Knot Ready for Murder

by Mary Marks

  Hadas closely resembled the beautiful Penélope Cruz. I could understand why a man might be captivated. “I hate to admit it, Fanya, but Hadas didn’t lie about Gita. And it looks like she also told the truth about why she’s running from Alexander.”

  “Yeah. He sounds like a real creep. Pu, pu, pu!”

  “By the way, Yossi left me a note this morning saying he had to travel for work, and he doesn’t know how long he’ll be gone. That means for now, at least, it’s the two of us. This is your first time in LA, and I feel terrible. I’ve dragged you to Pacific Palisades, downtown LA, Camarillo, and Ojai, all in an effort to rescue Hadas. Yet not once did I ask you what you’d like to do.”

  Fanya chuckled. “Are you kidding? I haven’t had this much fun since I was too young to have a period. And you’ve created a monster because, quite frankly, I’m now hooked on quilting. I’ve almost finished piecing the top. I’m ready for the next steps.”

  I grinned. “I think we’re going to be the best of friends!” I explained how to make a quilt “sandwich” with fabric for the back, cotton batting in the middle, and her pieced yellow-and-green on top. “We can go to the shop today if you want and get batting and enough yardage for the back of the quilt. Then I’ll give you a tutorial on hand quilting.”

  “What about those longarm machines we talked about? Could I quilt it on one of those?”

  “Yes, of course. But you’d need to take a class first. Once you know what you’re doing, you can rent the longarm machine in the back of the shop. Another option would be to simply pay someone with a long arm machine to quilt it for you.”

  We drove to the Quilt No Guilt shop, located in a nearby San Fernando Valley community. The moment we walked in the store, Fanya’s jaw dropped and she stopped in her tracks. Standing together on shelves were hundreds of bolts of cotton fabrics grouped by color or theme. Also on display were a rainbow of threads, sewing notions, how-to books, and specialized tools to help quilters create beautiful pieces of fabric art.

  She hastened to an extensive display of precut fabrics and immediately began collecting the little packages. Every quilter had a color or color palate they liked to work with. For me, it was blue. I had more blue fabric in my stash than any other color. Fanya’s selections tended toward clear hues, colors that weren’t grayed or dulled. Her quilts would be joyous and honest, like her yellow-and-green Snail’s Trail. We left the store an hour later with sacks of supplies and lots of fabric, including six yards of a charming yellow calico for the back of her quilt.

  We ended our shopping at Aroma Café on Ventura Boulevard, with shaded alfresco seating and lots of vegetarian choices on the menu. We ordered a lunch of sabich, a delicious grilled eggplant and hard-boiled egg combo with Israeli chopped salad, hummus, and pita bread.

  I could barely hear Fanya’s question over the volume of chatter around us. “Once my brother gets a divorce, have you thought about what kind of a wedding you want?”

  “If he ever gets a divorce, I want a simple ceremony with family and close friends. Giselle and my daughter, Quincy, argued about who will get to be the maid of honor.” I laughed once. “It won’t be that formal, I guarantee it.”

  “You and Yossi have been together for a while. Why did you decide now was the time to get married? I mean, nowadays—if you’re not too religious—it’s no shanda to live with someone.” She used the Yiddish word for “shame.”

  I told her about the time a couple of months ago when I was clubbed on the head, tied up, and nearly killed. “When you survive a situation like that, you think about what’s important. My priorities changed. I set aside all my fears of failure and finally said yes to a second chance at happiness.”

  She took a sip of iced tea. “Your first marriage was so awful?”

  I half-smiled with a corner of my mouth and rolled my eyes. “I met Aaron Rose when we were thrown in jail for protesting the Vietnam war. He was a med student and I was barely out of high school. Both of us were young and idealistic. I thought we’d change the world together. But all that changed was his attitude. Being a doctor gave him an elevated sense of importance, totally out of proportion with reality. The last betrayal came when I found out he’d been unfaithful. I took our daughter and left him shortly afterward.”

  Fanya reached over and gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “I’ve watched the two of you. I think you are Yossi’s beshert.” She referred to the Jewish precept that God has preordained a soul mate for everyone.

