by Mary Marks
“Near the 405? We’ve just responded to a call. Were you in that mess?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it. I’ve had enough.” Then the phone went dead.
Ten minutes later, Beavers pushed open the waiting-room doors and reached my chair in three angry strides, eyes on fire. A look of dread briefly crossed his face when he saw Arthur’s blood smeared on my clothes and hands. “Where’s my dog?”
The STAFF ONLY door opened and a gorgeous young veterinarian in a white lab coat walked efficiently over to us, peeling off a pair of bloody latex gloves. Her long blond hair hung in a perky ponytail and her blue eyes flicked from me to Beavers. “Are you the owners of the German shepherd?”
Beavers turned his back to me and faced the doctor. “I am. How is he?”
The pretty doctor looked at him and smiled, ignoring my presence completely. “I’m Dr. Kerry Andreason.” She held out her hand. I noticed she wasn’t wearing any rings.
He shook her hand. “Arlo Beavers.”
She led him a few steps away, effectively shutting me out of the conversation. I sat by helplessly and listened.
“Well, Mr. Beavers, he’s sustained a pretty serious cut to his shoulder. He may have some nerve damage. We’ll have to wash out the wound and stitch the muscles back together. He’ll need to stay here on an antibiotic drip for a few days.”
“Just do what you have to do, Doctor.”
She glanced over at my bloody shirt and then back at Beavers. “How did this happen?”
“He’s a retired police dog. Someone stabbed him while he tried to protect this woman.” Beavers jerked his thumb in my direction, refusing to look at me.
This woman?
“It’s a good thing your dog was there, I guess.” She smiled into his eyes and slightly caressed his upper arm. “Don’t worry, Mr. Beavers, I’ll take good care of him.”
She’s flirting with him!
“Thanks, Doc.”
She smiled once more. “Call me ‘Kerry.’”
He nodded.
When she disappeared through the door again, Beavers turned to look at me. His eyes were cold.
“Arlo, let me explain.”
“Not this time. Whatever this is you’re doing, you’re doing it alone from now on. Go home. I’ve nothing more to say to you.”
He took a few more steps over to the reception desk. With a deep sinking in my heart, I knew he might as well have taken a thousand steps. Arlo Beavers just walked out of my life.
I spent the night crying. What was wrong with me? Why did I take such a stupid risk? Poor Arthur almost died protecting me. What for? I’d just lost the best man I’d ever known. Oh, God, I probably couldn’t fix what I’d broken. On top of everything, that pretty doctor’s flirty smile flashed through my mind. More tears.
Sleep finally came at around four. At nine, the phone woke me up.
“You okay?” Crusher asked.
“No. Arthur’s in the hospital and Arlo has left me.” I started crying all over again, wallowing in misery. I didn’t even think to ask if he and the other bikers were okay. After all, they went into combat for me. Saved me.
“I’m just a rotten person,” I sobbed.
“I’m coming over with some strong coffee, babe.”
To heck with Weight Watchers. “Bring some donuts,” I sniffed.
I put on my bathrobe. My bloody clothes lay on the bathroom floor, right where I dropped them last night before taking a shower. I scooped them up, went to the kitchen, and put them in the trash, along with the bloody rag I’d used to clean my car. Then I fed Bumper and cleaned his litter box. Arthur’s dishes sat empty on the floor. I washed them in the sink, arrows piercing my heart.
A huge white Dodge Ram, with just about the biggest tires I’d ever seen, pulled up in front of my house. I stood at the living-room window. Crusher limped up my walkway, carrying a large paper bag from Western Donuts and a cardboard tray with two giant cups of coffee.
I opened the door and he walked straight to the sofa, sitting down gingerly. This giant of a man, with gray creeping into his red beard, was way north of forty; yet he fought like a young gladiator last night and came away with one swollen eye and hands covered with cuts and bruises.
I sat down on the other end of the sofa. “I never got a chance to thank you for saving Arthur and me last night.”
“I’ve gotta be honest, babe. You were smart to bring the dog along. If he hadn’t jumped in, we might’ve been too late.”
