Knot My Sister's Keeper

by Mary Marks

  “Want to see it?” Giselle opened the bag and removed a half-finished quilt top.

  I recognized the pattern immediately. “This is a gorgeous example of a Grandmother’s Flower Garden, G. It’s one of the most labor-intensive quilts to sew.”

  I explained that the Grandmother’s Flower Garden is made entirely of small hexagons measuring one or two inches in size and hand sewn together on the edges to form an overall mosaic design. In the classic configuration, a single hex forms the center of a “flower.” It’s typically yellow, like the center of a daisy. Next, hexagons in colorful prints are fitted together in a circular shape around the center, usually two rows deep. The colorful rosettes are then separated from each other by plain hexagons, before being joined together. The overall effect, when completed, looks like a field of blooms scattered on a solid background.

  Giselle unfolded the top and it crackled. “Are all quilts made with paper?”

  “No,” I said. “But this design calls for a method called English paper piecing. Each fabric hexagon is wrapped around a slightly smaller paper of the same shape and basted into place. That stabilizes the edges and makes them easier to sew together. Here, let me show you.” I flipped the top over to the back side to reveal the thin paper templates underneath. “After the whole top is assembled, the paper templates are removed from the back side, leaving a nice, soft quilt top.”

  “You mean you have to cut each of those shapes by hand?”

  “Not necessarily. Your grandmother, like women before her, may have cut everything by hand, but nowadays you can purchase precut paper templates by the hundreds. Traditionally, our foremothers cut individual hexagons out of old newspapers, magazines, and any other bit of paper they could get their hands on. Making quilts used to be all about using up scraps—fabric leftovers and, with English paper piecing, whatever paper was at hand.”

  I refolded the top and placed it in the sack. “Bring this to our next quilting group. We’ll figure out how much more we need to add to the top. Then we’ll piece it, quilt it, and you’ll have a beautiful remembrance of your grandmother.”

  “But I don’t know how to sew.”

  “You will by the time I’m done with you.”

  We left Readcrest Drive and drove to Spago in Beverly Hills for a quick lunch of artichoke pizza and mixed green salad. Then we headed over Coldwater Canyon to the Valley and our interview with former BHPD Detective Meredith Gomez.

  Our destination turned out to be a one-story beige stucco building in a largely residential area on Bob Hope Drive in Burbank. The facility sat on two lots behind a neat lawn bordered with clumps of purple campanula. THANKS FOR THE MEMORIES ASSISTED LIVING was written in discreet gold letters on the glass of the locked front door.

  We pressed a buzzer and almost immediately heard the release of the electronic lock. A blowsy blonde sat behind a counter to our right in the small reception area. She wore green scrubs with the word Smile embroidered in white on the left side of her chest. Directly in front of us was another locked door.

  Just as I was about to speak, I heard the loud warbling of a songbird. When she saw the look on my face, she jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “It’s the clock.” The numbers on the wall clock behind her were missing, and in their place were pictures of twelve different species of birds. “Every hour we get to hear a different birdcall. It gives the patients something to look forward to. Can I help you?”

  “Yes. We’re here to see Meredith Gomez.”

  She typed something on a computer keyboard and frowned at us. “Are you relatives? It says here all her visitors have to be on the guest list approved by her next of kin.”

  Giselle began to say “Nnnn” when I pinched her arm. She stopped and waited for me to speak.

  “Yes. We’ve traveled a long way to see her.”

  The receptionist scrolled down the screen. “Hmm. I have only one name on the list. Are you Fabiola Lamonica?”

  I nodded vigorously. “That’s right. We came all the way from Italy.”

  “Well, I can only let you in, Miss Lamonica. Your friend will have to get approval from the family.”

  “Oh no, you don’t understand.” I pointed to Giselle. “She’s Fabiola. I’m Martha, her translator. Fabiola’s deaf, poor thing, therefore, I help her communicate with the outside world. Wherever she goes, I have to accompany her.”

