Knot in My Backyard

by Mary Marks

  Sonia smiled and stood a little straighter. “Well, I’m a pretty good organizer. I’ll be glad to help you.”

  “Sure! I’ll call you later.”

  I phoned Lucy the minute I got inside. I sat on the board of the quilt guild and my friends sat on the philanthropy committee. “Hi, Lucy. Are you still doing charity at the guild?”

  “Yeah. Birdie and I still go once a month to help tie quilts. Why?”

  I told her about my idea to organize an outreach in the Sepulveda Basin and to look for Javier and Graciela at the same time.

  “Were you not listening yesterday? Did you not vow to change your ways? I thought you were through with your obsession to solve the murder and save your friend Ed.”

  “Yes, I listened. I’m no longer obsessed.” I wasn’t going to correct Lucy and remind her I made no such vow. “Anyway, I think I stumbled upon a real suspect.”

  “Get out!”

  I told Lucy about Diane and her husband, Jefferson Davis, the headmaster of Beaumont School and Martin’s boss. “So you see, if Davis thought his wife had an affair with Dax Martin, that cradle-robbing control freak could have killed him in a jealous rage.”

  “But that’s pure speculation on your part.”

  “Doesn’t matter. As I understand it, we don’t need to prove he actually killed Martin. Finding proof is up to the police and the DA. We only want them to look at someone other than Ed Pappas. In the worst-case scenario, if Ed is arrested and goes to trial, we want to have enough evidence to convince a jury someone else could have done it. We need to create reasonable doubt.”

  “Well, good luck with that.”

  I ignored the sarcasm. “You remember my neighbor Sonia?”

  “The one we met the other day? The former disco queen-slash-flower child?”

  “She’s not so bad. She came up with the idea to distribute blankets to the homeless. Does the guild have any quilts to give away?”

  “At the moment, we only have about five completed, but we’ve been gearing up for Veterans Day in November. We’ve at least ten more quilt tops ready to tie.”

  Not all quilts were stitched together. To save time, many quilts were tied together every few inches. Strong yarn or heavy thread was stitched a couple of times in place through the three layers of the quilt and cut, leaving two-inch to three-inch ends. Then the ends were tied together to make a permanent suture. Using this method, one person could finish a bed-sized quilt in just a few hours.

  “I’m going to ask Hilda to help. Today’s Thursday. The longer we take to arrange this outreach, the less chance we have of finding Javier and Graciela. So let’s aim for Sunday as the day to give away the quilts. What do you think?”

  “We’ll have to call an emergency meeting of the committee to tie those other tops. We could end up with fifteen finished quilts by Sunday.”

  “That’d be great, Lucy. Could you please get started right away? I’m off to find Hilda.”

  My homeless friend was fanning herself in the shade near her usual space on Ventura. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, which had a picture of a hairy dog and the words I LOVE MY LABRADOODLE. The pockets of her chambray pleated maxiskirt were bulging and the hem was frayed. Hilda parked her shopping cart in front of Rafi’s place, where she could see it. We sat at a table near the window and each ordered a falafel combo plate, with assorted cold salads.

  She stood. “I gotta go wash my hands.” This wasn’t the first time I noticed that even though she didn’t have access to regular facilities, Hilda worked to keep herself reasonably clean. When she returned from the restroom, she’d also washed the sweat off her face and combed her tangled hair.

  She tore off a piece of pita bread and swiped it through the baba ghanouj, a puree of roasted eggplant, olive oil, lemon, and garlic. “I heard what went down the other night. You and your friends really did a number on Switch. I also hear he’s cuffed to a hospital bed.”

  She went on to describe how, after the brawl, the homeless people banded together and forced the other thugs to leave. “It’s a lot safer there now.”

  “I’m glad, and I’ll tell you why. The weather won’t be hot like this forever. In just a couple of months, it’ll be cold out and the rains will come. I’d like to help those people prepare for the winter, so here’s my idea. We go into the reserve on Sunday with blankets to distribute. While we’re there, we can look for Javier and Graciela.”

