Knot in My Backyard

by Mary Marks

  “Yes.”

  “What about Levy?” He searched my face. “Are you in love with him too?”

  The past twenty-four hours were arguably the most intense twenty-four hours of my life, and my head was about to explode. “To be perfectly honest, I don’t know what I feel right now.”

  Head wagging, Arlo turned to leave. “I can’t live with that.”

  Didn’t I say almost exactly the same thing to Lucy?

  “So, is this you walking out on me again?”

  He stopped and turned around. “No, this is me going home to try to figure out how we screwed up a good thing. I’m back if you want me, but only if I can have all of you. I won’t share you.”

  As tired as I was, sleep eluded me for half the night. I was glad I didn’t have to worry about keeping secrets. Each man knew about the other, but now I had to work out what to do next, and my mind seesawed for hours.

  In the morning, Bumper jumped on my body a couple of times, landing with all four paws on my shoulders to jar me awake. I must have clenched my jaws all night long because my face was sore.

  I got up, fed the cat, fed myself, and got dressed. My usual jeans were too casual for a memorial service, so I slipped on a peach linen summer dress and brown sandals. Lucy and Birdie showed up at nine-thirty, just as I draped a large printed cotton scarf over my bare arms.

  A pair of yellow-gold baseballs the size of a dime dangled conspicuously from Lucy’s ears, left over from her days as a Little League mom.

  Birdie had wound her long white braid around the crown of her head. She’d abandoned her usual denim overalls, T-shirt, and Birkenstocks for an elastic-waisted pantsuit made out of lavender polyester. She turned around on her brown orthopedic shoes, demurely showing off her ghastly outfit.

  I looked at her. “Really?”

  She smiled wickedly. “I’m in disguise, dear. Isn’t this perfect? Nobody will notice or remember me in this forgettable outfit. I’ll be like a maiden aunt at a wedding party.”

  Lucy pointed to the rug next to the sofa. “Do you know you have a big wet spot there?”

  I stared at the dark patch left like a giant teardrop from last night. “Yes. I dropped a glass of water.” I wanted to tell my friend about Beavers’s visit and the emotional ambush he brought with him last night. I wanted to hear her say I’d done the right thing when I confessed I’d slept with Crusher. Now wasn’t the time. We needed to focus on the task at hand.

  Birdie smiled and sat in one of the chairs. “What exactly is the plan, dear? What are we supposed to be looking for?”

  I opened my computer and found the photo of Jefferson Davis on the Beaumont School website. “He’s my number one suspect. I’m sure he’ll be speaking today, and I want to hear if he has a funny voice.”

  “Okay, dear, but you can do that all by yourself. What can we do to help?”

  “I need you to be extra eyes and ears. Try to mingle in the crowd and listen for any gossip. We still don’t know for sure if Davis is our guy. If you find anyone else who fits the witnesses’ description of the killer, try to get close enough to listen in on their conversation. If they have a distinctive speech pattern, try to get a name.”

  Birdie held on to Lucy’s arm as we walked in back of my house to join the stream of mourners making their way from the parking lot to the Joshua Beaumont Stadium.

  We were off to find a killer.

  CHAPTER 39

  Charter buses disgorged hundreds of students in their maroon blazers with the gold school crest on the pocket, accompanied by faculty wearing photo identity cards around their necks. Parents and dignitaries arrived in luxury sedans, SUVs, and even a couple of limousines. Miguel and the other Beaumont maintenance staff, wearing maroon shirts and khaki pants, directed traffic in the parking lot. Security staff barred a couple of news crews from entering the area.

  Birdie, Lucy, and I agreed to split up and meet back at my house after the memorial service. I approached Miguel, who recognized me immediately and looked worried. “Good morning, Mrs. Martha.” He pointed an SUV down the row of cars.

  “Hello, Miguel.” I lowered my voice. “I want you to know I’ve kept your secret. The police don’t know where I got my information about Coach Martin.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Martha. I was worried.”

  “The police arrested my friend, so I’m trying harder than ever to clear his name. I wonder if you could help me one more time.”