I opened the bag of donuts. How does he know I love apple fritters? I reached in and took out a glazed hunk of deep fried dough and cinnamon apples the size of a salad plate. “What happened after I left last night?”
“The minute we saw Switch grab you, we came down like his worst nightmare. None of us really got jammed, but we busted up those other guys pretty bad. They probably put Switch in the hospital.” Crusher grinned. “I recall he somehow got stuck with his own knife. By the time the cops got there, we were dust. Did you get anything useful outta him?”
“Two names, Javier and Graciela, but names alone don’t do us much good. We don’t even know how to find them. You got hurt, and Arlo’s dog almost got killed.” I couldn’t stop the tears. “Arlo was so angry—he broke up with me.”
Crusher watched me silently as I wept. “He’s a fool if he did.” Then he slid over next to me, put one arm around my shoulders, and pulled me into his chest with his other. I felt like I sank into the middle of a giant inner tube that smelled like a mixture of gasoline and Tide.
As nice as Crusher tried to be, this didn’t feel right. I pulled back and gave my head a firm shake. I didn’t want him to get any ideas.
Somewhere a cell phone rang. Crusher reached in his pocket. “Yeah. When? Okay. Meet you there.”
He stood up. “Ed’s on his way home. The cops couldn’t hold him any longer without charging him. They don’t have enough evidence and his lawyer knows it. I’m going over there now.”
I blew my nose in a Kleenex. “Thanks for everything, Yossi.”
“Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be in touch.”
CHAPTER 12
I splashed cold water on my face and looked in the bathroom mirror, horrified at my splotchy red skin and puffy eyes. Even my graying curls were drooping sadly. I looked every bit my fifty-five years—and felt even worse. The trauma and stress of the last few days caused my fibromyalgia to flare. My body ached all over and all I wanted to do was crawl in bed, pull a quilt over my head, and escape the reality of the damage I’d caused.
I swallowed a Soma, my go-to medication for muscle pain, and headed for the bedroom. There was a firm knocking on my front door. I looked out the peephole. Beavers!
I opened the door and stared hopefully at his face. I wanted him back. Wanted him to forgive me.
He had a firm jaw as he walked past me, with grim determination, into the kitchen.
“How’s Arthur?” was all I could think to say.
“I’ve come for his things. He’ll need them when he gets out of the hospital.”
“So he’s going to be all right? The surgery went well?”
Beavers scooped up Arthur’s bowls and bag of dog food. “If you really cared about him, you wouldn’t have put him in such danger.”
“But I do care! I’m devastated he got hurt.”
“You should have thought of that before you took my dog with your biker friends. I might be able to put up with your stubbornness. Even your selfishness. But you deliberately lied to me!”
“But—”
“Cut the crap. If I can’t trust you, I can’t be with you—especially because of what I do for a living. If you want to ride with the outlaws, be my guest, but you can’t have it both ways.”
“Arlo, I’m not riding with the outlaws. I’m—”
“Whose truck is in front of your house?”
By the accusing tone in his voice, I knew he already knew. He’d probably run the plates through the system as soon as he spo
tted the truck.
Beavers looked at the two coffee cups and remnants of donuts on my coffee table. “Levy was here this morning.” He wasn’t asking a question.
I couldn’t speak.
He looked at my bathrobe. “Last night?”
I opened my mouth to protest, but Beavers tossed my house key on the hall table, turned on his heel, and slammed the door behind him.
I stood for a minute in the stunning silence that followed. Then I picked up my phone and called Lucy.
My voice shook. “Can I come over?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.” I put on my clothes and hurried over to my best friend’s house.
Lucy opened the door, took one look at my face, and pulled me inside. “What happened?”
“I’m an idiot.”
We sat at her kitchen table and she kept saying, “Oh, my God!” as I told her the story of the meeting with Switch, the fight, the injured dog, the flirty blond vet, and the breakup with Beavers.