  “You should go soon. I heard someone say a couple was looking for a ride to Mountain View. I don’t know if it’s them.”

  The town of Mountain View sat four hundred miles north in Silicon Valley. If Javier and Graciela left Los Angeles, we’d never find them. We needed to visit the reserve before they fled.

  Hilda tilted her head. “You know, these people down there could use other things besides blankets.”

  “Such as?”

  She ticked items on her fingers. “Socks for the cold weather. Toiletries for hygiene, like body soap, deodorant, toothbrushes and toothpaste, shampoo, disposable razors, rolls of toilet paper, and small packets of laundry detergent.”

  I thought about Sonia and her organizing skills. I’d ask her to contact the neighbors and solicit donations of those other items. “I think we can put something together by Sunday, but I need you to go there and let people know we’re coming.”

  “No problem. You gotta respect their privacy. Hand out your packages and then leave. You and I can look for your witnesses.”

  “Do you know how many people are living there right now?”

  Hilda shrugged and looked at the ceiling, calculating. “At least fifty. Maybe more.”

  Help for fifty people would be a challenge to organize in the next two days, but I was pretty sure it could be done with a little help from my friends. If I found Javier and Graciela, and if they witnessed Dax Martin’s murder, and if I could convince them to tell the police what they knew, I could clear Ed from suspicion by Sunday night.

  CHAPTER 16

  I laid my keys on the hall table, right next to the key Beavers angrily discarded the day before. I walked slowly to the kitchen and put a kettle of water on to boil. Some late-afternoon tea would help me think about what to do next.

  I made my first call to Sonia. “We can go forward with our plans to distribute blankets to the homeless on Sunday.”

  “Will we be safe?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to ask my friend Yossi to be our escort, though.”

  “Your big biker guy?”

  My guy? That’s the second time she’s mentioned him today.

  “Yes. You probably also saw he has a big white truck to transport the stuff.”

  Sonia’s voice sparked with excitement. “Terrific! How many blankets do we need?”

  “There are at least fifty people down there. We should also put together packets of personal hygiene products.” I recited the list Hilda suggested.

  Sonia said she’d hit up the neighbors for donations. “Can your quilting friends get fifty quilts?”

  “No. Maybe fifteen.”

  “Well, then, how about I also ask the neighbors for donations of regular blankets? New or used, as long as they’re clean.”

  Sonia agreed to have the items dropped off at her house and we’d put everything in packages on Saturday night.

  The kettle whistled and I made myself a cup of genmaicha, Japanese green tea. I took a moment to enjoy the distinctive roasted-rice flavor, which always reminded me of sitting at a sushi bar.

  Next I called Crusher’s cell phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, Yossi. It’s Martha. Are you up to doing another good deed?”

  “Anything for you, babe. What do you need?”

  “I need a big truck and a bunch of strong guys to keep the peace.”

  “I’ve got more than that for you.” He chuckled. “When and where?”

  I ignored the innuendo and told Crusher about the plan to distribute blankets and packages to the homeless on Sunday. “I’m
hoping the groundskeeper can tell me something tomorrow about Javier and Graciela. If he can’t, we still might find them or someone who knows about them in the reserve. What do you think?”

  “I’m in. You’re still gonna talk to the groundskeeper tomorrow morning, right?”

  “Oh, sure. No stone unturned.”

  “Do you want me to come along as backup?”

  Is he kidding? A three-hundred-pound hulk with a do-rag?

  “No thanks, Yossi. Better I go alone. I look less threatening, if you know what I mean.”

  He laughed. “I pity the guy who underestimates you.” He paused. “Is that what happened with Beavers?”

  I remembered the confusion, anger, and disappointment I felt when Beavers accused me of spending the night with Crusher. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sorry, babe. You wanna get some dinner tonight? We could go to the Cantina on Mulholland Drive. They have killer enchiladas.” I’d never been to the Cantina, a notoriously rowdy hangout for bikers, cowboys, and movie stuntmen. “I can pick you up in a half hour and you can ride on the back of my bike.”

