Knot My Sister's Keeper

by Mary Marks

  Kaplan let go of my arm and walked over to the other detective. “Listen, dude, I don’t know if it’s worth bringing them in. I think this was just a stupid mistake on their part. I mean, look at them. Their combined IQ can’t be over one hundred.”

  Mike, the detective, scanned our faces and narrowed his eyes and muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “You can say that again.”

  Giselle bristled. “Now, just a minute!”

  I put a restraining hand on her arm and gave a quick shake of my head. “Keep quiet,” I whispered. “Noah’s got this.”

  “It’s your call, of course,” Kaplan continued,” but I’d cut them loose. Save you some paperwork.”

  The detective barked. “Search ’em.”

  He scowled the whole time the uniforms patted us down. Thank God we’d left our jewelry in the van. When the officers were satisfied we weren’t hiding stolen property, they stepped back. “Nothing here, Mike.”

  The detective was silent for a moment then signaled Stella to buzz open the reception room door. He removed the cuffs from Jazz and gave him a little shove. “Get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Lucy raced the white Acme Housekeeping van back to Encino as fast as she dared, knuckles white on the steering wheel. She believed doing sixty miles per hour in a sixty-five zone was speeding. Jazz sat next to her in the passenger seat. I brought them up to date on everything we’d discovered.

  “Holy moly!” he said. “Why did she kill your father?”

  “Because,” said Giselle, “he wouldn’t leave my mother and marry her. When Meredith Gomez said the word ‘obstruction,’ she wasn’t accusing Chief Nelson of shutting down her investigation. I think she meant Mother refused to give Daddy a divorce.”

  Jazz made a big deal out of rubbing his wrists. Lucy glanced over at him. “Did the cuffs hurt you, hon?”

  “A little.”

  “What does it feel like to wear handcuffs?” asked Giselle.

  Jazz sniffed. “This wasn’t my first time.”

  She strained forward in her seat belt to get a better look. “You’ve been arrested before?”

  “Not exactly.” He cleared his throat. “To change the subject, we were darn lucky Noah showed up, Martha.”

  Giselle twisted her ring back onto her finger. “I’m going to make sure their wedding is spectacular.”

  My cell phone chirped and I read the message. “It’s from Detective Gabe Farkas. He’s meeting us at my house in an hour.”

  “Did you call him?” asked Lucy.

  “I texted him right as the Burbank police came through the door. When they released us, I sent him an all-clear message.”

  My best friend glanced at the watch on her left wrist. “I wish I could be there. But my grandson’s got a soccer game in about an hour.”

  “And Zsa Zsa and I have a business to run.” Through the gap between the front seats, I watched Jazz remove the miniature blue jumpsuit from the sleepy Maltese and dress her in her work clothes: a ruffled red pinafore with white polka dots. As soon as he finished, she rotated once in his lap and lay down again to finish her nap.

  “You’ve both been great,” I said. “Giselle and I can handle this.”

  Lucy pulled the van into her driveway and turned off the engine. “Swear you’ll never tell Ray how close we came to being tossed in jail this morning!”

  Jazz raised his hand. “I solemnly swear. And so does Zsa Zsa.”

  “Ditto,” Giselle and I said together.

  She followed me back to my house on the other side of Ventura Boulevard. We hurried inside, where I grabbed the birth records Yossi had printed out. I found the information I’d been hoping for, hidden on the fourth page. Teresa M. Gomez had given birth to baby boy Carlos Gomez on February 25, 1971, at Brotman Memorial in Culver City. Father unknown. I showed it to my sister. “No wonder I didn’t notice it before. Meredith must be her middle name.”

  “Whatever her name is, she got away with murder all these years.” She parked her fists on her hips. “What do you think they’ll do to her?”

  “She’s too far gone to stand trial. But I’d sure like to ask her son, Carlos, a few questions. He was nine at the time Quinn disappeared.”

  We changed out of our wigs and costumes and put on normal clothes. Jeans for me, an Eileen Fisher linen dress for her. At twelve noon, the doorbell rang.

  Gabe Farkas wheezed an asthmatic hello and lumbered into the house. “Do I want to know what you were doing this morning?”