When I told her about Crusher’s morning visit and Beavers finding me in my bathrobe, she just shook her head. “You’re right. You’re an idiot. This about tops every reckless thing you’ve ever done. If I could, I’d break up with you too.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Look. I’ve known you longer than Arlo has. I know you’d never deliberately hurt anyone. In fact, under normal circumstances, you’re a very compassionate person.”
“Thanks.” I inhaled deeply and began to relax. My best friend always knew how to comfort me.
“Not so fast, girlfriend. I also know Arlo’s right. You’re stubborn as a one-eyed mule. You never just dabble. You always jump headfirst into things. When you’re on a mission, you lose sight of everyone and everything else around you. Your judgment goes to H-E-double-sticks!” She wiggled her fingers in air quotes.
“Don’t hold back, Lucy.”
“And don’t get me started about the chip on your shoulder. Okay, your ex-husband was a class-A jerk. Now get over it. If you want any hope of getting Arlo back, you’ll have to adjust your attitude. There! I’ve said it.”
“Don’t I deserve some trust as well? I mean, Arlo admitted I was right all along about the murder four months ago. Why can’t he believe my judgment in this case? I know Ed, and that guy would never commit murder. And the accusation about me and Crusher? So offensive!”
“He’ll calm down. Just give him some space right now.”
I sighed. “You’re right. I do go overboard sometimes. I can be selfish and single-minded, but I don’t mean to be. Oh, I don’t know what to think anymore. My brain is a mess and I feel like crap.”
“Go home and look at your new quilt. Maybe working on it will help you make sense out of all those pieces floating around in your head.”
I drove back home, determined to follow Lucy’s advice. The thermometer on my dashboard put the outside temperature in the nineties. I rushed from the air-conditioning of my car to the cool interior of my house. I cleaned up the coffee cups and donut crumbs, put in a load of laundry, and made my bed.
As I worked, I kept wondering about Dax Martin, the loving husband, father, and beloved coach, versus Dax Martin, the pompous jerk and bully.
A savage beating indicated his killing was personal, an act of rage. Who was Dax Martin really, and whom did he piss off so fatally?
Completing the household chores freed me to lose myself in the creative process of designing and piecing a new quilt top. A colorful pile of cotton textiles waited on my sewing table to be transformed into Jacob’s Ladder blocks, but I couldn’t start just yet. If unwashed cotton material is sewn into a quilt, it can shrink when washed, causing the seams to split. I’d made a rule to wash and preshrink every new piece of fabric I bought before bringing it into my sewing room.
However, washed cotton becomes wrinkly and has to be ironed before cutting. I turned on my steam iron and sat at the ironing board for two hours, slowly pressing the creases out of all the dozens of different pieces of cloth. Even though I hated to iron clothes, I loved to prepare my beautiful textiles. I took time to admire each unique pattern. Once a piece was smooth, I lined up the selvedge edges, made sure it was square, and carefully pressed the folds in preparation for precision cutting.
Ironing for the last two hours had also smoothed some of the wrinkles from my brain. I could once again think in logical sequence without being mugged by tears. I turned off the iron, stood, and stretched. Then I walked to the laundry room and transferred the clean load out of the washer. My new athletic shoes thumped dully against the stainless-steel drum, turning inside the dryer.
I thought again about the witnesses. Where had Javier and Graciela gone? How could I find them? Had I missed anything at the crime scene? Forgotten any detail? Despite the heat, I decided to take a quick walk back to the river to jog my memory. I planned not to go any farther than the yellow police tape. If I did, it would be just my luck for Detective Kaplan to show up.
Since my new athletic shoes were in the dryer, I wore my gardening shoes, a pair of bubble-gum-pink Crocs that made me look like Barbie’s plump mother.
CHAPTER 13
A Joshua Beaumont groundskeeper rode a large green power mower in straight lines over the outfield. A very tall young woman stood on the street at the chain-link fence and gazed in his direction. She wore a pair of white slacks and a gauzy white shirt over a black halter top. Her long, Malibu-blond hair drooped in the hot sun, and large sunglasses covered her face. A yellow Mercedes SL convertible sat at the curb behind her.
