Knot Ready for Murder

by Mary Marks

  “A friend? As in I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you-show-me-yours kind of friend?”

  “Exactly. I have a great deal of respect for your sleuthing abilities. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you’ve already been rummaging around for clues.”

  How could I tell him what I knew without compromising Giselle and Shadow? “As a matter of fact, I have. Ze’ev Uhrman was taking cash out of the business. Probably gambled it away. After his death, Hadas found some betting tickets of his. He never placed a bet under one thousand dollars.”

  “And you know this, how?”

  “Hadas told Yossi’s sister, Fanya, during a five-hour plane ride from New York.”

  “Hmm. Gambling and betting tickets? The sister failed to mention tickets in her statement. Anything else?”

  “I feel certain Hadas’s abduction and her brother’s death are connected. I just don’t know how. Not yet. But I’m beginning to believe his death was no accident. Now I’ve shown you mine, it’s your turn. What can you share with me?”

  “I’m impressed as always. You are very perceptive. Officially, I can’t throw standard procedure out the window and let you in on the investigation, as if you were a sworn officer assigned to this case. But I can reveal the FBI shares your view about a connection between the hit-and-run and the sister’s abduction.”

  “Then I’m on the right track? Good. There’s something else. I wanted to make sure you knew Yossi was at the beach with me and his sister, Fanya, when Hadas was abducted.”

  Smith coughed. “You know a person doesn’t have to be present at a crime to be responsible for it. It’s called conspiracy. Murder for hire.”

  “Murder? You think she’s dead?”

  “As time passes without a ransom demand or communication of any kind, I’d have to say it’s a strong possibility. If only we knew why she was abducted, we might find her before it’s too late.”

  I sighed. “I’m honestly at a loss.”

  Smith waited a beat before responding. “The best way to prove your and Levy’s innocence is for the FBI to find Mrs. Levy—dead or alive—and arrest the people who took her. As skillful as you are in gathering intel, Martha, I’m asking you to step back and let us do our job.”

  “Can I help it if I’m a very sympathetic listener? People find me irresistible. They tell me stuff they might not tell an officer of the law, such as yourself. Apparently, Fanya is also a good listener because during the flight to LA, Hadas talked nonstop about the business and how she wanted Yossi to resume their married life and go back to New York with her.”

  “Interesting detail about the marriage. How did that make you feel?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Can you see how the police might conclude the marriage thing gives you a motive to arrange for Mrs. Levy’s disappearance?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m more interested in who might inherit the business if Hadas is dead and Yossi were in prison for her murder. Do you know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose it’s futile to ask you for names?”

  “Yes, but I will share this with you. The business will stay in the Uhrman family.”

  “You mean Ze’ev Uhrman’s family?”

  He remained silent in a response I could only interpret as assent. Finally he spoke. “One word of caution, Martha. The people behind Ze’ev Uhrman’s death and Mrs. Levy’s disappearance are your worst nightmare. I can’t emphasize too much that any inquiries you make may prompt them to return to your house. And next time, they’ll be coming for you.”

  “Are you saying Ze’ev Uhrman’s death was no accident? He was murdered?”

  Smith remained silent.

  I didn’t know if Fanya inspired me, but I crossed the fingers of both hands before I lied to the FBI. “I have no plans to take this any further.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Wednesday afternoon, I led Fanya into my sewing room, and gestured broadly toward my stash of cotton fabric, folded by color groups and sitting on shelves.

  Fanya stared at my rather large collection. “Wow. These are beautiful. How do I even begin?”

  “What inspires you?”

  “I liked the Ohio Star pattern we talked about before. Like the quilt on your bed. But then I found this one I like better.” Fanya opened the quilting magazine and pointed to a picture.

  The quilt block pattern she chose was the Snail’s Trail, also called Whirligig, Ocean Waves, Virginia Reel, and Monkey Wrench. Each block featured spirals of one dark and one light fabric.

  “This pattern is a little bit tricky to sew because the bias seams tend to stretch. But I’m sure you have the skills to manage. Snail’s Trail is often made with two contrasting colors. Do you want to go with a dark-light design, or would you like to try multicolors for a scrappier look?”