  From Aroma, it was a short trip home.

  Fanya rushed to the sewing room with her purchases and spread her new fabric on the table. “Wow. Look at these. I’m already seeing an Ohio Star quilt in my future.”

  “Yes, your choices will do up nicely. One thing I like to do is wash my cottons as soon as I bring them home. That way, when I do use them in a quilt, they won’t shrink. Plus, it gets rid of extra dye, which might otherwise bleed into the quilt.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ll wash everything now.”

  “Wash your reds and purples separately. Red’s the color most likely to bleed.”

  Late in the afternoon, Giselle called. “Hi, Sissy. You’ll never guess what Shadow found out.”

  “You make your employees work on Sundays? I hope you pay him extra, or give him free gasoline for a year, at the very least.”

  She gave me a mirthless, “Ha-ha. What can I say? He did this on his own initiative. He likes a challenge.”

  “Okay. What did he find?”

  “Remember he said big money was going in and out of the Uhrman Company ever since Ze’ev Uhrman’s death?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Well, some of the money went in as income from sales and ninety percent came out as dividends and expenses paid straight into the bank account of a company called Koslov Associates.”

  Hadas had said Alexander Koslov was pursuing her for romantic reasons. Once again, I caught her in a lie. How did the Uhrman Company become linked financially with Alexander Koslov? Was this the connection we were looking for? Could he be chasing Hadas because of money, not love? John Smith and Andre Polinskaya were correct. There were forces at work I knew nothing about.

  CHAPTER 23

  Late Sunday afternoon, while Fanya ironed her newly laundered cotton fabric, I opened my computer and Googled Alexander Koslov. I found an image in a group shot taken in New York, including the Ukrainian ambassador to the United States, the president of the Ukrainian Olympic Committee, and four local businessmen. The caption read, Ukraine prepares for Winter Olympics.

  A further search found a short article on an English-language webpage about the launch of a Ukrainian national curling team. The opening of a single regulation curling lane in Kiev was made possible through generous donations from Ukrainians living in the US. The article stated:

  The presence of a specialized curling rink will solve several tasks at once: Ukrainian athletes will have good training conditions, Ukraine will be able to host prestigious international curling tournaments, and ordinary Ukrainians will have a great opportunity to try their hand at this sport.

  Pretty grandiose aspirations for a country with only one lane. It would be like building a bowling center with one lane for the entire population of New York City and LA combined.

  I told Fanya what I’d discovered. “Do you think this is the same Alexander Koslov we’re looking for?”

  Fanya turned away from her ironing and came over to where I sat. “Let me take a look. I sat shiva with Ettie. I might have seen Koslov there without even knowing it.” She peered at the photo on my computer and pointed to the image of Koslov. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Good. Assuming this is the same guy, we now know Koslov is a Ukrainian businessman living in the US. We also know he must be Jewish if he could pray with the minyan.”

  Fanya turned back to her ironing. “And he likes curling, whatever that is.”

  * * *

  Sunday night I wished Crusher would come home. If there was anything in our relatio
nship making me uncomfortable, it was nights like these spent alone, worrying about his safety. I tossed and turned, thinking first about him and then about how to approach Hadas’s “kidnapper” Peter Hauer.

  Monday morning I called Giselle and filled her in on a scheme I’d concocted the evening before.

  “Sure, Sissy. I’m in.”

  My next call was to Peter Hauer’s agent, Brian “Buster” Dingle. He answered with a high-pitched, reedy voice. “Buster here. How can I help you?”

  “My name is Martha Rose . . . enberg with the Miss Manischewitz Wine Pageant. I’m looking to hire a real Schwarzenegger type for a photo shoot. We’re featuring thirty beautiful contestants in a calendar for next year.”

  “Thirty? But there are only twelve months in a year.”

  I did a mental eye roll. “Some of them will be group shots. The man I’m thinking of must be blond and built like a weightlifter. Someone suggested Peter Hauer. Do you still represent him?”

  Dingle’s voice turned smarmy. “Ah. Well. Yes. Unfortunately, Peter stopped modeling years ago. He’s an actor now. Very much in demand.”

