Gone But Knot Forgotten

by Mary Marks

  She shouted over the traffic noises in the background. “Hi, Martha. Carl said you found some jewelry under a false bottom in a drawer. You want me to sell them?”

  “Yes. Can you keep them safe?”

  “Sure, but the armored vehicle won’t be available for transport until tomorrow.”

  “I can bring them over to you now.” Carl leaned close to the phone.

  There was a quiet pause.

  “Will you be safe carrying all those diamonds?” Carl pushed his shoulders back. “Of course. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Susan giggled. “You’ll take a little bit longer to get to Beverly Hills during rush hour. I’m still on the road. I’ll meet you at the warehouse.” She gave Carl the address and then hung up.

  We found a clean trash bag under the kitchen sink and I put the fuzzy boxes and small cases of jewelry inside. “Thanks for doing this, Carl. No one will suspect you’re carrying a fortune in jewels in this trash bag. Aside from the few crates sitting in the dining room, the house is empty. Your job here is done.”

  Carl took the trash bag. “What about the missing stuff and the hidden room?”

  “They’ll remain safe without our help.”

  Carl removed Harriet’s house key from his pocket and handed it to me.

  “I can’t thank you enough, Carl. Please be careful.” He gave us each a hug and headed for Beverly Hills with a fortune in gems.

  Lucy, Birdie, and I drove back to the valley in our separate cars. I stopped at Crazy Chicken takeout for some wings, thighs, and a side of coleslaw. Arthur and Bumper greeted me at my front door and herded me toward the kitchen and their empty dinner bowls. The cat purred and rubbed against my ankles as I filled his dish with star-shaped kibble. The dog thumped his tail, anxiously awaiting his turn.

  Once the animals were settled, I called Emmet Wish. “We found the missing jewelry today, so you can forget about filing a claim.”

  “Remarkable. Where were they?”

  “In a drawer.”

  “Did you find the books, quilt, and watch?”

  “Still missing.”

  “What a darn shame. I have a client who’d jump to pay a fortune for those books if they ever came on the market. Oh well, just let me know when you’re available to sign the insurance forms. We’ll file a claim for mysterious disappearance.”

  Something Wish said set alarms off in my brain. Time to contact Farkas. I left a message on his voice mail. “Detective, I wanted to let you know we found the lost jewelry. Also, Julian Kessler uncovered evidence of a hidden room in Harriet’s house. I’m convinced it’s under the staircase, but we don’t know how to get in. I’m hoping we’ll find the other missing items inside. I should have the answer tomorrow.”

  I ought to tell him what I suspected, even though he probably wouldn’t take me seriously. “In case you’re interested, I also have an idea about who killed Harriet and why. You have my number.”

  I retrieved the mail from the hall table. While I ate dinner from a Styrofoam container, I sifted through the pile of mail, singled out a padded manila envelope, and tore it open. The paper pattern for Quincy’s Double Wedding Ring quilt slid out. I unfolded the instructions.

  Since the design called for hundreds of the wedge-shaped pieces to form the rings, I’d have to transfer the pattern to a sturdy substance that would stand up to repeated use. I planned to trace the paper patterns onto a sheet of Mylar and cut templates out of plastic.

  I tossed the empty Crazy Chicken container and poured four ounces of Ruffino Chianti Classico into my favorite red Moroccan tea glass with the gold curlicues. I headed for my sewing room with the quilt pattern and glass of wine when the phone rang.

  “Farkas here. Where’d you find the jewelry?”

  “Under a drawer with a false bottom in Harriet’s closet.”

  “I’m surprised the forensics guys didn’t find it first. Anything missing?”

  I could write a book about the ways in which the police mishandled Harriet’s murder investigation. “I’ve accounted for every piece.” I decided not to mention the cocktail ring until I found out why Isabel had it.

  “You mentioned a hidden room under the stairs?”

  “Correct. We haven’t been able to find a way inside, so I’m assuming no one else has either. There’s a good chance the other missing items are still safe in the house. We’ll know for sure tomorrow. The contractor who built the room is sending over the blueprints.”