  Fanya nodded rapidly. “Definitely two colors. Greens and yellows.”

  I walked over to the neatly folded piles of fabric sitting on the shelves and grabbed a stack of folded yellow fabrics eighteen inches high. I brought it over to the cutting table, where Fanya sat. I returned with an equally tall stack of green fabrics.

  “Wow! How many different fabrics do you have, anyway? There must be dozens here.” In truth, there were at least a hundred different yellows and greens for her to choose from.

  “The Snail’s Trail block really pops if there is a high contrast between the two fabrics. How big do you want to make your quilt?”

  “Definitely for my double bed.”

  “Okay. You’ll need thirty twelve-inch blocks. Five across and six down. Plus borders. For a more interesting look, try not to repeat fabric from one block to the next. Go ahead and pair up thirty greens and thirty yellows.”

  Fanya bent happily to her task while I sat across the room, opened my laptop, and searched for the Uhrman Company. The last entry on the web page was dated a year ago, when Ze’ev was still alive. “We need to find out more about the remaining Uhrmans. According to my contact in the FBI, one of them will inherit the business. You were friends with the family. Who could that be?”

  Still sifting through the fabrics, she replied without looking at me. “Not a clue. Like I said, Ze’ev and his wife, Ettie, had nine children, keinehora.”

  “Would she or her children talk to you?”

  “Ettie would, for sure. She still lives in Borough Park. I hung some paper in her living room about three months ago. Gave her a big price cut on account of her husband’s recent death.”

  “Do any of her children still live at home?”

  “It was hard to tell. Tons of family photos hung on the walls. She showed me a picture of a granddaughter who died not long ago. Leukemia, poor thing.”

  “Poor Ettie. I can’t imagine anything worse than losing a child.”

  Fanya held a selection of yellow printed fabrics. Flowers, birds, even stripes and one plaid. “What do you think of these?”

  “Great choices. Keep going.” I tried dragging the conversation back to the Uhrmans. “Would it be better to telephone or talk to her in person?”

  “I could phone her.” She carefully handed me a small cut of green fabric with tiny pink and blue flowers. “This is really pretty, but there’s not much here. Will this be enough?”

  Passionate quilters collected fabric like tchotchkes collected dust. We bought whatever appealed to us and stashed it for future use. Sometimes we bought yardage in anticipation of large projects, but most of the time we bought smaller cuts of a half yard or a quarter yard. Over time, a quilter would accumulate a wide selection of fabric. “I don’t think there’s enough for one block, Fanya. But you can always fill in the missing bits with another green fabric.”

  “You’re allowed to do that?”

  I laughed. “One of the best things about quilting is there are no rules. You can do whatever you like without being afraid of the quilt police.”

  I stopped searching for Uhrman information, left Fanya to her sorting, and went into the kitchen to start prepping d
inner. By the time Crusher appeared at six, Fanya had finished her selections and we enjoyed a dinner of homemade guacamole and tacos made with ground meat substitute and vegetarian refried beans.

  “These are delicious!” Fanya raved.

  I told Crusher about Ze’ev’s widow, Ettie Uhrman. “Fanya’s going to call her tonight. If it becomes necessary, could you go back to New York with your sister and talk to Ze’ev’s widow? You were his friend, after all.”

  Crusher reached for his third taco. “I can’t go. Your ex-boyfriend told me not to leave town.”

  “Arlo Beavers?” I forgot about the local police working with the feds. “Since when are you concerned about what the LAPD thinks?”

  “Since my boss gave me specific orders to care.”

  Who could argue?

  He scratched the back of his neck. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, babe. Make the phone call and see what happens.”

  “My brother’s right. I hate to travel unnecessarily. Best not to tempt the evil eye.” Fanya vigorously spit three times behind her hand.

  We left Crusher in the kitchen for cleanup duties and moved to the living room. She scrolled down the contact list in her cell phone. “What am I supposed to say to Ettie?”

  “Begin by telling her you’re in LA visiting your brother, Yossi. Don’t mention anything about Hadas. I’ll be right here with my notepad and pen. I’ll write questions for you to ask.”