  He looked away and moved his arms in circles, pointing the oncoming cars to vacant slots.

  “Okay. If I can.”

  “The father you told me about, the one who argued with the coach and speaks with a stutter. What color hair does he have? How tall is he? Is he fat or thin?”

  Miguel paused momentarily and closed his eyes. “He’s tall, not fat. He always wears the marisco baseball hat, but underneath his hair is black. Excuse me, Mrs. Martha.” He turned and guided a red Volvo down the row.

  I took the hint. “Okay, Miguel, thanks again for your help.”

  So cross another suspect off the list.

  If the stuttering father had dark hair, he couldn’t have been the killer. Who was left? Davis, Lowell Hardisty, or someone unknown? The Hardistys were taken into custody yesterday. I wished I could find out from Beavers how much they were involved in the murder, but I didn’t know how much he’d be willing to talk to me after last night.

  I joined the stream of people walking toward the baseball field. The school orchestra played “You’ll Never Walk Alone” on the sidelines near the visitors’ dugout as mourners made their way to the seats. In addition to the metal bleachers, precise rows of white folding chairs marched across the brilliant green grass of the baseball field.

  A wooden lectern stood at home plate. On one side, a six-foot-long screen of fresh white flowers created a backdrop for a poster-sized photo of Coach Martin. On the other side stood a jumbo television monitor. Wires from a microphone, loudspeakers, and the monitor snaked backward from the lectern toward a table holding an elaborate electronic console with toggle switches and sliders.

  A very pregnant woman dressed in black sat with three small children in the front row of the reserved seats facing home plate. The rows immediately in back of her were filled with Beaumont ballplayers dressed in clean maroon-and-gold baseball caps, jerseys, knee socks, spotless white pants, and shiny black cleats. Four assistant coaches sat at the ends of the rows. One was tall and slender, with sandy hair. Was Dax Martin’s killer an assistant looking to get the job as head coach? I raised my cell phone and took his picture.

  Lucy and Birdie made their way to the white chairs, looking like a couple of sad grandmas. Birdie must have spotted the assistant coach, too, because she headed his way and spoke to him. He rose to his feet, said something and politely directed her to a row of empty seats. I couldn’t wait to find out from Birdie if the man had a “funny voice.”

  I found a seat at the end of the bleachers, where I could easily get up without disturbing anyone if I needed to leave. From my end perch, I continued to scan the crowd. Out of maybe two hundred men in the stadium, a couple dozen could have fit the physical description of the killer. No way could we listen to every one of them speak to determine who had an odd voice or a speech impediment.

  Then I saw them. Jefferson Davis, handsome and impeccable in gray pinstripes and a maroon silk tie, with a gold school crest, traveled toward the front row of reserved seats. He clutched Diane’s upper arm possessively, strictly managing their pace to avoid conversations with the crowd.

  Diane’s blond hair, which was pulled back in a severe bun, was topped by a tiny black hat that had a whisper of a veil and was perched at a ridiculous angle. Her black suit skirt, tailored to perfection, ended just above the knees of her elegant, long legs. Diamond drop earrings swung from her earlobes and a diamond cuff dazzled on her right wrist.

  They passed in front of me on their way to the front row. “Hello, Diane.”

  She looked my way with a b
lank expression, obviously not recognizing me.

  I mouthed “Martha Rose” and she frowned, apparently still searching her mental contact list.

  They reached the front row of white chairs, and Jefferson marched Diane to the end farthest away from Mrs. Martin, sat her down, and whispered something into her ear. Diane nodded dully and stared straight ahead. Then Jefferson stood, assumed a serious but amiable expression, and made his way to the lectern, shaking hands with the widow and dignitaries in the reserved seats.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off Diane. She looked so miserable and docile, utterly controlled by her domineering husband. I feared for her safety once again. If Davis killed Martin in a jealous rage, he’d be capable of killing Diane. Right now, she looked trapped and afraid. My heart went out to her. Was there nobody in her life who could help her escape?