  “I’ve visited his webpage, Mr. Dingle. His last credits happened a year ago. Am I correct in assuming he’s in between jobs right now?”

  Dingle paused. “We’re in negotiations with Netflix as we speak. A major deal.”

  “Until then, how does a thousand dollars sound?”

  “Don’t forget my ten percent. Twelve hundred.”

  “Fine. Twelve hundred for a day’s work.”

  “No, no, no. The fee is twelve hundred per hour.”

  “We’ll have to audition him first, of course. If our primary investor likes him, I’m sure she’ll agree to the price.”

  “When would you like him to start?”

  “This is where our investor lives.” I gave him Giselle’s address. “Have him meet us at one this afternoon. And for heaven’s sake, tell him to be prompt for his audition. If there’s one thing she hates, it’s people who waste her time, or people who arrive for appointments too early.”

  “Of course. Goes without saying. Do you want him oiled?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know, covered in oil to make his skin shine. Like a weightlifter.”

  “This is not a Mr. Universe contest, Mr. Dingle. The Miss Manischewitz Wine calendar is almost a sacred institution. Jewish families look forward to picking up free copies from their bank every September, right before Rosh Hashanah. But have him bring a bottle of baby oil just in case.”

  Fanya listened to my side of the conversation and smiled. “You’re really good at lying, Martha. How do you think up these things?”

  “It’s a gift.”

  We decided to dress for the roles I’d carefully planned. I wore a gray business suit and Fanya wore black trousers and a jacket and slicked back her hair into a long ponytail. At twelve thirty, we arrived at Giselle’s house in the Pacific Palisades. The front yard, planted in rows of lavender, smelled fresh and fragrant in the balmy coastal air.

  Giselle greeted us wearing a dark business suit and lots of diamonds. She grinned at Fanya and rubbed her hands together. “Ever since Martha and I found each other, my life has been a lot more fun.” Then she looked at me and frowned. “How dangerous is this guy?”

  “I don’t think we have to worry, G. I wouldn’t have asked you to do this if I thought anyone would get hurt. Besides, Fanya’s trained in the martial arts. She can protect us if need be.”

  We moved to the living room, with the carefully hand-plastered white walls, dark wooden beams on the ceiling, and furniture upholstered in the primary colors of the French countryside. As a precaution, Giselle stationed her housekeeper Aria out of sight in the dining room with a cell phone nearby. “If you hear me say the word banana, call the police.”

  “Yes, missus.”

  At precisely one, the doorbell rang. Aria, her dark braid hanging down her back, hurried toward the front door. We heard him say, “My name is Peter Hauer. I’m here to see a Mrs. Rosenberg.”

  Giselle screwed up her face. “Rosenberg? Is that supposed to be you or me?”

  “Me!” I whispered.

  Aria said, “This way, please.”

  Footsteps became louder as they neared our location.

  Peter Hauer wasn’t as tall as I expected. His eyes were an arresting green, a color not found in nature. His shirt was the same color as his eyes. The sleeves strained across his biceps and the open collar looked too small to button around his prodigious neck. He stopped at a respectful distance of eight feet from where we stood in the living room and smiled nervously. “Hello.”

  I walked toward him and extended my hand. “Mr. Hauer? Thanks for being prompt. I’m Martha Rosenberg.” I glanced at Giselle. “This is Mrs. Cole, our primary investor in the calendar.” As part of my plan, I didn’t introduce Fanya.

  Giselle didn’t offer her hand. She gestured toward an uncomfortable-looking straight-backed chair. “Be seated, Mr. Hauer.”

  Hauer waited for us to sit on the more comfortable upholstered furniture before he took the chair. “Thank you for inviting me to this audition.” His tongue seemed to stick to the inside of his dry mouth and I felt a little sorry for him.

  “Would you like some water?” I asked.

  Relief washed over his face. “Please.”

  Giselle reached over to the coffee table and lifted a little handbell, which tinkled pleasantly when she shook it.

  Aria appeared almost immediately. “Yes, missus?”

  Without taking her eyes off an increasingly nervous Hauer, my sister commanded with an imperious voice, “Bring us water.”

  A smile played on Aria’s lips. “Yes, missus.”