  “We found Quinn’s killer!” I brought him up to speed on my interviews with Jayda Constable and Anna Figueroa—“Figgy.” Then I led him into my sewing room and showed him the murder board with the threatening notes from Quinn’s lover and the birth record from Brotman Memorial. “Meredith Gomez was another of Quinn’s lovers, and the mother of Quinn Junior.”

  I gestured toward the few remaining reports from Quinn’s missing-persons file. “She was in a perfect position to pull out anything that incriminated her from this folder.”

  “Was Chief Nelson in on it?” he asked.

  “Here’s what I think. Nobody in the police department knew she did it. The investigation was dropped because the Eagan family didn’t want a scandal and Chief Nelson did them a favor. When Gomez heard the case was closed, I think she was the one who cleaned out the file.”

  The younger Farkas shook his head. “And my dad never suspected a thing. Wow.” He studied my notes pinned to the white sheet. “This is all very impressive, Martha, but it doesn’t prove that Detective Gomez killed your father.”

  “What about this?” I showed him the photos on my cell phone I’d taken that morning of the pencil drawing, the photo of Quinn and his son, Carlos, standing together, and the leather suitcase with Quinn’s initials embossed in gold. “I think this is the piece of luggage taken from his Cadillac the day he disappeared.”

  Farkas narrowed his eyes. “Where’d you get these?”

  When I told him, he gnawed on the corner of his mouth. “How’d you manage . . . never mind. Sorry I asked. Did you open the suitcase?”

  I shook my head. “Locked tight. I don’t think it was empty, though. It felt a little heavy.”

  Farkas paused for a moment. “We’re lucky. If you’d been law enforcement, only the drawing would be admissible as evidence since it was out in plain sight. Without a search warrant, anything else would be considered fruit of the poisonous tree—including the suitcase and photos, because they were hidden in the closet. But since you’re not the law, I can get a warrant and seize the evidence based on a tip from a private citizen. Send those photos to my phone.”

  He pulled out his cell phone and called West LA. “I’m already in the Valley. Show Judge Crown the photos I’m about to send you. She’ll grant the warrant. Fax it to Burbank PD and ask one of them to meet me there.”

  “When are you going to talk to Carlos Gomez?” Giselle asked when he ended the call.

  “I’ll wait till Monday. First, I want to know what’s in the suitcase.”

  I glanced at my sister. “Can we sit in on the interview? He is our brother, after all.”

  “Dream on,” Farkas grunted. “That’s one meeting you’ll have to arrange on your own. But I will let you know what the search turns up. Do you have any large Ziploc bags?” He began to unpin all the notes and evidence from the murder board. “I’ll need something to put these in.”

  “Wait!” Giselle raised her hand. “You can’t just take all our hard work.”

  Farkas continued to gather the evidence. “Do you want to close the case or not?”

  After he left, I slumped against the door. “Now we just wait.”

  Giselle still simmered. “How come we did all the work and he gets all the credit?”

  “Sometimes it’s not about credit, G. We set out to uncover the truth, and we found it.”

  “Not quite. I want to know what she did with Daddy’s body. And there’s still the matter of our brother. How much did h
e know?”

  I sighed. “I want to know those things, too. But trust me when I say Gabe will take us to the finish line. Right now, we have bigger things to worry about. Remember, the kids have invited both families to Shabbat dinner tonight. If Eli Kaplan is still demanding to hijack the wedding, it’ll be up to us to make him back off. Are you ready for the fight?”

  “Can I bring Harold? I have the feeling Eli will more readily accept defeat if the rejection comes from a man. It’s a little trick we resort to when dealing with the Saudis and, well, most male-dominated cultures.”

  “By all means, G. Harold’s a part of the family now, too.”

  At five o’clock West LAPD Chief of Detectives Gabe Farkas called. “It had a man’s shirt, two toy cars, a seashell collection, kid’s birthday cards, and a drawing of a young boy signed by J. Q. Maguire.”

  “Was anything written on the back?”

  “Yeah. ‘With love to my son.’”

  Bingo!

  CHAPTER 32

  At six o’clock, Crusher, Uncle Isaac, and I parked in front of a spacious two-story cottage-style home in the foothills of Sherman Oaks.