As I got closer, I could see she was crying. She held a wad of tissues in her right hand and lifted her sunglasses with her left so she could wipe her eyes. The sun glinted off the large diamonds in her wedding ring. Expensive hair, expensive car, big diamonds—clearly, she was a Joshua Beaumont person.
I stopped about three feet away from her. “Hi.”
She glanced at me, blew her nose, and looked away.
“Are you okay?”
She took a shaky breath and sniffed. “I’m fine,” she said in a voice hoarse from crying.
“I’m guessing you knew Dax Martin.”
She turned sharply toward me. “Who are you?”
“My name is Martha Rose. I live in that house over there.” I pointed to the one near the end of the street. “I went for a walk a couple of days ago and found his body.”
She must have been as tall as Lucy in her bare feet, because she stood well over six feet in her platform sandals. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose again. “I just can’t believe what happened.”
I put my hand reassuringly on her arm. “Are you his wife?”
She took a step backward. “Oh no, I’m an old friend. We went to high school together. Beaumont. We used to joke we both ended back where we started.”
“How do you mean?”
“Dax worked for my husband, Jefferson. He’s the headmaster of Beaumont. I’m Diane Davis.” She offered her hand, apparently forgetting she’d just used it to blow her nose.
“Well, I can see how Mr. Martin’s death would be such a personal loss. I’m so sorry.”
“You saw him. Did he . . . Did he die right away?”
Oh, my God. How should I know? He may have been conscious through the whole savage beating, in which case he would have suffered greatly.
“I’m not an expert, but I think it was an ambush. The attack was probably over very quickly.”
Her hands shook as she covered her face.
The severe August sun was creeping toward its zenith. “I need to get out of this heat. Can I offer you a cold drink back at my house? It’s much cooler inside.”
She hesitated for a moment and then relaxed. A sniff, more nose blowing, and “Yeah, I could really use something cold. Just let me close up the car.”
She walked rather skillfully on her five-inch platforms. I wore a more moderate version of platform sandals in the 1970s. They boosted me all the way up to
five feet five, but I turned my ankle once and nearly broke my neck in the fall. Now my shoes were all about comfort, and I painted quite a contrast walking alongside this dazzling California girl in my bubble-gum-pink rubber shoes.
The inside of my house felt mercifully cool. I gestured for Diane to sit on the sofa. “I have diet cola or water. Which would you prefer?”
She took off her sunglasses and her puffy red eyes disturbed an otherwise perfect face. “Water and lots of ice, if you have it.”
We sat for a minute, just enjoying our drinks. Between sips Diane pressed the frosty glass against her forehead and around her eyes.
I cleared my throat softly to get her attention. “So tell me about the Beaumont School. Has anything changed since you went there? I’m guessing that wasn’t so long ago.”
Diane Davis smiled for the first time. “I graduated twelve years ago and the school hasn’t changed a bit. Same families, same teachers, same headmaster, just more iPads and cell phones.”
Did she say same headmaster?
“So your husband was headmaster when you were a student?”
She waved her hand. “I know, I know. It’s not like what you’re thinking. I mean, I never dated him when I was a kid. He was, like, an uncle or something. He and his wife were friends with my parents.”
“How did you, um, get together?”
Diane spoke in what sounded like questions: “My mom modeled when she was young? She got me a couple of gigs in high school just to see if I liked it. After I graduated, Daddy bought me an apartment in Manhattan? And I got to travel to Europe to walk a lot of runways. It was, like, one long party. Once you hit twenty-five? You’re pretty much over-the-hill in that business.”
I couldn’t imagine anyone looking like her being too old for the beauty business.
She tucked her hair behind her left ear. “Anyways, five years ago, I came home for Christmas and Jefferson showed up alone at my parents’ annual bash. His wife died the year before. I wore Marchesa? A hot little white strapless, with lots of sparkles. My parents had just given me diamond drops as a coming-home present? So I put my hair up to show them off. I’ve got a nice, long neck.”
