by Mary Marks
“He just said we have to talk about something Russell had that didn’t belong to him. Something he wants back, but he wasn’t specific. I told him I’d see him at the funeral.” She stood stiffly and excused herself to visit the restroom.
Why did Birdie seem so reluctant to talk about Denver?
As soon as she left the kitchen, Lucy whispered, “I wonder if she’s still in love with him.”
I lowered my voice and leaned toward Lucy. “What I’d like to know even more is how far he’d go to get something back from Russell. Until we know if he was involved in the murder, we’ve got to protect Birdie.”
“Denver’s too old to be the killer.”
“That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved in some way. Meanwhile, a guy fitting the description of the bank robber skulked outside Birdie’s house the same day of Russell’s murder. She’s not safe here.”
CHAPTER 10
Arthur and I stayed at Birdie’s another day, waiting for the coroner to release Russell’s body. That night she received another phone call from her friend Rainbow. While she talked, I went to my room and changed into my pajamas. When I returned to the living room, Birdie was poring over her photo album.
“Taking a trip down memory lane?”
She looked up; a wistful smile painted her face. “Yes. Rainbow reminded me about the time the goats got loose in our vegetable garden. We screamed for help as we tried to chase them away. Denver came running and slipped in a huge mud puddle. He was covered in goo. I laughed at him so hard, he picked me up in his arms and set me down in the puddle. By the time more help arrived, the three of us were slinging fists full of the stuff at each other. Everyone else joined in the mud fight. When we were done, it dripped from our clothes, our hair, everything. Afterward, we all went skinny dipping.”
“What happened to the goats?”
She laughed. “They got disgusted and returned to their corral all by themselves.”
Around ten that evening we said good night and Birdie went to her bedroom. I turned off all the lights and retired to the guest room. Arthur settled on the floor next to my bed. Fifteen minutes later, he suddenly lifted his head, looked at the window, and began growling deep in his throat.
I propped myself on my elbow and listened. Footsteps crunched through the gravel path leading to the backyard.
Heart pounding, I reached for my cell phone and called Beavers. “Someone’s creeping outside Birdie’s house!”
The dog began to bark and snarl.
“I can hear Arthur in the background,” he said. “I’ll call it in. I’m on my way.”
I headed toward Birdie’s bedroom, and she met me in the hallway. “What’s going on?”
“Someone’s outside my window. I just called Arlo.”
She looked around anxiously. “What’ll we do?”
Arthur ran past us and positioned himself at the back door, barking and growling a warning. I pushed Birdie into the hall closet. “You hide behind the coats until the police get here.”
“What about you?” A dozen woolen sleeves muffled her voice.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve got Arthur.”
My heart pounded as I ran into the kitchen. I looked around frantically and grabbed a small cast-iron skillet off the stove. Weapon poised in my hand above my head, I stood to the side of the back door. I should have taken Lucy’s offer of a gun more seriously.
The knob rattled. Metal scraped against metal.
Arthur stopped barking and leaned slightly backward—every muscle in his body poised to spring forward.
Good dog. When Arthur attacked, I’d clock the guy on the skull with the frying pan.
The knob clicked. My mouth felt like the surface of Mars.
The door opened a crack.
Where are the police? My vision narrowed and my heart raced like a bullet train.
Arthur bared his fangs.
Over the pounding in my ears, I heard several sirens approaching. Please God! Get here in time.
The sirens grew louder and brakes screeched.
A man’s voice cursed, “Merde!” Then footsteps ran away.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Thank God!
The dog barked and tried to open the door wider with his paws. I grabbed his collar to keep him from going outside and slammed the door shut again. “Stay! We don’t know if he’s armed, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”
The well-trained police canine reluctantly obeyed.
I hurried toward the closet and shouted, “He’s gone, Birdie.”
She came out from behind the coats, sweating and clutching an umbrella with a pointed end. “This is the only thing I could find to defend myself with.”
A heavy fist pounded on the front door. “FBI!” As I rushed to open the door, I saw a number of flashlights sweeping the darkness outside.