  Farkas grunted. “Interesting. You said you know who the killer is. Remind me again which one you are—Rizzoli or Isles?”

  “Do you want to hear what I have to say or not?” Silence.

  “Like I’ve been trying to tell you all along, I think the killer only targeted very specific items.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Harriet’s house had been thoroughly searched by someone looking for something. A random thief looking for valuables to sell could’ve helped himself to plenty of loot sitting right out in the open. China. Silver. An Indian basket collection. Paintings. Antique toys. He even left behind the gold in the everyday jewelry. He only took a watch belonging to Benjamin Franklin and left all the other watches in the collection behind. Why?”

  “I give up, why?”

  “In addition to the watch, I believe Harriet’s killer knew about the rare books written by the Founding Fathers and the quilt. Harriet’s killer targeted items specifically related to the Declaration of Independence.”

  “The Declaration of Independence, huh? Interesting.” Farkas wheezed.

  “Don’t you see, Detective? The killer was either a collector or had a buyer already set up. He tried to get Harriet to tell him where she kept the things he wanted. When she refused to give up their location, he strangled her in a rage.”

  Farkas let out a breath. “At the risk of encouraging you, I gotta say your theory isn’t without merit. You said you know the identity of the killer?”

  “I’m getting there. When I looked at the people who might have known about the historical collectibles in the first place, I came up with a very long list. Too long. When I went over the sequence of events, something about the quilt jumped out at me. Only a few people knew about the quilt. Harriet, Delia the housekeeper, Henry and Estella Oliver, the quilt appraisers, Drs. Anne Smith and Naomi Hunter, and the anonymous philanthropist who pledged two million dollars to acquire it for the National Archives.”

  “How can you be certain Mrs. Oliver didn’t discuss the quilt with anyone else?” Farkas sniffed.

  “I couldn’t be certain, of course. I just assumed nobody else knew since the quilt hadn’t been mentioned in the will or insured. Then I remembered something from the timeline. The letter from Dr. Hunter arrived after Harriet’s death, yet someone opened it. Whoever spent time searching the house for the books and the watch also read the letter and learned about the quilt.

  “And that someone is Emmet Wish, the insurance agent. He kept asking me if I found the books, the quilt, and the jewelry—ostensibly to file a claim. How could he be aware of the quilt unless he opened the letter? And how could he have seen the letter unless he searched the house?”

  Farkas broke his silence. “Your theory is full of holes, Rizzoli. Mrs. Oliver contacted the curators because she wanted the quilt appraised, correct? She could’ve given the agent a heads-up about adding the quilt to her policy.”

  Farkas had a point. “I know I’m right. Just before I called you tonight, I talked to Wish. He gave himself away. He told me about a client who’d be eager to buy some of the missing items if they ever came on the market. What if Wish decided to steal them from Harriet and sell them to the collector? Here’s what I think happened. The insurance agent snuck in one night with the intent of stealing the books for one of his other clients. Harriet woke up and confronted Wish. He demanded she give him the books. When she refused, he strangled her.

  “He later returned to the scene of the crime to look for the books. That�
��s when he opened Dr. Hunter’s letter and found out about the quilt. Unlucky for Wish and his client, he only managed to steal the one thing out in plain sight, the pocket watch belonging to Benjamin Franklin.”

  “Here’s an idea, Mrs. Rose. You should enroll in the writer’s program at UCLA. You’d ace the class on mystery fiction.”

  How could the man ignore the mountains of proof I kept handing him? “That’s all you have to say to me?”

  “Not quite.” Farkas switched from snarky to stern. “Hunting killers is my job. You’ve got a vivid imagination. Persist in this investigation, and you’ll find yourself in some real trouble. Do everyone a big favor and go back to your knitting.”

  “Quilting!”

  “Whatever. Have a nice evening, Mrs. Rose.” He hung up.

  Farkas refused to listen to me about Nathan’s death. Now he refused to listen to the facts surrounding Harriet’s murder. Clearly, I was on my own. If I didn’t want Emmet Wish to get away with murder, I’d just have to rely on my friends to help lay a trap.

