Knot My Sister's Keeper

by Mary Marks

  The wine steward cleared his throat and flashed a business card in his white-gloved hand. “The gentleman asked me to give this to you, madam.” Giselle reached for the card, but the steward handed it to me.

  A note was scribbled on the back. Please, may I introduce myself? The card belonged to Andrew Goldman, Esq., of Goldman, Perren and Sage. I showed it to Giselle.

  “Good Lord. Goldman Perren is one of the biggest law firms in the city. What could Andrew Goldman possibly want with you?”

  I glared at Giselle and snatched the card back. “Why don’t we just find out?” I smiled at Goldman and nodded once.

  He immediately crossed the room and stood by my chair while I introduced myself and offered my hand.

  “I’m Martha Rose, and this is my sister, Giselle Cole.”

  He bent over to kiss my hand, and I caught him sneaking a closer look at my cleavage.

  “Forgive me for being blunt, but at my age I don’t believe in wasting time. You are a beautiful woman, an enchanting creature. And I’d like to know you better.”

  “Thank you for the champagne, Mr. Goldman. I’m terribly flattered, but I’m already spoken for.” I raised my left hand to show him my engagement ring, glad for once that Crusher had given me an impressive three-carat stone.

  “I’d like a chance to change that. May I take you to dinner sometime? We could fly to Paris in my private jet tomorrow.”

  “Again, I’m flattered. But I’m flying back home to LA in my private jet first thing tomorrow.”

  Giselle kicked me under the table.

  “What a shame. Still”—he pointed to the card in my hand—“you have my phone number. Call me if you change your mind, Martha Rose. I’m your devoted admirer.” He made a courtly bow and walked back to his table.

  Giselle sat with her mouth open during the whole exchange. When Goldman returned to his table, she said, “Do you realize that was the first time you ever called me your sister?”

  She was right. Without realizing it, I had slowly come to accept her as family. At first the thought of having a half sister, who had lived with the father I never knew, stirred painful feelings of jealousy and abandonment. But the more I got to know her, the more I realized we shared a common loss. Jacob Quinn Maguire had disappeared from both our lives. I smiled at those hazel-green eyes that looked just like mine. “You’re beginning to grow on me, G.”

  Giselle sighed. “And this is the second time in two days I’ve seen guys flirting with you. First Captain Farkas, now Andrew Goldman. Did you see the way he checked out your ta-tas?”

  “It happens more than you think,” I chuckled. “Men can’t help it. Their reptilian brain draws them straight to the comfort of the mother’s breast.”

  “That does it!” she said. “I’m getting a boob job as soon as we get back to LA.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Tuesday morning, we landed at the Van Nuys airport at ten, Pacific time. Sam, the pilot, removed our luggage and garment bags with our brand-new dresses and carried them from the aircraft to Giselle’s red Escalade.

  “Thank you, Sam.” She passed him what looked like a few Benjamins. I’d seen her do the same thing with the hostess, Earline, a few moments earlier. Giselle may be bossy and tactless, but she is also generous.

  “Pleasure as always, Mrs. Cole.”

  “Come on, Sissy,” Giselle said. “Let’s get you back home.” As we drove toward Encino, she asked, “Do you think your Yossi’s had a chance to search for Quinn Junior’s birth records yet?”

  “He said he’d get on it this morning. But I’ve learned you can’t expect instant gratification with these things, G. Sometimes it takes a while. You have to learn to be patient.”

  “I don’t see why. Aren’t all those records in some sort of database? Seems to me, all you need to do is plug in the search parameters and voilà! There’s your info.”

  “Unfortunately, the government doesn’t run as efficiently as private business. Who knows if those old records are even digitized?”

  When we pulled into my driveway, Crusher’s Harley was already gone. Giselle helped me carry my garment bag and suitcase inside the empty house. My orange cat, Bumper, greeted us with a loud meow and rubbed his cheek hard against my ankle. I used to think it was a sign of affection until I learned he was merely marking his territory with the scent glands on his jaw. I picked him up anyway and scratched him behind his ears. He purred like the motor on a sewing machine.