Agent Kay Lancet from the FBI and two LAPD uniformed officers stood with their guns drawn.
I pointed toward the laundry room in the rear of the kitchen. “Back there! A man tried to break in just now.”
They rushed to the back door, looked outside, then walked back to where Birdie and I stood hugging each other. Agent Lancet holstered her gun. “Nobody’s there, but we’ve got agents and police officers searching the area. Did you see what he looked like? Which direction he went?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t see him. My dog heard him, though, and alerted me.”
Just then Beavers hurried through the front door. When he saw we were safe, he let out a breath and put his gun away. He turned to the FBI agent. “Can you tell me what you’ve got, Kay?”
“Nothing yet, Arlo. The guy’s gone. The vics never got a look at him.”
Beavers turned to me. “You okay?”
I reached down and stroked the dog’s head. “Yeah, thanks to Arthur.” I described our ordeal, stopping to answer an occasional question. “You know, just before the guy left, he said something odd.”
“What?”
“He swore in French.”
Lancet regarded me for a moment and wrote something in her notepad. “This confirms one of the witness statements. He said the robber spoke with a foreign accent.”
As my pulse returned to normal, the sharp fingers of a migraine dug into the right side of my brain, and my whole body throbbed with a fibromyalgia flare-up. “Excuse me. I’ve got to take something for this headache.” I found my pain meds in my purse and stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water.
When I returned to the living room, Lancet snapped her cell phone shut. “The crime scene techs are on their way over to dust for prints.” She focused on Birdie. “They’re the best in the world, Mrs. Watson. If the burglar left behind any evidence, they’ll find it. Meanwhile, you might want to leave the house for your own safety. We can offer you protection.”
Birdie pressed her lips together. “I won’t be forced out of my own home. Anyway, he won’t be coming back tonight.”
Beavers grunted and walked with Lancet toward the back door, talking in a hushed voice. Arthur followed behind.
Birdie’s phone rang, and she looked at the caller ID. “It’s Lucy.” She switched on the speaker. “Hello, dear.”
“Thank God you’re alive! As soon as Ray and I heard the sirens, we rushed over, but the police won’t let us in. We’re standing in front of your house. What happened?”
I got up and opened the front door. Police and FBI agents mingled on the lawn. I waved for Lucy and Ray to come inside.
They sat on the sofa and Birdie told them about the prowler. Then she yawned. “As soon as the police leave, I’m going back to bed.”
Lucy jerked her thumb toward her husband and whispered, “Ray brought a gun with him. He’s gonna spend the night on your sofa.”
The sixty-five-year-old veteran of Vietnam and gun collector patted the bathrobe covering the very obvious bulge on his chest and whispered, “Mag. Shoulder holster.”
Birdie waved her hand. “For pity’s sake. The perp isn’t going to retu
rn tonight.”
Lucy’s voice rasped. “How can you be so sure?”
“I watched an episode like this on Rizzoli & Isles.”
Eventually Lucy went back home, leaving Ray to sleep on Birdie’s sofa. At one in the morning, the last of law enforcement and the crime scene techs left. Birdie covered the snoring Ray with a quilt, and we finally crawled into bed.
My headache had subsided, the adrenaline wore off, and I fell into an exhausted sleep.
Ray left early the next morning before I woke up. At nine I called my uncle Isaac. We usually spent Friday evening together. But because I’d be staying with Birdie, I had to cancel our Shabbat dinner.
“You’re doing the right thing, faigela. Your friend needs you now. Comforting the mourners is not only a mitzvah, it’s your duty. Have a good Shabbos.”
“Shabbat Shalom, Uncle. Thanks for understanding.”
I had just hung up the phone when Lucy appeared in Birdie’s kitchen. She resembled a Dalmatian sitting in a fire engine. She wore red cotton trousers, red leather sandals, and a black and white polka dot blouse. Ruby studs sparkled in her ears. By the way she marched in and sat down, I could tell she meant business.