  CHAPTER 29

  Wednesday at noon, Lucy, Birdie, and I drove to Westwood. On the way I told them about Emmet Wish. “He killed Harriet. I’m sure of it. Since Farkas won’t listen to me, I’m going to have to trap him myself.”

  Lucy’s eyes got wide. “Tell me you’re not serious.”

  I knew Crusher and his guys would help me. Four months ago I turned to them for protection. Once against a knife-wielding psychopath and once in a homeless encampment. “Don’t worry. I’ll call Yossi.”

  Inside the accountant’s office I made introductions. Kessler handed me photocopies of architectural drawings and a spiral-bound report. “These arrived about thirty minutes ago.”

  I grabbed the papers. “And?”

  “I asked Jason Cho to decipher them. He’s the engineer around here.”

  Kessler sent a text message and a minute later a tall Asian guy with a very square face walked in the office.

  “Hi.” He pointed to the drawings. “Those yours?”

  I nodded and handed them to him.

  “It’s a very cool system.” He opened the report. “Back in the day. There’s an electromagnetic lock with digital keypad. Problem is, the system is grid dependent and won’t work during a power outage. Today I’d use a retina scanner and install solar backup.”

  Lucy stepped forward. “Cut to the chase, hon. Where’s the room, and how do we get in?”

  Cho grinned at Lucy. “Yeah, okay. You sound like my moms. The room’s located underneath the house.”

  I covered my forehead with the palm of my hand. “But that’s impossible. We went over every inch of that house. There is no basement.”

  “The entrance to the stairway leading to the underground room is located behind a wall panel under the stairs in the foyer.” He showed us on the drawing where to find the controls and how to open the panel.

  “Clever.” I pushed my lips together. “I never would have thought to look there.”

  “You have to enter a four-digit code on the keypad.”

  “Oh dear.” Birdie pointed to the papers. “Do you have the code?”

  Cho shook his head. “Nope.”

  “There are ten thousand possibilities,” Lucy groaned. “How are we going to find the right one?”

  “Relax. There’s only one number it could be.” I shoved the report in my purse. Everyone looked at me. “Think about what’s hidden there and you’ll figure it out.”

  Kessler, the brilliant numbers guy, tapped his fingers together furiously and stared at the ceiling. Suddenly he stopped and looked at me. “Seventeen seventy-six.”

  “Bingo!”

  “What if you’re wrong about the code?” Lucy put her hands on her hips.

  “Then we’ll buy a hatchet and a blowtorch.”

  The ten-minute ride to Brentwood seemed like an eternity. Our long hunt for the secret room would soon be over. We pulled into Harriet’s driveway, which seemed strangely deserted without one of Carl’s vehicles. I gathered the spiral-bound report and drawings, and unlocked the front door. “Let’s go see if I’m right.”

  Lucy ran over to the stairway and dumped her tote bag on the floor. “Which one?”

  I turned the pages to one of the drawings and counted with my fingertip. “It’s the fifth step up.”

  Lucy reached her arm through the balusters and ran her fingers under the front lip of the fifth stair tread. “I feel some kind of button.” She pressed and the stair tread popped open with a click.

  “Mercy!” Birdie pressed her fingers into her cheeks.

  Lucy pushed the tread all the way up to reveal an electronic keypad in the hollow beneath. “We never would have found this in a million years on our own. Do you want to do the honors, hon?”

  I reached over and keyed in 1-7-7-6 and hit Enter. Another click and part of the paneling near the back wall swung open to reveal a steel door. “That’s the spot Arthur kept sniffing around. He knew all along something was there.”

  Lucy reached the door in two long steps. “I sure hope he didn’t smell another dead body!” She pulled the handle, but the door wouldn’t budge. “Oh no. What’s wrong here?”

  I consulted the report. “Another level of security. There’s an override lock on the keypad.”

  “So you need a key?” Lucy threw up her hands. “Where are we going to find that?”

  I opened my purse. “I think we’ve had it all along.” I removed Harriet’s key ring. The small key I’d found in the Dat So La Lee basket fit perfectly. The electromagnetic connection in the steel door gave way and opened the entrance to the secret room.

  Cool, dry air pushed at our faces.