  “But Ettie already knows Hadas and I traveled together to LA.”

  “So, if she asks, tell her Hadas is staying with friends for a few days.”

  “It’s ten in the evening there. Should we wait until tomorrow?”

  “No. Hadas is out there someplace and needs our help.” Not for the first time, I thought about the irony of my trying to rescue my fiancé’s wife.

  Fanya nodded and touched the phone icon next to Ettie Uhrman’s name, put her on speaker, and got a less-than-enthusiastic response.

  “Fanya? It’s late. What’s the emergency?”

  “Oh, hello, Ettie. I’m still in LA visiting my brother.” She crossed her fingers. “I forgot about the time difference.”

  Ettie sighed. “Nu? Are you having a good time? How is Yossi?”

  “Fine, fine. Everyone is fine. And you?”

  I rolled my eyes and motioned with my hand for her to get to the point.

  “Ach. My sciatical is acting up again. I can hardly walk. Now that Ze’ev, may he rest in peace, is gone, I gotta walk everywhere myself. Zalinski the butcher, Pearl’s Bakery, Bank Hapoalim—everywhere.”

  I scribbled fast and handed Fanya my first note.

  “You must miss him very much.” Fanya briefly glanced at me.

  I nodded encouragement and signaled an OK with my fingers.

  “Running to his bookie and shtupping other women was about all he was ever good for, may he rest in peace. Refusing to get married? You’re the only smart one in all of New York. Tell me, Fanela, did you and Ze’ev ever . . . ?”

  “Has v’halilah, Ettie. What a thing to ask.”

  “Not even once? I saw the way he used to look at you. Oy. Hungry like a dog. May he rest in peace.”

  Fanya looked at me, eyebrows raised in question marks. I nodded and gestured for her to answer the question.

  She said, “Are we being honest here, Ettie?”

  “Go ahead. I won’t be surprised or mad. Even though the whole family suffered, I’m way past it.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.” She cleared her throat. “It’s true he used to proposition me, but I laughed it off. ‘You’ve got a lovely wife and nine children waiting for you,’ I used to say. ‘Stop being such a putz and go home.’ ”

  Ettie barked a laugh. “Putz? Ha. What did he say?”

  Fanya chuckled. “He didn’t like it much. But what could he do?”

  “Ah, well, to tell you the truth, after the ninth baby, I was glad he got it elsewhere. He was worse than that little nafke sister of his. He was a male whore. So nu? What about Hadas? Did she persuade your brother to come back to New York?”

  Fanya glanced at me. I shook my head and made a cutting motion across my throat. “No way. He’s engaged to a terrific woman here in LA. No way would he ever switch partners.”

  “His girlfriend. She’s Jewish?”

  “Of course.”

  “So, what did Hadas do when she found out she couldn’t have him?”

  “Oh, you know. She went to stay with some friends.”

  I scribbled another hasty note and shoved it toward Fanya. She looked at it and nodded. “Ettie, when Hadas and Yossi talked, she said Yossi would inherit the business from her. Of course, he’s not interested. But I was wondering, if—God forbid—both of them should die, who would the business go to? Do you know?”

  “I think Zelig.”

  “Your son?”

  “Yeah. My oldest. He got some big lawyer to help us get back half ownership of Uhrman Company. After Ze’ev died, half of the business shoulda gone straight to us. But Hadas did something sneaky. Now we gotta fight her in court. Oy! I curse the day I ever met such a bunch of gonifs. To think I could’ve married Rabbi Schechter’s son, Aryeh. He’s now a big macher in Crown Heights.”

  “I’m sorry for your troubles, Ettie. God willing, you’ll get everything that’s coming to you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, Fanela. You’re a good girl. I’ll never forget what you did for me with the wallpaper and such. You were good to me after Ze’ev died. When you get back to New York, you’ll have to come to dinner. I’ve got a neighbor, Mr. Bloomfield. His wife died. He’s looking. Maybe you . . . ?”

  Fanya opened her mouth and a huge laugh erupted all the way up from her belly. “Ettie! Do you hear yourself? Didn’t you tell me a minute ago I was smart to never get married?”