  There it was. Crusher told Beavers he wanted to get me on the back of his bike—also known as the “bitch seat.” Beavers had gone livid. Was Crusher really interested in me, or was he just playing me because he wanted to stick it to Beavers? When did I get so cynical?

  “No thanks, Yossi. It’s been a long day. I’m just going to chill at home and go to bed early.”

  “Okay, but one day you’ll get over him, and I want to be first in line when that happens.”

  First of all, I didn’t know if I’d ever get over Beavers. Second of all, there wouldn’t be a line. There had never been a line. Third of all, even though he was growing on me, I still didn’t like Crusher in that way.

  “You’re sweet, Yossi. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I made myself another cup of tea and the phone rang.

  “Hi, faigele. Are we still on for Shabbat dinner tomorrow?” My elderly uncle Isaac always called me by that Yiddish endearment, “little bird.”

  “Of course.”

  “I called to say you don’t have to pick me up. Morty’s gonna visit a friend in Northridge. He says he’ll drop me off at your house on the way.”

  “Why don’t you invite Morty for dinner? I’m cooking a brisket.”

  “I did, but he’s got other plans. He’s got a new girlfriend.”

  “How old is he, anyway?”

  “Morty? He’s almost eighty-eight, but he’s as strong as an ox. Still drives his car. And still, you know, likes the ladies.”

  “What happened to the last one?”

  “Heart attack. Second girlfriend in two years. The senior center is full of nice Jewish ladies our age, but they can’t keep up with him. So he decided to go younger. This new one, Marilyn, she’s only seventy. A little on the zaftig side, which is the way he likes ’em.”

  I laughed. “I hope she lasts.”

  I said my good-byes to my uncle and began cutting veggies for salad. I knew all about zaftigkeit. Being plump was a Jewish woman’s curse, a lifelong battle in my case. How many salads had I made over the years, only to ruin my good intentions by topping off the meal with a sugary pastry or grabbing fast food on the run?

  Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and I needed to plan ahead, so I opened my Weight Watchers book for inspiration. I only wished I could open a book with a recipe for finding Dax Martin’s killer.

  CHAPTER 17

  Friday morning’s weather report promised more ninety-degree heat. At nine in the morning, the temps were already reaching into the high seventies. I put on lightweight khaki cargo pants, a V-neck T-shirt, and my clean white athletic shoes; then I walked behind my house over to the Beaumont School baseball field. A lone figure rode on a green mower along the first base line near the street; the smell of freshly cut grass filled the air.

  “Hello!” I shouted through the chain-link fence. My voice was lost over the loud rumble of the mower. I walked onto the field and stood near the catcher’s mound. He finally saw me when he turned the mower toward home plate. He drove up to me and turned off the engine.

  The driver, a dark-haired Hispanic man, jumped off the machine, took off his work gloves, and walked toward me. On the left side of his maroon golf shirt was the Beaumont School crest and the name “Miguel” embroidered below in school bus yellow thread.

  “Can I help you, Mrs.?” He spoke with the accent of someone who wasn’t born in the United States but had lived here a long time.

  I attempted to dazzle him with my most disarming smile. “I hope so. My name is Martha, and I live in the house over there.”

  “I am Miguel. What can I do for you, Mrs. Martha?” He spoke softly and with the charming deference Latino men showed to older women.

  “I’m looking for someone, and I hope you can help me.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Did you notice a couple camping out behind the field over on the other side of the river?” I pointed in the direction of left field. “Their names are Javier and Graciela.”

  “When I come here to work on Monday, the police were already back there with the body of Coach Martin. I told them I don’t know nothing.”

  “I’m not the police, Miguel. I’m concerned about my neighbor Ed Pappas. His house is right there.”

  “Oh yes. I know who he is. He comes here many times during a game. He yell and argue with Coach Martin. Once, they fight and the police come.”