  Giselle looked around the space slowly, as if seeing it for the first time. “It looks so much different in the daytime. I love how the light filters through those cheap white curtains on your front windows. It makes the inside feel peaceful and beachy.”

  “Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “Oh, look!” She pointed to a crystal vase of pink roses on the glass coffee table. She picked up the envelope propped against the clear container and handed it to me. “Yossi is such a romantic.”

  I had a sinking feeling the roses might not be about romance at all. I slid my finger under the flap and opened the envelope. The short note read: Sorry, babe. On assignment. Love you.

  I blew out a puff of air and handed her the note. “Remember what I said about the process occasionally being slow? Well, this is one of those times. Yossi’s job comes first. He won’t be available to help us until his assignment is finished.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Days, weeks, months. I never know. We may have to ask someone else to help look for those birth records. Meanwhile, we still have stuff to investigate.”

  “Like?”

  “Like interviewing your old housekeeper, Anna Figueroa, and visiting Detective Meredith Gomez in the memory care facility.”

  Bumper wiggled out of my arms and jumped to the floor.

  “Do you really think we should bother with Meredith Gomez?”

  “You never know. Sometimes, people with dementia have brief, lucid episodes. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find her during one of those moments.”

  “Well, then, what are we waiting for? I’ll drive. Let’s talk to Figgy, then we’ll go see the senile woman.”

  “Slow down. I have to call my friend Lucy first.” I worried about their visit to the doctor’s office this morning.

  “Fine. While you’re doing that, I’m going to look at your murder board again.” She walked toward my sewing room.

  When Lucy didn’t answer her phone, I figured they must still be with the doctor. So, I left a message and called Quincy. “Hi, honey. Giselle and I just got back. We’re at my house right now. I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday that I have a half brother somewhere.”

  “Get out of town!”

  I told her what little I knew about him. “He was only nine at the time our father disappeared. It’s a long shot, but it’s possible he might remember something that could help us.”

  “Can I do anything?”

  Quincy was a journalist, and I knew our search would tweak her nose for news. If she were alone, I’d consider taking her with us. But I couldn’t risk the chance she’d bring Kaplan along. All I needed was for that little weasel to lecture me on interfering in police business, even if it was a cold case, and even if it was my own father who had gone missing.

  I took a calming breath. “Won’t that take time away from Noah? After all, he’s cashing in vacation days to be with you. That’s not easy to arrange with the LAPD.”

  “We could both help. He is a detective, after all.”

  But not a very good one. “I’d hate to interfere with your vacation, honey. I’ll let you know if anything comes up. Meanwhile, when am I going to see you?”

  “This Friday night at Shabbat. We’ll make our big announcement then.”

  “I can hardly wait.” I resisted the urge to grind my teeth.

  I found Giselle studying the murder board and tapping her lips with her fingers. “You know, Sissy, we have a lot more information to add.”

  “You’re right. Let
’s log all the new stuff we’ve learned and pin it up.” I handed her a handful of blank note cards and a pen. “You write.”

  We attached several more notes to the white sheet using straight pins with colorful glass heads: information we learned from Captain Farkas, Detective Eric Rohrbacher, and Jayda Constable. Giselle had drawn a huge question mark on one of the cards, with a heading that read Quinn Junior.

  Our next stop was Beverly Hills. We took Coldwater Canyon from the Valley to Readcrest Drive. The two-story Italian villa built by Giselle’s grandfather, Jerome Eagan, stood like an elegant lady in a pink stucco gown. Wide white trim bordered generous groupings of windows. A lacy white pediment crowned a window in a three-story tower standing sentinel over the entrance. An arched colonnade marched across the front of the house all the way to the end, the top of the colonnade forming a balcony that served the second floor.

