Something's Knot Kosher

by Mary Marks

  Jazz picked up Zsa Zsa, kissed the top of her head, and looked at us with brimming eyes. “Nothing could ever top this. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your friendship and support this last week.”

  Lucy stepped over to Jazz and gave him a one-arm hug. She was just as tall as the six footer in her two-inch heels. “We’re quilters, hon. That’s what we do. Listen, I’ve got an idea. Let’s settle the dogs in Martha’s room, and the three of us go check out the fabric store. Maybe I’ll find the polka dots I’m looking for and you can look for the iridescent fabric you need for Johnny’s peacock outfit.”

  I had totally forgotten about the new wardrobe Jazz was creating for Johnny Depp. “I’ve admired some of your drawings in the car. Have you settled on a theme?”

  Jazz tapped his lips with his fingertips. “Hmm. I’m still thinking Detective Debonair. N’est-ce pas? I can dress him from casual to business to formal with just a touch of noir and fantasy.”

  I pictured the actor in his most iconic roles as Edward Scissorhands, Jack Sparrow, and Willy Wonka. “Sounds just like him.”

  Lucy bobbed her head in agreement. “I think it’s genius. So how’d your meeting go, Martha?”

  I told them what I’d learned about Five Star Packaging, Gail with the Armenian name, and the peculiar dates in the diary. I put my hand on Jazz’s arm. “I think you’re right about Russell being innocent. I suspect the list shows he was going back through time digging for evidence of more embezzlement.”

  Jazz exhaled sharply. “Then you’ll give the diary to Agent Lancet?”

  “There’s just one thing I want to double-check first. I’ve got to talk to the loan officer who referred Nancy King to Five Star Packaging. If Russell questioned her, I’d like to know what he said. Her responses should settle once and for all that Russell was investigating, not covering up.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Miller’s fabric store took up a couple thousand square feet of commercial space on the corner of Third Street—twice as much if you counted the second floor. Windows all along the two outside walls provided an abundance of natural light, essential for gauging true colors. Pendant lamps made of ridged glass hung from a pressed tin ceiling. Wide pine planks, scuffed and darkened by age, creaked under our feet.

  Jazz made a full 180 degree sweep of the store with his eyes. “I’m shocked. This store is fabulous!”

  Acres of shelving held every kind of material from heavy upholstery brocades to delicate laces. Racks holding sewing notions from buttons to quilt batting lined the two inside walls. An arrow pointed upstairs, where sewing machines, irons, and other accessories were sold. Jazz drifted toward a rounder holding bolts of shiny lamé. Lucy and I followed a cheerful sign to the quilting section.

  “Ohhh!” She grabbed a bolt of cream-colored fabric with tiny colorful polka dots. “This is exactly what I am looking for. I’m going to get the whole thing.”

  Bolts of quilting cotton typically held about twenty yards of fabric. Experienced quilters could estimate how much fabric was left on a bolt just by eyeballing it. I guessed at least ten yards of polka dots remained. “What are you going to do with all this yardage?”

  Lucy gently fondled the material. “This particular fabric reminds me of the decorations my mother sprinkled on my birthday cakes. The dots make a wonderful background because they go with everything. And the tiny scale is perfect for backing small quilts.”

  Quilters often bought fabric they had an emotional reaction to. Either the colors or the print touched something inside that evoked a pleasant memory or feeling. For example, my own stash of fabrics had far more blues than any other color. Blue made me feel calm and happy.

  Jazz hurried toward us with something exceedingly shiny. “I’m so excited. I found the shirt material for the peacock outfit. C’est parfait!” He clutched a bolt of Dupioni silk in iridescent teal. The shimmering effect came from weaving bright turquoise threads on the warp and dark green threads on the weft.

  Lucy fingered the slubs in the fabric. “You’re right, hon. This is perfect. The coarser texture of a dupioni is more masculine than a thin shantung.”

  Like a moth drawn to the light, I floated over to the shelves holding fabrics the color of sea glass and summer skies. I bought several cuts of floral prints and a yard of yellow and green plaid that reminded me of the field of mustard growing next to the Sepulveda Dam in Encino each spring.