  “Ach, but this is different. He’s a real mensch. Not bad looking either, keinehora.”

  “Ettie, you’re still young-ish. Maybe you should think of yourself this time.”

  “Nah. He’s got five children at home who scream all the time. A bunch of vilde chyahs.” Fanya grinned when Ettie used the Yiddish term for wild animals. Ettie continued. “They need a mother’s loving but firm hand. By the way, did you know an eyewitness finally came forward? He told the police the car that killed Ze’ev accelerated and deliberately swerved to hit him.”

  Just as Smith said. Ze’ev Uhrman’s death was no random accident.

  Fanya looked at me with her mouth open. “No, I didn’t know.”

  “Yeah, about three months ago.”

  I wrote rapidly and handed her my note.

  She read it. “Could the witness identify the driver?”

  “The police don’t give out that kind of information.”

  Fanya motioned toward my notepad and mouthed the words, “More questions?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I’ll let you go, Ettie. Sorry for calling late. I just wanted to see how you were.”

  “A pleasure to hear from you. Anytime. A gute nacht.”

  “Good night, Ettie. Schlaf gesunterheit.” Fanya ended the call and blew out a puff of air. “Wow! I can’t believe what we did.”

  “Nice job, Fanya. Now we know for sure Ze’ev’s accident was deliberate. And we uncovered a possible motive. The car killing him could’ve belonged to an angry husband or a jilted lover.”

  “You’re right.” She opened her eyes wide. “Wouldn’t it be something if we solved his murder?”

  “As long as the ‘something’ isn’t dangerous.”

  During the call, Crusher had finished the dishes and silently joined us in the living room to listen to Fanya and Ettie’s conversation. “You handled the call really well, Fan. You and Martha could go into the private detective business together.”

  “You mean instead of hanging wallpaper?”

  “Sure. After Martha and I are married, you could call it Levy and Levy Private Detectives and Wall Coverings.”

  Everyone laughed bu
t me. “If we get married, I’m not changing my name.”

  They both stared at me and said together, “If?”

  CHAPTER 15

  Thursday morning I got a call from Hilda, my elderly uncle’s helper. In the back of my mind I’d secretly feared and anticipated the day she’d call with terrible news. Ever since he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, I’d seen him slowly decline both physically and emotionally. My lips went numb with panic. I could barely speak. “Hilda? Is he all right?”

  The voice on the other end soothed, “Oh, yes, Martha. I didn’t mean to scare you. Isaac wanted me to invite you to lunch today. He wants you to be here at eleven-thirty because he has something to show you first.”

  Relief swept over me like a warm blanket on a cold night. “Thank God. Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “Even if Isaac could forgive me, I could never forgive myself for ruining his surprise. Can you come?”

  “Are you kidding? I love surprises. I might bring someone with me.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m not saying. You’re not the only ones with a surprise.”

  For the rest of the morning, I helped Fanya with her quilt. She steam-ironed the yellow and green fabrics. I gave her a tutorial on how to cut accurate pieces with the cutting mat, acrylic ruler with grid lines, and rotary cutter.

  “Actually,” she said, “I use similar tools when cutting wallpaper. I do what the carpenters do. Measure twice and cut once.”

  When it came time to hit the road, Fanya opted to stay home and work on her quilt blocks.

  I cautioned her. “Don’t open the door to any strangers.”

  She rolled her eyes. “As if!”

  I tried to anticipate what Uncle Isaac and Hilda might be conniving. Whatever it was, I upgraded my clothes. Instead of the usual jeans and T-shirt, I opted for a white silk blouse and gray trousers.

  At 11:25 I knocked on the door of the modest three-bedroom house I’d grown up in, the house where my uncle Isaac supported my mother, grandmother, and me with his tailor shop on nearby Pico Boulevard. Situated in a neighborhood adjacent to Beverly Hills, the pre–World War II bungalow grew in value over the decades. Some of the homes on the street had been replaced by grand residences with modern finishes. Others, like our house, remained unchanged with plain stucco exteriors and Spanish red tile roofs.