  I did a 360 turn, taking in the beauty of the estate. The vast landscape featured broad green lawns, fruit trees, and formal gardens filled with fountains, roses, and a myriad of colorful blooms. A smaller version of the main house stood next to the villa on the same property.

  Giselle seemed amused at my reaction. “This is where I grew up. The main house belonged to my grandparents. The smaller one is where we lived.”

  “For once, I’m speechless, G. The Eagan estate is quite grand.”

  “I know. I hang on to it because I can’t bear to think of anyone else living here. Figgy stays in the main house now. Shall we go in?” She didn’t wait for an answer but turned abruptly and headed up the broad stone steps to a pair of tall wooden doors carved with an odd combination of gargoyles and cupids.

  Just as we reached the entrance, one door swung open and a tiny elderly woman in a blue dress with a white apron stood smiling on the other side. “Welcome home, Mrs. Cole.”

  That made three different employees who had greeted my sister the same way in as many days. One in Las Vegas, one in Manhattan, and now Beverly Hills.

  Giselle bent over and gently hugged the wrinkled Anna Figueroa. “So good to see you, Figgy. This is the sister I told you about. Martha Rose.”

  Anna Figueroa stretched her mouth into a smile, showing a set of new porcelain teeth, but her eyes broadcast suspicion and disapproval.

  “We’ll be in the living room. Is the coffee ready?” Giselle asked.

  “Yes’m. And those favorite almond croissants of yours. I’ll get them now.”

  “Bring three cups, Figgy. I want you to join us.”

  The older woman raised her eyebrows in surprise, nodded once, and bounced down a hallway in a pair of blue and silver Nike trainers almost as big as she was. Giselle led me into a living room the size of a hotel lobby, furnished with antique Italian and French pieces. Pink silk damask covered most of the upholstered chairs. I would’ve declared the space gaudy and pretentious, except it somehow worked perfectly with the architecture.

  We settled on the deep cushions of one of the six sofas covered in lavender velvet as Anna Figueroa reappeared, pushing a serving cart with coffee and croissants. Before taking a seat directly across from us, she poured three cups and laid out a plate of pastries on the green marble top of the coffee table.

  Her eyes darted back and forth between my sister and me while she waited, curiosity and concern deepening the wrinkles.

  As Giselle explained what we had learned over the previous two days, the old woman drew her arms closer to her body, eyelids drooping.

  “We discovered your statement to the police went missing from the file. This is very important, Figgy. I want you to try to remember exactly what you told them.”

  “It was a very long time ago . . .” Figgy wove her fingers together and squeezed, pleading with her eyes for Giselle to stop asking.

  “If you’re trying to protect me, don’t bother. I’m not a child anymore. I know all about my father’s behavior. What I want more than anything is to find out what happened to him, no matter where that leads me.”

  Figgy took a deep breath. “I told them I kept myself to myself. If your father was having any affairs, I certainly didn’t know about it.”

  Giselle put down her coffee cup. “But you knew more than you told the police?”

  She nodded. “I used to hear your parents arguing when you weren’t around. He swore he wasn’t cheating, but I found perfume on his clothes, lipstick on his shirt, and once, oh Lord, on his underwear. Then, about six months before your father disappeared, your mother started getting phone calls. After those calls, she’d cry for hours. Once I went to another room and picked up the telephone extension and listened in.” Color crept up her cheeks. “I’m not proud of it, but I felt so sorry for your poor mother.” Figgy seemed reluctant to continue.

  “Go on,” Giselle urged gently.

  “It was a woman. She said she was the mother of Mr. Maguire’s son. She told your mother to stop standing in their way, that he didn’t love her anymore.”

  G frowned deeply at the revelation. “And why didn’t you tell this to the police?”

  “Because I didn’t want Mrs. Maguire to find out I’d listened in on her private conversation. She would’ve fired me for sure, and I couldn’t let that happen.” She blinked back tears. “You needed me more than ever, querida.”

  Giselle also teared up at the use of the endearment. Clearly, she had a closer bond with the housekeeper than I’d imagined. “You always looked after me, didn’t you, Figgy? Did my grandparents know about my father? About his son?”