  Someone walked up behind me and spoke quietly in my ear: “I knew you’d be here.”

  I tensed and turned my head to whisper back to Beavers, “I assume we’re here for the same reason?”

  He just grunted. “When it comes to my job, we never have the same reason.”

  I was tempted to open my mouth and defend myself. After all, we were both seeking to find truth and justice in the end. Our overarching goals were the same. Only our methods differed. I could sometimes get there quicker because I wasn’t a cop. Could I help it if people were more likely to open up to someone they perceived to be less threatening—like a sweet little quilty lady?

  However, my logic broke down when I remembered four months ago a killer came after me because when I arrived at the truth, I stopped being a sweet little quilty lady and became a threat. I closed my mouth.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To take Davis in for questioning.”

  “What about the Hardistys?”

  “The DA and the US Attorney’s Office are looking at them for a number of things, but they both have solid alibis for the murder.”

  “Wow. So that means we’re here for the same reason, after all. You want to hear Davis speak, too, don’t you? If he has an odd voice, you think he could be the one.”

  “No comment.”

  Jefferson Davis slowly made his way to the lectern and waited for the orchestra to stop playing a bad rendition of the Byrds’ “Turn, Turn, Turn.”

  I waited anxiously for him to speak. The next moment would reveal if I’d been on track and if I was correct in pursuing the theory Jefferson Davis was the killer. Davis was involved in a very shady deal when the Beaumont School built this stadium, almost certainly involving bribes and possible blackmail. Now, if his voice was “funny,” I’d be sure Davis was the one who killed the man who had an affair with his wife.

  “Welcome,” his amplified voice commanded silence. “Thank you all for coming to this service to honor our fallen coach, Dax Martin.”

  Jefferson Davis pronounced it “MAHtin” in confident tones with a clear, crisp, upper-class British accent.

  Yesss! A thick foreign accent qualifies as a funny voice, right? Forget about anyone else. Jefferson Davis has to be our guy!

  I looked over toward Beavers with a big smile that was totally inappropriate for the occasion, but he was already gone. I searched around briefly for him, while Davis continued his welcoming remarks.

  When I looked back up at the lectern, Kaplan and Beavers were already edging into place, preparing to apprehend Jefferson Davis. Out of respect for the dead man’s family, Beavers would wait until the service was over before making an arrest. I was flooded by an overwhelming urge to kiss him.

  Then I thought about Diane Davis. Even though she might feel some sense of relief at being delivered from the clutches of her controlling husband, how humiliating would this be for her to watch him being led away in handcuffs? I got up and did some maneuvering of my own, walking around the sea of white chairs to a position not far from Diane. I would offer her a quick escape to my house when the time came.

  The service droned on. Tributes were spoken by the articulate and the awkward. A video and photo montage of the coach with his team and his family played on the jumbo television monitor. The very pregnant Mrs. Martin dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and attempted to control her three active little boys throughout the proceedings. What must this young widow be thinking? Even though her husband proved to be unfaithful while she carried his child, did she still love him? Did she miss him?

  A trustee of the Joshua Beaumont School announced the establishment of a Dax Martin baseball scholarship. The Martins’ family priest offered a closing prayer, and then the service ended.

  Jefferson wasn’t handcuffed in front of the crowd. Beavers and Kaplan merely escorted him off the field as if in a very private conversation. The crowd moved without alarm or question toward the parking lot to get in their cars and buses and leave.

  Diane looked confused, then alarmed, when she saw her husband being forced discreetly toward an unmarked car parked at the edge of the field. Her hand flew to her mouth and I quickly walked over to her.

  “Diane.” I laid my hand on her arm. “It’s Martha Rose. Do you remember me? I live in that house over there. You visited me right after Dax Martin died.”

  She turned to look at me, eyes wide with horror, blinking rapidly against the tears.

  “The police have just arrested your husband. If you want to get away from all these people right now, you can come with me to my house and I’ll try to explain what’s going on.” She nodded and followed me in a daze as I guided her toward a side gate just behind the maroon-and-gold building.