  A dark, descending stairwell loomed on the other side of the door. Lucy rubbed her arms. “I’ve got goose bumps on my goose bumps.” She removed her night-vision goggles from her tote bag, strapped them to her face, and handed flashlights to Birdie and me.

  Lucy stepped into the darkness and swiveled her head. “Hey, these things really work. Everything’s glowing green.” She immediately found a switch at the top of the stairwell. Subdued lights flickered on and dimly illuminated the way.

  Halfway down, another steel door blocked the landing. This one didn’t have a lock. I stepped forward and pulled it open. Dim lights automatically blinked on below us. The rest of the stairway descended into a room about ten feet by twenty feet. I pointed to the vent in the ceiling. The air made a soft whooshing sound. A nearby cobweb hung down and swayed with the movement of air. “Maybe Arthur didn’t smell anything unusual. Maybe he reacted to the hum of the machinery down here.”

  A library table and chairs, twins to the ones on the first floor, stood in the middle of the room. A sheet of glass covered this table, and a basket with several pairs of white gloves sat on the end. A horizontal display case dominated one wall. All the antiseptic, hard surfaces served to discourage organisms from growing on the precious items stored here.

  I walked to the display case and looked down. Carefully laid on their backs inside were fifteen volumes, fragile first editions of John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin. In this ultra-secure and climate-controlled room, Harriet could leave her masterpieces in the open air with no risk of harm. Did she come down here often to admire these treasures?

  According to the insurance rider, none of the books was missing. “They’re all here.” A lump formed in my throat as I put on a pair of white gloves and lightly touched the top of Franklin’s memoir. “Harriet didn’t just collect these things, she preserved them.”

  “Oh my, I think I found it.” Birdie’s hushed voice came from behind me.

  I turned to see her touching the lid of a gray archival paper box, about two feet by three feet, on another steel shelf. I carried the lightweight but sturdy box to the table. My fingers, awkward with anticipation, fumbled open the top. I pushed back the acid-free tissue paper covering the object inside. There sat a circle of thirteen fabric stars, yellowed with age, sewn with h
undreds of tiny stitches on a faded blue field.

  The three of us gasped.

  Tears glistened in Birdie’s eyes. “Martha dear, do you think we can lay this out on the table for a closer look?”

  With gloved hands, we lifted the nearly two-anda-half-century-old quilt from its nest of tissue and carefully opened it flat on the glass tabletop. The fibers of the fabric had darkened and discolored along the original folds and the material had become friable.

  Lucy and Birdie bent over the table with me to examine the smaller white blocks. Red triangles truncated the corners of each six-inch square. We read signatures penned with India ink and nib in old-fashioned cursive.

  “Look. ”—Lucy pointed—“The guy who signed this block messed up.” Over toward the red border were two black ink marks dripped on a block signed by Robert Treat Paine—just as Abigail Adams described in her letter to Sarah Franklin Bache.

  I adjusted my glasses to get a closer look. “I imagine a lot of the signatures on the copies of the Declaration of Independence will also be found in this quilt.”

  Lucy gently picked up a corner. “Look at this signature,” she whispered in awe. “Elizabeth Griscom Ross. Betsy.”

  “Yes, and here are Abigail Adams and Martha Jefferson.” Birdie held two more corners.

  I lifted the last one. “Sarah Franklin Bache over here.”

  History books were so often written about the exploits of men, as if the only events worth remembering were masculine endeavors. The lives of women were mostly relegated to a parallel world unworthy of comment. Yet, here in our hands, my friends and I held the legacy of four very remarkable women who possessed the foresight and skill to record the birth of the greatest democracy in the world. A story told not with sword and musket, but stitched with needle and thread.

  “I think we’re going to be national heroes, finding this stuff.” Lucy gestured around the room.

  Birdie smoothed the white cotton gloves against her fingers. “Yes, we’re like archaeologists. First, we unearth a body, and now we find all these artifacts. Do you think we’ll be on TV?”

  “Are you kidding?” Lucy pulled in her chin and raised her eyebrows. “This is just what those daytime talk shows are looking for. They’ll be begging to interview us. We might even get on The Tonight Show.”