  Aria quickly returned with a pitcher of water with floating lemon slices and melting ice and four crystal glasses on a silver tray. She poured a drink for each of us in turn, starting with Giselle. Hauer was the last to be served and nearly drained the whole thing at once. He glanced at Aria, who refilled his glass and left the room.

  Giselle raised her chin slightly. “Now then, Mr. Hauer, you know about our project?”

  “My agent, Buster Dingle, explained it to me, yes. You want a male to pose with Miss Manischewitz Wine contestants for a calendar.”

  I cleared my throat. “Well, I told a little fib to get you here. We really want something else.”

  He frowned and his eyes darted back and forth between us. “You don’t mean porn, do you? I stopped years ago. If that’s what you’re after, you’ll have to pay me double. And you’d have to let me wear a mask. I don’t want to screw up my chances for more TV work.”

  I thought I heard a muffled giggle coming from the dining room. I could barely control my own reaction. “No, Peter. I can call you Peter, right? Porn isn’t why we wanted to see you.”

  He glared from one of us to the other. “Well, what, then? I brought the baby oil.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “We want you to tell us where we can find Hadas Levy.”

  Shock drained the color from his face. “How did you . . . ? So, I guess this isn’t an audition?”

  Giselle rolled her eyes. “You’re quick to comprehend.”

  He shot out of his chair. “I don’t have to tell you jack!”

  Fanya rose suddenly, pushed up the sleeves of her jacket and bared her forearms. In two strides of her long legs, she stood in front of Hauer. She towered over him by two or three inches and leaned into his personal space. “Sit down, Mr. Hauer, or I’ll break your legs. If you don’t believe I’m capable, I invite you to try me.”

  “You take me?” He scoffed. “Back off, girly.” He raised a meaty hand to push her shoulder.

  In an instant, she grabbed his wrist and arm in a pressure lock and twisted them, forcing the stunned bodybuilder back in the chair. Once seated, she gave an extra backward tug on his wrist, causing him to yell out in pain.

  “Be glad you can still walk,” Fanya hissed in his ear. Instead of joining us on t
he sofa, she stood behind him, feet apart and arms folded across her chest.

  Hauer massaged his sore wrist. Little beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “Okay, okay. What do you want to know?”

  I sat back on the red-and-white–striped sofa, letting my body sink into the luxurious cushions. “I always like to start at the beginning. You helped Hadas Levy leave my house over a week ago, staged a fake kidnapping, and transported her to the Hotel Delaware in downtown LA. Am I right in assuming the whole stunt was a business deal for which you were paid?”

  Hauer used his palms to wipe the sweat from his face, then ran them along his thighs to dry. “Yeah. She paid me and my buddy Rocco a grand each and told us to forget we ever saw her.”

  “Did she say anything about why she wanted people to think she was kidnapped?”

  “Not really. She said some dude was after her and she wanted to lose him. That’s about it.”

  “Why you? How did she find you to begin with?”

  Hauer shifted in his chair and took a long drink from his crystal glass. “I knew her from the old days.”

  “The old days?”

  “Yeah. Back when I was modeling in New York. Uhrman Company needed someone really cut for their menswear catalogue. I spent a couple weeks with a photographer and a whole crew. Hadas—Mrs. Levy—was there every day supervising.” He sat straighter. “It was E-ticket, man. They said I looked better than Eddy Ellwood.”

  “Who is he?” Giselle asked.

  “For real? He’s the best bodybuilder ever. Won Mr. Universe Pro five years in a row. Nobody else comes close. Before or since.”

  Giselle asked, “So he was like the Tiger Woods of bodybuilding?”

  Hauer looked confused. “Eddy Ellwood was a golfer?”

  I didn’t dare look at Fanya as I tried to maintain a straight face. I rolled my hand in a signal to move forward. “Back to Hadas. Mrs. Levy. Did you become friends? Is that why she contacted you now?”

  Hauer smirked. “We had a good thing going for a while. But when she said she didn’t want to pay for it anymore? Hey. I know what I’m worth. I knew a guy who ran a male escort service. Said if I ever came to LA, I should look him up. So, I bailed on the big apple and came west.”