  The old woman nodded slowly. “I think so. Your grandmother caught your mother carrying on something awful after one of those phone calls and spent hours trying to calm her down.”

  Things were looking grim for Giselle’s family. No wonder the grandfather, Jerome Eagan, stopped the investigation and tried to cover up Quinn’s infidelity. They all had plenty of motive to kill him. The question was, which one of them might have done it?

  “What do you remember about the morning he disappeared?” I asked.

  “I went to fetch Mr. Maguire’s suitcase to carry it out to the car. Mrs. Maguire was yelling and crying. ‘You think I don’t know about your whore in New York?’ He told her she was imagining things again. ‘We’ll talk about it when I get back,’ he said. Then he kissed her on the forehead like nothing was wrong, got in his car, and drove away. That’s the last we ever saw of him.”

  “Did you know he was carrying a lot of money with him?” I asked.

  “No.” She licked her lips nervously. “Why would I know something like that?”

  Giselle leaned toward the old lady and spoke softly. “Tell me honestly, Figgy. What do you know about his gambling?”

  “Not much.” She sighed. “He had a problem that your grandfather had to fix a few times. Their arguments were pretty loud. But for several months before he disappeared, things quieted down, and I assumed he’d stopped gambling.”

  “So, what do you think happened to him?” I asked.

  “I’m sure someone killed him. Maybe someone he owed money to. Maybe someone who was jealous. It wasn’t Mrs. Maguire, because right after he left, she locked herself in her room and refused to eat for two days. And it wasn’t Mrs. Eagan, because she took care of both Mrs. Maguire and Miss Giselle during that time.”

  “What about Jerome Eagan?”

  Giselle threw me a harsh look but kept her mouth shut.

  “Do you think he could’ve killed his son-in-law or hired someone to do it?”

  Figgy looked at Giselle as if to ask for permission to speak.

  G gave a slight nod of her head. “It’s okay. We just want the truth.”

  The old woman blinked rapidly and pushed her shoulders back. “I always thought it could’ve happened that way. Mr. Eagan was a powerful man.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked. “Physically powerful or politically powerful?”

  “Both.”

  CHAPTER 15

  “Will that be all, Mrs. Cole?” The housekeeper reverted to
their formal relationship and stood before her employer.

  “Thank you for being honest, Figgy. I’ve always been able to count on you, haven’t I?” Giselle’s voice caught in her throat. “You were like a mother to me, especially after things got so bad. I’ll always love you for that.” She sprang up off the sofa, reached the old woman in two steps, and hugged her for several seconds.

  Figgy murmured, “I promised when you were a little girl that I would never leave you, querida. And I never will.”

  Giselle pulled away and swiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. “Can you bring me that bag I asked you about, please?”

  “I’ll get it for you now.” She turned on her Nike trainers and left the room. Moments later I heard the whir of an elevator taking her to an upper floor.

  “It seems you and Figgy have a very special relationship,” I said. “I can see why you continue to take care of her.”

  Giselle fetched a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. “After Daddy disappeared, my mother turned into a basket case. She was more than happy to let someone else take care of me.”

  “I can relate, G. My mother did the same thing. From the moment I was born, she handed me over to Bubbie, my grandmother, and Uncle Isaac.”

  “My grandmother tried,” said Giselle, “but she wasn’t very good with the day-to-day details. So Figgy stepped in. She was the one who comforted me when I cried. She was the one I went to when I first got my period. She guided me through those awful teenage years. My grandparents’ only ambition was for me to make a good marriage. But Figgy pushed me to go to college. I owe her more than I could ever repay.”

  A new idea started nibbling at the back of my brain. How far would Anna Figueroa go to protect Giselle and her mother?

  The housekeeper returned with something wrapped in a large plastic bag. “I found this in your grandmother’s sewing room. I gathered all the pieces I could find.”

  “Is this the quilt you were telling me about?” I asked.