  I peered at the brass numbers near the front door. “Are you sure you have the right address, Yossi? How does a young detective afford a place like this?”

  “His old man’s loaded. Remember?” Crusher wore a blue tie with his suit. Clutching a bouquet of white roses from the supermarket, he rounded the car to open the front passenger door for Uncle Isaac. I grabbed the pink box from Bea’s Bakery off the backseat and got out, glad to be wearing my good pearls.

  Noah Kaplan opened the front door even before we had a chance to knock. He smiled, shook Uncle Isaac’s hand and then Crusher’s. “Shabbat shalom.”

  Noah hugged me and whispered in my ear, “Glad to see you, LaWanda.”

  I hugged him tight and whispered back. “You were brilliant this morning. I owe you. But don’t tell Uncle Isaac.”

  We pulled apart and he grinned. “Only if you promise to stay out of trouble.”

  Uncle Isaac’s eyes widened and he gave me a Where did that come from? look. I’d explained to Crusher earlier about the evidence we’d found in Gomez’s room, including the suitcase with the man’s shirt and children’s items, but I wasn’t about to scare my uncle with the knowledge that I almost got arrested.

  We followed Noah into the house, and Quincy rushed out from the kitchen, wearing an apron. Her face was flushed under her coppery curls, and her green eyes shone with happiness. After greeting us, she said, “Dad had an emergency and won’t be coming tonight. Noah’s parents will be here in about ten minutes. Giselle and Harold are already inside the living room.”

  Crusher thrust the flowers toward her, and I handed her the pink box. “It’s a chocolate babka from Bea’s. Do you need any help?”

  “No thanks. Go and sit with your sister.” She turned around and disappeared into the kitchen again.

  Noah’s living room looked like he’d hired a decorator. A heavily textured brown sisal area rug anchored two navy blue sofas and gray leather chairs. Giselle and Harold sat holding hands at one end of a sofa. They both wore black power suits; red blouse for her and red tie for him. I guessed this was part of their strategy to stop Eli Kaplan from taking over the wedding. Everyone knew red was the color to wear if you were planning to confront someone in a power struggle.

  I left my men standing together and sat next to Giselle and Harold. I’d barely had time to tell her what odd things Gabe Farkas found in Quinn’s suitcase when the older Kaplans appeared.

  “Stand up,” she whispered. “We have to be eye level or he’ll think he’s the dominant one.”

  Wearing an expensive silk suit and flashy gold Rolex, the short Eli Kaplan reeked of new money and expensive cologne. When we were introduced, a smile creased his olive complexion. But his dark brown eyes glittered with the smug authority of a man used to getting his own way.

  Bernice Kaplan, dressed in a conservative St. John knit, hung back and gripped the life out of her green Birkin handbag. Either she was undergoing chemotherapy or suffered from alopecia because I glimpsed a tiny patch of smooth scalp underneath the edge of a short brown wig.

  Giselle must have noticed it, too, because she said, “Are you one of those Orthodox women who shave their heads under their wigs? Does it itch?”

  Bernice’s face blanched and her hand went straight to her synthetic hair.

  Oy vey!

  I elbowed my sister. “What Giselle means is how religious are you? She grew up in a Gentile home, so she’s very curious about Jewish customs and practices.”

  Eli’s head snapped in my direction. “You’re not Jewish? My son is marrying a shikse?”

  Crusher placed himself directly in front of Eli, bent slightly toward the much smaller man, and spoke in a controlled voice. “Be careful how you speak in front of our family.” Eli took a step backward and Crusher leaned in even closer. “Martha’s mother was Jewish, which makes Martha and Quincy Jewish. Giselle’s mother was Catholic, which makes her a Gentile. I trust you’ll never need to bring that up again.”

  Eli Kaplan swallowed but said nothing. I glanced at Noah, who had covered his eyes with his hand.

  In the dining room, the nine of us sat in uncomfortable silence around a square-legged mahogany table, like one I’d seen in a Pottery Barn catalogue. My heart ached with a combination of pride and melancholy as I listened to my daughter recite the blessing over her Sabbath candles at her table in her home. Noah handed the honor of reciting the Sabbath prayers to Uncle Isaac, the oldest man at the table.