  I had to hand it to Giselle. She didn’t miss a beat. She turned to me, screwed up her face, and threw out her arms in a gesture of confusion as if to say What’s going on? I began waving my hands in the air and elongating each vowel. “This niiice lady says we can go insiiide and see your aunt Mer-e-dith.”

  Giselle nodded an Aha, and smiled at the receptionist, touching her forehead with her thumb. God knows what that really meant in sign language.

  “Fabiola says ‘thank you.’”

  The receptionist smiled and in a loud voice said, “You-Are-Welcome.”

  “Uh, one more thing. Fabiola hasn’t seen her aunt since she was a little girl. She’s not sure she’d recognize her. Can you tell us where to find her?”

  “Our patients tend to wander off. For their own safety, we have them wear ankle monitors. Let me see where she is right now.” The blonde turned to the computer once more. “She’s in the TV room. She likes the afternoon soaps.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Giselle put thumb to forehead again, and the receptionist touched hers in return. I sent a profound mental apology to all the hearing-impaired people in the world.

  The inner door buzzed open and we stepped into a large lounging area with sofas and chairs upholstered in blue faux leather. Speckled vinyl tiles covered the floors. A strong pine scent permeated the air, and I guessed every surface had been chosen to be easily cleaned. Signs high up on the walls pointed to the TV room, the dining room, and the private rooms of the residents.

  Giselle whispered under her breath, “How awful to end up in a place like this!”

  I noticed a woman in green scrubs with a mop and bucket over to the side watching us. “Hands,” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth as I wiggled my fingers in the air.

  We found Meredith Gomez sitting in a recliner alone in front of the television. Her head slumped forward on her chest and soft whistles came out of her nose as she slept. Her long black hair was streaked with gray and fastened at the nape of her neck. Her peaceful face hinted at her former beauty. I guessed she was barely into her sixties, tragically young to be suffering from dementia, and not that many years older than me. I breathed a silent thanks to God that I still had all my marbles.

  I gently shook her shoulder. “Detective Gomez?”

  She stirred and opened her eyes, looking at us with a blank expression.

  “You don’t know us,” I continued. “I’m Martha and this is my sister, Giselle. Our father went missing thirty-two years ago, and you worked on his case. His name was Jacob Quinn Maguire, but everyone called him Quinn. Do you remember?”

  The detective stared at us, appearing not to comprehend a word I’d said.

  Giselle leaned in closer so Gomez could clearly see her face. “I was a little girl at the time Daddy went missing. Don’t you recognize me?”

  Meredith smiled, but her eyes remained vacant. “Did you bring my chocolate pudding?”

  “Please try to remember,” I urged.

  A severe woman in a navy blue business suit and militant posture approached us from the lounge area. “Right after lunch in the afternoon is probably the worst time for a visit. Our patients tend to get drowsy and foggy by then. The best time to visit is in the morning when they’re fresh.” She gave a quick shake of her straight, blond bob. “I’m Miss Leathy, the administrator. And you are?”

  I turned to Giselle and began gesturing rapidly.

  “What are you doing?” demanded the woman.

  “I’m translating. My name is Martha and this is Fabiola Lamonica, Mrs. Gomez’s niece. She’s come all the way from Italy to see her au
nt. Since Miss Lamonica is deaf, she relies on me to help her communicate with the hearing world.”

  The woman frowned at us. “It’s called interpreting, not translating.” Then she began signing in the smooth, elegant gestures of real American Sign Language. She didn’t speak but watched us carefully.

  We were so screwed.

  When neither of us responded, she frowned and slapped the side of her right hand into the palm of her left. “Just as I suspected! You don’t know how to sign and you’re not deaf. Just who are you and why are you here?”

  I began gesticulating again and turned toward my sister, enunciating. “She thinks we are lyyying. She doesn’t know we’re using Itaaalian sign language.”

  Giselle responded with a brief ripple of her fingers, until Miss. Leathy shouted, “Stop pretending! Answer me right now, or I’m calling the police.”

  “Fine!” My sister drew up to her full height and stared into the administrator’s eyes. “I actually know Meredith Gomez. She was one of the detectives investigating my father’s disappearance thirty-two years ago. The case was never solved, but my sister, Martha, and I have uncovered new information. We’re here to ask Detective Gomez some questions.”