  “Well, because of that fight, the police think my friend might have murdered the coach. They found the murder weapon in his backyard, but I think the real killer threw it over the fence. If the two people I’m looking for, Javier and Graciela, witnessed the murder from their camp, they could prove my friend is innocent.”

  “If they saw something, they probably ran for their lives. Where I come from, if you are picked up by the police, you are never seen again. They probably think the police here are the same. Homeless Latinos are afraid of La Migra. They don’t want to be sent back to their country. Death there, death here, it’s all the same. I don’t think you ever find those people.”

  “Listen, Miguel. I was the one who found Coach Martin’s body. I had gone for a morning walk, and I can tell you he was savagely beaten in the head. The killer must have been very angry. Did the coach have any enemies you knew of? Maybe someone at the school?”

  Miguel shook his head slowly. “No, Mrs. Martha. No one.”

  “Well, did you ever hear him arguing with anyone?”

  Miguel said nothing. He just looked at the ground and put his hands in his back pockets. “I don’t think so.”

  He seemed to be holding back. “Please, Miguel. I’m not interested in getting anyone else in trouble. I just want to get my friend Ed out of trouble.”

  Miguel took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. “Well, like I said, your friend, he come here more than once. Some of your other neighbors, they also complain about noise. A lady with long hair come once, with an old man on a scooter.”

  Must have been Sonia and Tony DiArco.

  “What did Coach Martin say?”

  “Nothing. He was too busy arguing with one of the mothers. She scream at Coach to put her son on the field. The lady hit him with her purse when he tell her to sit down and be quiet.” Miguel stopped to chuckle at the memory.

  “So the coach had trouble with the parents?”

  “All the time. At one game, a fat man, he shove Coach Martin in the shoulder, and the coach push him away like a pulga, a flea. He fall down and the other parents laugh.

  “Another father, he wears a black baseball cap with a marisco, a pink shrimp, and talks with a stutter. Coach make fun of the way he talk and say if he don’t shut up, he’ll never let his kid play.”

  Miguel stopped and slowly shook his head. “Then there’s ‘Señor Rolls-Royce.’ He has una perilla. ” Miguel stroked an invisible goatee on his chin. “That one don’t yell. H
e just talk quiet. He tell Coach Martin to take his son off the bench or he wish he never born. The coach don’t say nothing to that one.”

  “Gosh, it sounds like the parents can get pretty ugly.”

  “Yes, but the school is like a family. They argue with each other, but they fight together against anyone from the outside. The fat man and the shrimp hat, they help Coach Martin when your friend hit him.”

  “Did you ever hear the coach argue with anyone else? Maybe someone from the school?”

  “The coach, he was a macho guy. He argue with a lot of people. When they built this field a couple of years ago, he argue with the contractor, the workmen, and the woman from the army.”

  He must be talking about the Army Corps of Engineers.

  “Lately the coach have a new kind of trouble.” He hesitated and looked down.

  “Please, Miguel, anything might help.”

  “Coach, he comes here a few times a week to check equipment and check the field. He has an office inside.” Miguel pointed to the maroon-and-gold monstrosity directly behind Ed’s house.

  “For the last six month, a lady come to see the coach at least once a week. They go in his office and he close the door. She stay for about an hour and then leave. Last week, another lady come. I think she is his wife, because this time he doesn’t close the door. I hear them fight. She yell, ‘Your whore will be sorry. I told her husband.’ I keep my head down and work. They think I don’t see nothing or hear nothing.”

  “Can you describe the women to me?”

  “His wife is small like you, and is muy embarazada. She is going to have a baby. The other lady, she is very tall, yellow hair.”

  “Does she drive a yellow Mercedes?”

  Miguel looked shocked.

  I was right! Diane Davis and Dax Martin were having an affair.

  “Did anyone else know about the coach and his girlfriend?”

  He looked down and didn’t answer.

  “I know who she is, Miguel. Did her husband know—like the coach’s wife said he did?”

  He shuffled his feet in the dirt. “Please, Mrs. Martha.”

  I couldn’t blame Miguel for not wanting to come right out and accuse his employer’s wife of having an affair with the coach.