by Mary Marks
Birdie buried her face in her hands. “I—I don’t want to talk to anybody. Can’t you make them go away?”
Lucy stood—all five feet eleven inches—and put her hands on her hips. “I’ll call Ray right now.” She reached for her cell phone. “He’ll get rid of them toot sweet.” She made an air quote with the fingers of her free hand.
Lucy’s husband, Ray Mondello, was usually a gentle, good-natured man. But he’d been an MP in Vietnam. If anyone could disperse a crowd, he could. Fortunately, Ray’s auto repair shop was close by on Ventura Boulevard.
The knocking continued off and on for another minute before I got fed up. “I can’t wait for Ray. I’m going out there.”
I opened the door and a dozen microphones, cell phones, and cameras were thrust in my direction. I stepped outside and closed the door behind me, waiting silently for the barrage of questions to stop.
Once I had the reporters’ full attention, I spoke. “Mrs. Watson is in mourning right now. She will not make a statement no matter how long you pound on her door or how many times you call her phone. Right now, you’re trespassing. Do the decent thing. Turn around. Leave quietly. Respect her privacy.”
Across the street, Ray barely squeezed his green Range Rover around the vehicle blocking his driveway and jumped out of his car. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his mouth drew a grim line across his face. In addition, two of his biggest car mechanics, still dressed in greasy blue overalls, jumped out of the car. The three of them waded like Schwarzenegger toward the back of the crowd.
The reporters were unaware of the angry posse coming their way at first and began shouting questions again. Journalists in LA generally respected private property, but an armed robbery and the murder of a bank official had become a major story.
I took a deep breath. “Step away immediately, or I’ll have you thrown out.”
Ray and his guys pushed their way through the media hounds. A bearded man holding an expensive camera stumbled sideways. A man in a baseball cap stopped taking pictures with his cell phone and turned to leave, briefly revealing a tattoo on the side of his neck. The other journalists had to be pushed back to the street. A blonde in tan makeup from a major network shrieked in protest as a burly mechanic pushed her backward toward the sidewalk. Tisha Goodall.
Ray’s voice boomed, “LA Cable News has two seconds to remove your vehicle from in front of the driveway across the street.”
The media got the message and began to disperse. Ray turned to me over his shoulder and nodded once. I went back inside.
The phone rang again, and I answered it. “Watson residence.”
The female voice on the other end dripped with concern. “This is Sandra Prescott. I’d like to speak to Birdie.”
“What is this regarding?”
Her voice took on a commanding edge. “Just tell her it’s Rainbow.”
I placed my hand over the mouthpiece so the caller couldn’t hear me. “Birdie, do you know someone named Sandra Prescott? She said to tell you it’s Rainbow.”
Birdie immediately stretched her hand toward the phone. “Oh! Give it to me.”
Lucy looked at me and silently mouthed, Rainbow?
Birdie eagerly grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear. “You heard? All the way in New York? No, I haven’t been watching TV. My quilting friends Martha and Lucy are with me. He’ll be buried in McMinnville. Of course I’ll let you know when. It’ll be a comfort to see you again, dear. I love you too.”
Birdie handed back the phone. “She’s an old friend from when we lived in Oregon. Rainbow has a business that keeps her pretty busy, but she’ll be at the funeral.”
The next few calls were from the media, so for the rest of the afternoon we let the phone go to voice mail. The ringing finally stopped around five. Lucy volunteered to cook dinner and spend the night in Birdie’s guest room, so I got up to leave. “I’ll see you in the morning, and we’ll drive to the mortuary together.”
The moment I walked into my house, Bumper headed straight for my ankles and began rubbing his head and purring. I stopped to scratch him behind his ear. “How’s my favorite guy?” He purred louder and trotted after me into the kitchen. I filled his bowl with his favorite star-shaped kibble. Then I took a deep breath and dialed Beavers’s number.
“Hi, Arlo. This is Martha.”
He sounded surprised. “Oh! I guess I didn’t expect you to call.”