  “Do you know where you are?” Miss Leathy gestured toward the room. “This is a memory care facility, and Mrs. Gomez is an inpatient. Even if you did have permission from the family to talk to her, it would be futile. Her disease is too advanced.”

  “Still,” I said, “we’d like to come back in the morning and try. How can we contact the family for permission?”

  The frowning administrator crossed her arms. “You can’t. That information is confidential.”

  “But you can contact them, right?” Giselle reached into her purse and handed the woman a business card. “Tell them why we’d like to speak to her and get back to me.”

  Miss Leathy reluctantly took the card and read it. She looked at Giselle and narrowed her eyes. “Right. Like I’d believe you were the CEO of an oil company. Anybody can have business cards printed. You’re nothing but a con artist.”

  “You’re partly correct. I’m not just the CEO, I’m the owner. And here’s a sign you will understand.”

  My half sister, the oil tycoon, raised an elegant fist and extended her middle finger.

  CHAPTER 16

  Giselle drove me back to Encino and promised to call the minute she heard back from the administrator at Thanks for the Memories Assisted Living. I went straight to the murder board in my sewing room and reviewed our notes.

  Bela Farkas—captain BHPD 1980, now retired

  Ordered by Chief Nelson to stop investigation

  Quinn’s missing-persons file sanitized

  Eric Rohrbacher—detective BHPD 1980, now retired

  Notes on Quinn’s gambling missing from file

  Jayda Constable—Quinn’s NY lover

  Quinn traveled to NY to gamble in Atlantic City

  Quinn carried a lot of cash when he vanished

  I still had nothing to write on Detective Meredith Gomez’s card. We had to get permission from the family to interview her in the morning hours on the off chance she might be more lucid. It was a long shot that probably wouldn’t pay off. Still, we had to try.

  The conversation with Anna Figueroa had been much more helpful. She’d not only overheard arguments between Jerome Eagan and his son-in-law over gambling debts, she’d witnessed Louise and Quinn arguing over his infidelities. She also confirmed that Louise knew about her husband’s illegitimate son. Once again, I wondered: Just how far would Figgy go to protect Giselle and her mother?

  Next, I erased the question mark my sister had drawn on the card for our half brother and wrote:

  “Quinn Junior” (real name unknown)—

  Quinn’s secret illegitimate son

  Born in LA 1971

  His mother (name unknown) harassed Quinn’s

  wife, Louise Maguire

  Then I added the new information to the rest of the cards, hoping to see a pattern emerge.

  Louise Maguire—Giselle’s mother, Quinn’s wife

  Jealous and angry about husband’s affairs and

  Quinn Junior

  Lied to police

  Jerome Eagan—Quinn’s father-in-law

  Influenced chief of police to stop investigation.

  Argued with Quinn over gambling debts. Bailed

  him out.

  We knew very little about Quinn’s mother-in-law, Edith Eagan, except that, like her daughter, Louise, she relinquished the day-to-day care of Giselle to the housekeeper, Anna Figueroa. I’d be surprised if she didn’t know everything about Quinn’s transgressions.

  We now had enough new information to seriously suggest homicide. Suddenly I remembered Lucy never called me back. I called her for the second time that day but got only voice mail. It wasn’t like Lucy to avoid my calls. The fact that I was leaving another message scared me. What if Ray’s biopsy was positive for cancer?

  “It’s me again, Lucy. What did the doctor say this morning? Please call me.”

  I phoned Jazz Fletcher next. He answered on the first ring, voice low and flirty. “Hello, tall, dark, and delicious.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh my God! I thought you were someone else.” His voice fluttered.

  “Sorry to disappoint. It’s only short, delicious me. Have you heard from Lucy lately? She hasn’t returned my calls.”

  “No. Should we be worried?”

  “Ray’s going through a health crisis, and they were supposed to talk to the doctor today.”

  “Shall we go to her house? I can be there in forty-five minutes.”