  In less than five minutes, I unlocked my front door and led a shaken Diane Davis over to the sofa. “Just sit here while I bring you a glass of water.”

  I drew two glasses of ice water and sat down next to her. “I’m so sorry about your husband, Diane. This must be quite a shock for you.”

  She sipped, then gulped the cold water down.

  I asked softly, “Do you know why the police took your husband today?”

  “N-no. Do you?”

  “It’s too long a story to tell right now. Let’s just say I’ve been involved in the investigation of your friend Dax’s murder from the beginning. I’m sorry to say the police have evidence linking your husband to some questionable business activities. Those activities may have led to his involvement in the killing.”

  Diane shook her head decisively and put down her glass of water. “No! You’re wrong.” Then she frowned at me. “How come you know so much about this? Are you a cop?”

  “No, but my neighbor was arrested for the murder, even though he’s innocent.”

  “You mean the guy down the street who hit Dax? The house where they found the bloody baseball bat?”

  “Yes. I’ve been working with his attorney to clear his name. I’m sorry to say, in the course of our investigation, we found some pretty incriminating evidence against your husband, which we have turned over to the police.”

  Diane frowned. “You’re wrong! My husband didn’t kill Dax Martin. No, no, no. You’re wrong.”

  The poor girl’s reaction struck me as being pretty typical for an abused and controlled wife. She automatically defended her husband, even though it was against her best interest. Maybe when the reality of his crimes set in, Diane Davis would come to accept and even welcome the fact she would have nothing further to fear when Jefferson Davis was convicted and sent away for life. She’d be free.

  She twirled the diamond cuff around her right wrist with her left hand and asked the air, “What am I going to do?”

  “Is there someone you can call to take you home? Someone who can be with you, like your parents?”

  She looked at me like I’d suggested she buy her clothes at Target. “My parents? Why would I call them? Jeff’s going to need a lawyer. I’ve got to get him a lawyer.”

  She seemed to recover from the shock and stood up decisively. “Since you know so much, do you know where they’ve taken him?”

  “Probably to the West Vall
ey Police Station on Vanowen Street, near Reseda Boulevard.”

  She took a set of car keys out of the small silver handbag she carried and put on a pair of sunglasses. “Fine. I’m going there now.”

  She walked toward the VIP section of the mostly empty Beaumont Stadium parking lot and climbed into the driver’s side of a silver Mercedes sedan.

  Something she said set off an alert in the back of my brain, but I didn’t know what it was. Maybe it would come to me later.

  CHAPTER 40

  Birdie hobbled through my front door, hanging on Lucy’s arm. “My word! I had to stop back there and sit for a while because my knees started acting up. Otherwise we’d have been here sooner, dear.”

  She sat down with a sigh on the sofa. “And I’m afraid we were only able to talk to one person fitting the description of the killer. A baseball coach.”

  “Yeah, I saw you guys approach him. What did he sound like?”

  Birdie shrugged. “Ordinary. His voice was normal. By the way, who was the woman we saw coming from your house just now?”

  “Diane Davis. Arlo and Detective Kaplan took her husband in right after the service. They did it so smoothly, I don’t think anyone noticed. Did you?”

  Lucy came back from the kitchen with two more glasses of water and handed one to Birdie. “No. We were sitting too far back.”

  “Well,” I said, “my hunch was right. You can forget about any other suspects. Davis has got to be the killer. I mean, he fits the whole description. He’s tall, slender, light hair, and thick British accent—what Graciela called a ‘funny voice.’ He certainly had no shortage of motives.”

  Birdie dug through her purse, removed one of her blue anti-inflammatory tablets from a tin pillbox, and took a gulp of water. “Why was Diane Davis here?”

  “When Arlo moved in to make the arrest, I made my way over to her. Poor thing didn’t know what was about to happen, so I offered her a fast escape from any prying eyes or unkind remarks. It’s a good thing I was there. She froze like a rabbit when she saw her husband being led away. I took her through a side gate and back here to the house.”