“Well, I got to thinking about your offer and decided I’d been a little hasty with my reaction. Sorry. Catching up sounds like a good idea. For one thing, I really miss Arthur.”
Beavers chuckled. “Well, one out of two isn’t so bad. When are you free?”
“Tonight, actually.”
“Okay. I’m still tied up for a while, but I can pick you up at seven.”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
I hoped I hadn’t just made a big mistake.
CHAPTER 3
Choosing an outfit to wear on a date with Beavers required some serious thought. I wanted to look my best but didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. As far as I was concerned, we were just friends. I settled on my size sixteen black linen trousers and a pink short-sleeved blouse loose enough to button over my bosom, without gaping apart. My hair had grown long enough in the last year for me to sweep my salt and pepper curls up on the top of my head. A spritz of Marc Jacobs on my bare neck and arms, and I was ready.
Beavers knocked on my door at 7:05. I didn’t know how he managed, but he always looked fresh, even after a long day’s work. His white shirt was smooth and his tie hung perfectly straight. I think it must be easier for thin people not to wrinkle their clothes.
“I’m glad you changed your mind about dinner.” The skin around his dark eyes crinkled with his smile. “Are you as hungry as I am?”
I grabbed my purse and locked the door behind us. “Starved.”
In his typical courtly style, Beavers put his hand under my elbow and guided me to the car. “How about Jethro’s?” When we first met, he had introduced me to a great barbeque joint on Sepulveda Boulevard. We ate there many times while we were dating.
Fifteen minutes later we sat at a small wooden table covered with a fresh cut of white butcher paper and two frosty glasses of beer. I wondered, as I studied the menu, if Beavers had ever taken his newest ex-girlfriend here. I pushed the thought out of my mind. What do I care? This isn’t a real date, and he’s no longer my boyfriend. I closed the menu and leaned back in the sturdy oak chair. “I’ll have the tri-tip with coleslaw.”
Beavers smiled. “That’s what you always order.”
“Well, if you remember, I don’t eat pork, and I don’t like getting strings of rib beef stuck in my teeth. Therefore, I’m left with only one other option—the tri-tip.”
The smile left his face, and he looked at me intently. “I remember everything about you.”
I swallowed some cold Heineken. Uh-oh.
About midway through dinner, I managed to steer the conversation toward Russell. “You know, Arlo, after you left this afternoon I asked Birdie whether she could think of anyone who wanted to harm Russell. She did recall he received a telephone call a week ago that seemed to upset him. She didn’t remember anything else. As for financial problems, she had no clue because Russell always handled their money. I always thought he was pretty tight-fisted, because they seemed to live well below their means.”
“Hmm.” He rubbed his mustache. “Interesting. About the phone call, I mean.”
Here’s my opening. Might as well plunge right in. “Arlo, it seems odd you’d be asking about someone targeting Russell in a bank robbery. Do you have a reason to suspect his shooting was deliberate?” I held my breath, fully expecting Beavers to tell me to mind my own business.
He drained his second beer and ran a paper napkin over his wet mustache. “One of the witnesses claimed the shooter said something about a ‘payback.’”
“Payback? Do you think Russell knew the masked man?”
> “Maybe.”
“Do you think someone wanted to settle an old score?”
“Something like that.”
A dagger of fear pierced my heart. “Oh my God. If this was personal, could Birdie be in danger?”
He bit his cheek and frowned. “Too soon to tell.”
Poor Birdie! She seemed so vulnerable and frail right now. What if someone wanted to harm her too? “Don’t you think she should have police protection until you know for sure?”
He shook his head. “This is an FBI matter. You’d have to ask them. But if you’re concerned, maybe you could persuade her to leave LA for a while.”
Beavers had a point. Lucy and I would have to come up with a plan to get her out of town. But even if Russell had been a target, why would anyone be after Birdie too? “I really appreciate your frankness. Meanwhile, do you know when the coroner will release Russell’s body?”
“The FBI is in charge of this one. I suspect the autopsy won’t take more than a few days.”