  I understood Jazz’s impulse to rush to Lucy’s aid. When you loved a friend, that was what you did. But I also knew Lucy must have her reasons for not responding right away to my phone calls. “Not yet. If the doctor gave them bad news, we should respect their privacy until they’re ready to talk about it.”

  Jazz sighed. “Now you’ve made me so nervous, I’m going to have to take a Xanax—even though it makes me drool. By the way, how was your trip with your sister? Lucy said you flew all over the country in a private jet.”

  He listened quietly while I brought him up to date.

  “Our biggest challenge right now is to find our half brother.”

  “A brother? My, my, your father certainly kept himself busy. I’m afraid to ask, but what did you wear on this trip?” Jazz the clothing designer was constantly trying to rehabilitate my wardrobe.

  “You’ll be thrilled to know that while we were in Manhattan, Giselle bought me a designer dress, and we went to the theater and dinner afterward.”

  “No! You really bought a designer dress? Which house?”

  “The dress is a Rachel Zoe, and I actually looked pretty good. In fact, during dinner some big-shot New York lawyer hit on me.”

  “Wait. What about shoes?” he teased. “Please tell me you didn’t wear your Crocs.”

  I laughed. “I bought a very expensive pair of black stilettos that only pinch a little.”

  “There is hope for you! Zsa Zsa and I are coming over tomorrow morning to see this famous dress. And if we haven’t heard from Lucy yet, we should pay her a visit.”

  After I spoke to Jazz, a tsunami of fatigue washed over me. I was too exhausted to cook dinner. Instead, I nuked two Trader Joe’s frozen chicken tamales in the microwave. Five minutes later I removed the steaming corn husks and tucked into the taste of masa, cumin, and chicken.

  Tamales were an especially important tradition in the Latino culture. Families cooked for days, preparing dozens of handmade tamales for their Christmas feast. Masa, a paste made from cornmeal and lard, was spread on the inside of corn husks. Then a filling made with chilies, cheese, cooked chicken, or beef was spooned onto the masa. The whole thing was rolled up, sealed inside the husks, and steamed in a huge pot until cooked through. Fortunately for me, the Trader Joe’s tamales weren’t made with lard, so they became my go-to food when I needed a mea
l in a hurry.

  I finished eating at six-thirty and headed for a hot shower and a clean pair of pajamas. Then I settled on the sofa, wrapped my blue and white quilt around my legs, and turned on Jeopardy! I barely heard the answers as I went over the events of the last few days one more time. It was clear Quinn’s disappearance wasn’t just a missing-persons case anymore. Jacob Quinn Maguire had been murdered. Worse, his killing had been covered up at the highest levels of the Beverly Hills Police Department and the file had been sanitized. I’d have to convince my outspoken sister to be careful. Poking into that kind of corruption and wrongdoing might prove dangerous.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning at ten, Jazz showed up wearing a butter yellow linen suit and a white shirt with a mandarin collar opened at the neck. He kissed both my cheeks, sat on the sofa, and opened a yellow tote bag. Inside, his little Maltese, Zsa Zsa, wore a pastel pink and yellow floral pinafore, with a pink butterfly barrette in her topknot.

  The six-foot-tall man bent over and cooed, “Who’s Daddy’s little girl?”

  The dog licked his face, jumped out of the bag, and headed straight toward my cat, Bumper, who was stretched out like a fluffy orange pillow in a patch of sunshine on the floor. Bumper raised his head briefly to touch noses with his tiny doggy friend then closed his eyes again and resumed his nap.

  Jazz gave me the once-over, silently disapproving of my jeans and T-shirt. “Okay, Martha. Show me the dress!”

  I retrieved the garment bag from the closet, unzipped it, and removed the long-sleeved black gown.

  My designer friend gasped approval. “It’s gorgeous. The draping is masterful. And the décolleté—it shows off your best feature. No wonder the guy hit on you.”

  While he examined the dress more closely, I poured two cups of fresh Italian roast. My phone rang and I recognized the caller ID.

  “Good morning,” Giselle said. “I just heard from Miss Leathy at Thanks for the Memories.”