur looked at me, whined, and then turned toward his handiwork, ears pointed forward. I got down on my knees and examined the hole. Barely exposed at the bottom were the bones of a human hand.
I looked up at my friends. “There’s a skeleton hand down there!”
“Get out!” said Lucy.
&
nbsp; Birdie covered her heart with her right hand. “Oh, Martha, not again.”
I backed away from the hole. “Look for yourself.”
Lucy squatted down, peered inside, and made the sign of the cross. “Holy mother of God! Is there any more of him?”
“How should I know?”
Lucy stood. “Dig around a little. Maybe you’ll find more bones.”
She can’t be serious. “Me dig? Why don’t you dig?” “You found him first!”
“I don’t touch dead bodies.”
“No, Martha dear,” Birdie piped up, “you only find them.”
I ignored her remark about my knack this year for finding murder victims. After all, Arthur discovered this body, not me.
Lucy said, “Tell the dog to dig some more.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Just how do you say that in dog language?”
Lucy pointed to the hole and used a commanding voice. “Arthur. Dig!”
Arthur looked at Lucy, tilted his head, and barked once.
“Good boy, Arthur.” I patted his head as he sat at attention.
Birdie bent over at the waist and looked into the hole. “Do I see something shiny down there? Maybe you should take it out.”
Lucy took one step backward. “Don’t look at me.”
I knelt again at the edge of the hole and bent forward. Birdie was right. A shiny gold object circled the third finger. With shaking hands I brushed dirt away from the bones and slid the ring off, careful not to disturb the position of the digits.
Carl walked into the backyard. “What’s all the noise about?”
I stood. “Arthur dug up a body.”
The young man’s eyes widened. “No way.”
Birdie pointed to the hole. “Take a look for yourself, dear.”
Carl bent down and whistled softly. “Better call the cops again.”
I inspected the ring and discovered some engraving on the inside, but soil obscured the letters. “There’s some writing on this, but it’s too dirty to read.”
We hurried to the kitchen sink where I found a scrub brush and cleaned the grooves. I pushed my glasses up my nose and squinted to read the words written inside. At first the letters were upside down, so I turned the ring around. “No way!”