She reached into her quilting bag and pulled out a Browning .22 caliber semiautomatic, then handed the pistol to me. “No arguments. You know how this works. You’ve used it before.”
I held the gun in the palms of my hands. She had a point. Last night I would have felt a whole lot safer if I’d had the Browning. “Is it chambered?” I remembered from my shooting lessons: if a bullet was already loaded in the chamber, I’d merely have to open the safety switch and the gun would fire with the slightest pressure on the trigger.
Lucy regarded me with a raised eyebrow. “No. Transporting a gun that way isn’t safe.” Both she and Ray grew up in Wyoming. They knew their way around guns and gun safety.
We settled at the farm table with fresh coffee and slices of applesauce cake, still warm from Birdie’s oven.
At nine-thirty, Birdie received a call from Pearly Gates Presbyterian Mortuary. She put Chester Towsley, the mortician, on speakerphone so we could all hear him. “I don’t wish to alarm you, Mrs. Watson, but the obituary we published in today’s paper has caused a tiny little problem.”
“Oh?” Birdie frowned.
“There’s a gentleman in my office insisting he has an equal claim to the deceased.”
Someone cried hoarsely in the background.
Lucy quickly drew in a breath. “It’s gotta be Jazz Fletcher!”
“What do you want to do?” I leaned toward Birdie.
She folded her hands in her lap and relaxed into the back of the chair. “Let me speak to him, Mr. Towsley.”
“Are you certain? You don’t have to.”
“Quite certain.”
After some shuffling sounds, a man’s voice sniffed and hiccupped. “Is this Birdie Watson?”
“Yes. You must be Jazz.”
A brief silence followed, and then a calmer voice said, “You know?”
Birdie took on the gentle, motherly tone she so often used to put people at ease. “Yes, dear. I do.”
Lucy and I exchanged a knowing look. Birdie had such a big heart; she even had room enough to comfort her dead husband’s lover.
Jazz began to cry. “I miss him so much. I have a right to say what happens to him.”
“Would you like to come over now and discuss it?”
Lucy sent me a puzzled Can you believe this? look.
Another silence. “You’d do that?”
Thirty minutes later, Arthur barked at someone approaching Birdie’s front porch. I got up and opened the door. Jazz Fletcher was not at all what I expected.
CHAPTER 11
The man at the door loomed at six feet. He looked as if he’d just come from an upscale country club in Palm Springs—tanned, athletic, and handsome. His thick brown hair, combed straight back behind his ears, revealed a slight bit of gray at the roots. Diamond studs sparkled in his earlobes. I estimated his age to be mid- to late fifties, at least twenty years younger than his lover.
Could this really be Russell Watson’s partner of twenty-five years? Russell only stood at five foot six on a good day. Birdie’s going to plotz when she sees this guy!
“I’m Jazz.” His teeth dazzled pure white against the sun-kissed brown of his face.
The name certainly suited him. He wore white espadrilles without socks and white linen pants rolled up on the bottom, exposing slender ankles. Tucked into his trousers was an exquisitely tailored shirt in a wild pink and yellow floral print with a banded collar. A yellow canvas tote bag hung over his left arm.
I smiled and offered him my hand. “I’m Martha Rose, Birdie’s friend.”
He bowed slightly and kissed the air above it. “Enchanté.”
French!
A sudden chill of fear surged up my spine. Arthur, however, seemed more curious than alarmed. Surely if this were the prowler from last night, he’d know. When the dog showed no signs of recognition, I stepped aside and motioned for Jazz to enter. The shepherd immediately walked up to him and sniffed, beginning at his ankles and heading for the man’s crotch. He reached the tote hanging from Jazz’s arm and glued his nose to the fabric, tail wagging furiously.
Although Arthur didn’t seem particularly troubled by the stranger, as a police canine, he’d been trained to sniff out all kinds of things. What if Jazz carried a weapon?
I gestured for him to sit in a chair and whispered, “Birdie’s been incredibly generous to invite you over. Russell did his best to shield her from his other life. So if you say anything to upset her, you’re going to have to leave.”