Thank goodness the feds were in control. I remembered how the LA County Coroner had botched the investigation last year into the death of my friend.
We finished our meal with slices of sweet potato pie. I settled my fork neatly across the empty plate. “How’s Arthur? I miss him.” Arthur, a retired police canine adopted by Beavers, had saved my life twice. I loved the dog, and so did my cat, Bumper.
“He’s doing great. He misses you too. I can tell. Want to come over tonight and say hello?”
I looked at my watch. “It’s almost nine. I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow. Can I have a rain check?”
“Anytime.”
Ten minutes later we pulled into my driveway. He turned off the engine and insisted on walking me to my front door.
The fragrance of night-blooming jasmine filled the air on that warm July night. Beavers reached over and held my shoulders. He pulled me gently toward him and said in a low voice, “I’ve missed you, Martha.”
My body began to relax in his embrace, and all the old feelings of love and desire rippled through me. I stiffened and pulled back. A year ago, when I first dated Crusher, aka Yossi Levy, I felt disloyal to Beavers, even though he had just dumped me. Now the reverse was true. Even though I hadn’t heard from Crusher in the last five months, and five months was a long time, kissing Beavers would be cheating. I put a hand on his chest to stop him. “I’m sorry, Arlo. I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Why? Are you still seeing Levy?”
“I simply think you and I are better as friends.” I turned the key into the lock and opened the door. “Good night. Thank you for dinner, and thanks again for the information.”
“Can I call you again?”
What should I say? I wanted to protect Birdie, and Beavers seemed willing to give me the help I needed. On the other hand, I didn’t want to send him the wrong message. I finally said, “Of course. Let’s keep in touch.”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “Touching is good.”
CHAPTER 4
The next morning was Quilty Tuesday—the day Lucy, Birdie, and I always spent sewing together, no matter what. I packed my red tote bag with my newest project, a hand-pieced Double Wedding Ring quilt for my daughter. Quincy worked in Boston and lived with a professor of theoretical physics at MIT.
I had hopes.
Before I left, I called Lucy and told her Russell’s killing might have been personal. “Arlo doesn’t know if Birdie’s also in danger, but he suggested we get her out of town for the time being, just in case.”
Lucy drew in a sharp breath. “Does Birdie know?”
“No, and I don’t want to worry her unnecessarily. She has enough on her plate. We just have to figure out a way of getting her out of LA without alarming her.”
“Right. Maybe we can take her on a cruise.”
“Good idea. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Instead of my usual stretch denim jeans, I wore a blue linen dress more appropriate to the sad business the three of us would be conducting this morning. When I arrived at Birdie’s house, I headed straight to the kitchen, where I heard my friends talking.
Lucy sat with a cup of coffee at an old farm table painted green. Famous for always dressing with a theme, she wore peach-colored slacks with matching sandals. A long strand of white pearls rested luxuriously against an orange silk blouse. She looked as cool as a mango smoothie.
Birdie pulled a sheet of fragrant coconut ginger cookies out of the oven. White flour dusted the bib of her denim overalls. She transferred the hot cookies onto a cooling rack and we hugged. She smelled like vanilla extract and cinnamon. “Hello, Martha dear. There’s fresh coffee on the counter.”
I grabbed a cookie. “My favorite. It’s almost time to leave, Birdie. Are you going to change?”
She glanced at her clothes and brushed off the flour. “No. Let’s get this over with.” Birdie grabbed her house keys and hobbled toward the front door. I could tell her arthritic knees gave her grief today.
My seventy-six-year-old friend was one of a kind. Lucy and I suspected she had once been a beatnik or a hippie, because she refused to play the part of a snooty banker’s wife. Her only interests were her garden, her kitchen, and her quilts. You got what you saw with Birdie—long white braid, denim overalls, Birkenstock sandals, and a heart as big as the earth. How she ended up in a loveless marriage with a fussy old banker for a husband baffled me. Equally mysterious was why Russell Watson chose such a free spirit to spend his well-ordered life with.