  As the plates of food were passed around, Eli addressed his son in a loud voice meant to be jocular. “So, all that money we spent on your bar mitzvah and you can’t recite a few prayers? At least we know when we throw you a big wedding, you’ll have a kid to show for it.”

  Noah clenched his jaw. “I told you before, Dad. Quincy’s family is doing the wedding. Period. And it will be just the way we want it.”

  Eli looked at me through half-closed eyes. “If it’s a matter of money, you don’t have to worry. I’m more than capable of footing the bill for my only son. Frankly, a backyard wedding is not our style. My son . . . the kids deserve better than that.” Giselle stiffened next to me as he continued. “Besides, we have dozens of close friends and their families who expect an invitation.”

  Now Giselle fumed.

  Harold put a warning hand on her arm and spoke. “Apparently, Eli, you’ve never been invited to the Eagan estate in Beverly Hills. If you’d been a guest, you’d know that it’s on the same National Register as the Vanderbilt estate and Monticello.”

  Harold ignored the surprise on Eli’s face and breezed on. “I’m also a member of Hillcrest Country Club, and I can tell you that every wedding I’ve attended there, however flashy or elaborate, felt like a hotel event. The Eagan estate and its priceless art is far more gracious and impressive. And believe me when I say our caterers will surpass anything you’ve ever experienced.”

  Giselle lifted her chin. “Money is not a problem for this family. But tone and style are. Your son and my niece have made it quite clear what they want. So, we will give them a small but spectacular wedding. And if they do change their minds, we can easily seat five hundred people without sacrificing an ounce of quality. When we entertained Prince William and Kate, we accommodated at least that many.”

  Eli perked up at the casual mention of English royalty.

  Quincy said with a sweet smile, “Eli . . . Dad, Noah and I really appreciate your offer. You and Bernice are so kind. I know you’ll be the best grandparents.”

  Eli’s face softened. I sat in awe of my daughter’s ability to defuse the tension between father and son. I feared, however, that would be her role for years to come. I just hoped it wouldn’t put a strain on their marriage.

  “So, what would you think about hosting a big party at the country club when we return from our honeymoon? We’d love to meet and greet all of your
friends then.”

  Bernice Kaplan, who had remained silent throughout the evening, reached over and grasped her husband’s hand.

  He pursed his lips. “I only want the best for my stubborn son.” Then his voice softened. “I think for once he found it in you.”

  And that was it. Crisis over with hardly a shot fired. And Eli had managed to take no from a woman.

  Uncle Isaac, who sat at the end of the table in the place of honor, had keenly observed the sparring without joining in. In the relaxed silence that followed, he looked at me and Giselle and asked, “So nu? I love weddings. Who’s next?”

  What’s next, is more like it. With Quincy’s problem resolved, I could once again focus on the unanswered questions about Quinn’s murder. Where was his body? Why hadn’t Meredith Gomez gotten rid of the suitcase, such an incriminating piece of evidence? What were the meanings of the items Farkas found inside, and how much did our long-lost brother, Carlos Gomez, know? We’d have to wait until Farkas interviewed Carlos on Monday to find out.

  CHAPTER 33

  The call from Detective Gabe Farkas came on Monday afternoon. “The DA’s refusing to press charges for obvious reasons. Meredith Gomez will never be fit to stand trial.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. But I feel cheated. She got away with murder. What did her son, Carlos, have to say?”

  “Nothing. He was only nine at the time and doesn’t remember anything.” I heard the whoosh of Farkas taking a hit from his puffer. “He did ask to talk to the two of you, though. Gave me his private number to pass along. Got a pencil?”

  * * *

  My doorbell rang at eight that evening. Crusher moved to get up, but I stopped him. “No, Yossi. Let me.” I glanced at Giselle, who sat on the sofa gripping Harold’s hand. “Are you ready to meet our brother?”

  She nodded once. “This has been a long time coming.”

  I inhaled deeply to calm the fluttering in my chest and walked to the front door. Carlos Gomez stood taller than he looked on TV. Great. Am I the only one who inherited short genes? He wore jeans and a black Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt. Well, at least we got the same comfortable clothes gene.