Jazz sat with his knees pressed together, the tote bag resting on his lap. “God forbid.”
I hurried to the kitchen. “Oh my God, Birdie. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Of course.”
“Well, then, prepare yourself for a shock. Let me go first.” I grabbed the pistol off the table and slipped it into my purse.
“Is the gun really necessary, dear?”
“I hope not.”
They followed me into the living room. Jazz jiggled his right foot against the floor.
Birdie stepped out from behind me and said, “I’m Birdie Watson.”
Jazz stood. “Well, this is awkward, isn’t it?” He fingered the handle of the tote bag.
Birdie smiled. “I think Russell would have a heart attack if he knew.”
He let out a sigh of relief. “Tell me about it! I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time, but he always refused.”
Arthur fixed his eyes on the bag. Something is in there. I reached in my purse and wrapped my fingers around the pistol grip. Between the dog and me, we ought to be able to subdue the guy if necessary.
Birdie introduced Lucy. “Why don’t we all have a nice little chat?”
The two women sat on the sofa, while Jazz and I each took a chair. I kept my hand on the gun. Just in case.
Jazz shifted the yellow bag. He pressed his lips together in a tight little smile and started to reach inside. Arthur tilted his head and his ears swiveled forward like two pointed radar dishes.
I just knew something was fishy! I jumped up, whipped out the gun, and pointed it straight at his chest. “Freeze right there!”
Lucy watched me slip off the safety and threw her body in front of Birdie.
I gulped for enough courage to pull the trigger if I had to.
The color drained from Jazz’s face. He threw both arms above his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and wailed. “Go ahead and kill me. My life’s over anyway.”
Arthur looked at me and whined but didn’t move.
“Lucy! Grab the bag. Arthur’s been suspicious of it ever since this man walked in.”
My orange-haired friend lunged toward Jazz and snatched the bag with one hand.
Jazz opened his eyes in horror. He lowered his arms and stretched them toward Lucy. “No! Torture me. Kill me. Bu
t please don’t hurt my baby.”
Lucy frowned and gave me a What’s he talking about? look.
I gestured with my chin toward the bag. Lucy opened it, peeked inside, and snorted. “You’re going to feel so stupid, girlfriend.”
She handed the bag back to Jazz, who removed a fluffy Maltese dog. She wore a yellow bow tied around a topknot of long white hair with bright pink polish on her tiny toenails. She yawned and blinked the sleep out of her glittering black eyes.
Jazz cuddled and kissed her, murmuring in a baby voice, “My precious little girl. Daddy will protect you.” The Maltese rewarded him with several enthusiastic licks on the face, curly tail swinging rapidly from side to side.
I slipped the safety back on the Browning with shaking hands, put it back in my purse, and slumped down in the chair. “I’m sorry, Jazz. We can’t be too careful.”
He threw a dirty look in my direction.
Birdie raised a conciliatory hand. “My friends are only trying to protect me, dear. The same person who killed Russell may have tried to break into my house last night.”
Jazz hugged the pint-sized dog to his chest. “Why?”
I sighed. “That’s the big question, isn’t it?”
He lifted his chin and glared at me. “I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before.”
Lucy crossed her arms. “Well, now you have. Let’s cut to the chase. What do you want from Birdie?”
“I want to have a say in whatever happens to him. We were together for twenty-five years.” His lips trembled. “I loved Rusty deeply.”
Birdie scrunched her forehead. “Rusty?”
“That’s what I called him.”
Lucy rattled her head from side to side and spoke with the authority of a woman who had raised five sons. “Well, here’s what’s going to happen, Jazz. We’re going to bury Russell in the family plot in McMinnville according to his wishes.”
“Perfect! He told me about McMinnville, and I wanted to make sure his wishes were honored. When is the funeral?”
Lucy relaxed a little. “As soon as the coroner releases his body, Birdie has arranged for him to be driven all the way, and she wants to accompany the body. The three of us plan to follow right behind the hearse in my car.”