Lucy’s eyes widened at Birdie’s refusal to wear something more appropriate to her appointment at the mortuary. She threw me a quizzical look behind Birdie’s back.
I shrugged and whispered, “Cut her some slack. She’s grieving.”
A half hour later we arrived at Pearly Gates Presbyterian Mortuary. The tan brick and stucco building sat on a quiet corner in Burbank and blended in with the pre-World War II neighborhood. A discreet sign on the wide front lawn directed us to a parking lot in the rear. Lucy maneuvered her vintage black Caddy with the shark fins down the long driveway and pulled into a handicapped space nearest the entrance.
I slid out of the backseat, opened the front passenger door for Birdie, and helped her stand. “You okay?”
She stood in the warm July morning and eyed the door without moving. Jaw set in determination, she swallowed once and nodded. Then she grabbed my arm for support and walked slowly toward the entrance. My heart ached for her.
A blast of cool air hit our faces when we pushed open the door. Soothing elevator music wafted into the reception area through speakers in the ceiling. The walls were painted a muted teal, and a gray carpet muffled our steps.
A dark-haired woman sat texting on her cell phone. As soon as she saw us, she quickly put down the phone and lifted her pleasant round face. “How may I help you today?”
“We called yesterday for an appointment regarding Russell Watson.” I gestured toward Birdie. “This is Mrs. Watson.”
The woman directed us to comfortable chairs upholstered in pumpkin-colored velvet and brought us each a bottle of cold water.
Five minutes later, the door opened to an office directly behind the reception desk, and a man in a dark suit emerged. He stood about five feet ten with a receding hairline and a chin to match. He clasped his hands and glided toward us. “I’m Chester Towsley, owner of Pearly Gates. May I say how sorry I am for your loss.” His left eye winked in a nervous tic as he examined our faces. “Which one of you ladies is Mrs. Watson?”
“I am.”
Towsley’s eye fluttered wildly as he scanned Birdie’s overalls. “You’re Mrs. Watson? The banker’s wife?”
When Birdie didn’t respond, Towsley recovered his composure and grasped her hand in both of his. “Of course, dear lady. No need to fret. I will make this process simple and easy. Just come with me to my office and we’ll get started.”
Lucy’s eyebrow arched at the exchange, and she glanced at me w
ith silent disapproval. I rolled my eyes and grabbed one of Birdie’s arms. Lucy took the other, and we marched behind Chester Towsley into a dark paneled office.
The mortician arranged three chairs in front of his broad desk and took a seat behind it. “I understand Mr. Watson is still with the coroner?”
Birdie nodded.
His slender fingers slid two documents and a pen across the desk toward Birdie. “Well, the first thing we need to do is sign these papers. The first tells the coroner Pearly Gates has permission to retrieve Mr. Watson’s remains once they are released. The second is a contract authorizing Pearly Gates to handle Mr. Watson’s funeral and burial. I’ll fill in the details as we go along.” He sat back and folded his hands. “Do we have any questions so far?”
Birdie slid the papers back across the desk and glared. “You just told me what you want, Mr. Towsley. Now I’m going to tell you what I need.”
Lucy looked at me and a smile curled the corner of her mouth. Our friend Birdie usually treated everyone with kindness, but she hated being patronized. Towsley had made a big mistake when he addressed her as if she were simple and helpless.
His left eye quivered. “Of course, dear lady . . . Mrs. Watson. I meant no offense.”
Birdie leaned forward. “My husband wished to be buried with his relatives in McMinnville. I want you to prepare his remains and take him there.”
“Mcwhere?”
“McMinnville, Oregon. Just south of Portland. In the Willamette Valley.”
“Ah. Portland shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve handled similar requests.”
“And, of course, I want to accompany my husband’s body.”
Great! This is the perfect opportunity to get Birdie safely out of town, as Beavers suggested last night. Lucy and I exchanged a knowing glance.
“Of course.” Towsley smiled. “We’ll arrange transportation for both you and Mr. Watson on the same flight.”
Birdie bit her bottom lip. “Oh, dear. That’s the thing. I don’t fly.”