  We finished our shopping and loaded the trunk of Lucy’s Caddy with bulging sacks when the sound of sirens pierced the air. Emergency vehicles whipped past us, speeding north. I counted three fire engines, a paramedic ambulance, and four state police cars.

  Lucy slammed the lid of the trunk. “I wonder what that’s all about?”

  We watched the vehicles disappear down the road, and Jazz pointed to a huge column of smoke billowing in the sky. “Fire.” Coming from Southern California, where brushfires could be devastating, we stared with alarm at the pink glow in the distance.

  Lucy jiggled the car keys nervously. “Dang. July is a bad time of year for a forest fire. It’s so hot and dry everywhere. To make things worse, there’s a fair breeze blowing today.”

  A distinctive figure moved rapidly toward us. Phoebe Marple, Birdie’s minister friend, wore her white caftan. She wrung her hands, muttered something under her breath, and stared down at the sidewalk as she walked.

  Jazz whispered, “Isn’t that the chief forest fairy?”

  “Hello, Phoebe,” I said as she came abreast of our little group.

  She looked up, face wrinkled with anxiety. A flowered scarf wrapped around her forehead and held her long white hair in place. “You’re Birdie’s friends from LA.”

  “That’s right.” I smiled. “Is something wrong? You seem upset.”

  “The whole town of Lafayette is on fire, and I couldn’t stop him.”

  I remembered the story about the curse of Anna Marple: Lafayette will burn three times. It had already burned twice before. “Stop who? Are you talking about the curse?”

  She nodded vigorously. “My great-great-grandfather is Gus Marple. He was the one at Russell’s funeral who played that trick with the birds.”

  Jazz rolled his eyes but said nothing.

  I leaned in closer to the jittery woman. “Why did Gus choose this particular time to burn down the town?”

  “He was furious that yet another Watson was buried in his cemetery. The judge who sentenced Gus to hang was Isaiah Watson, Russell’s ancestor. I’ve tried to get the two of them to reconcile. A hundred and fifty years is a long time to hold a grudge. But so far, they’ve refused.”

  Jazz made little circles on his temple with his forefinger.

  “As Gus and Anna’s descendent, you weren’t also angry at the Watsons?” I asked.

  Phoebe pressed her palms together in the prayer positon. “In the name of all the goddesses, no! I’m a healer of souls.” She shook her head sadly. “My great-great-grandfather has been my biggest challenge.” She pursed her lips. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get to Pioneer Cemetery and have a serious talk with him.” She walked across the street, got into her battered blue Taurus, and drove north.

  Jazz shielded his mouth with the side of his hand and spoke confidentially. “Spook city! Do you think she set the fire?”

  The same thing had occurred to me. “Good question. If all of Lafayette is ablaze, the first responders won’t let her go anywhere near the cemetery. It’s too close to the fire.”

  Lucy slung her purse over her shoulder. “Come on. Retail therapy always makes me hungry. Let’s go get some lunch.”

  We found a little outdoor café down the street from Miller’s and sat under an umbrella in the protection of a patio. The faint smell of smoke curled through the air.

  “I guess we should talk about driving back to LA.” I bit into my grilled eggplant and pesto panini.

  “The sooner the better,” said Jazz. “I’ve got a whole wardrobe to sew. If we leave early in the
morning and take turns driving, we could be in LA by tomorrow night.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Lucy. “We need to tell Birdie to be ready by first light.”

  After witnessing Birdie’s happiness earlier in the day, I wasn’t so sure she’d return to Encino with us. I drew my cell phone from my purse. “Let’s call her right now.”

  She answered on the third ring, and I laid down the phone in the middle of the table, with the speaker on. “Hi, Birdie. I’m here with Lucy and Jazz, and we want to talk about driving back to Encino. We can all hear you.”

  She smiled right through the phone with her giggle. “Hello, everyone. Are you enjoying your rooms in the hotel?”

  “Everything’s great,” said Lucy. “This is such a cute little town and so full of surprises. We just came from Miller’s fabric store. I found yards of that polka dot fabric I’ve been looking for.”

  Jazz piped up. “And I found some fabulous couture material.”

  Birdie laughed. “What about you, Martha?”

  “More blue fabric and a beautiful yellow plaid.”

  “Well,” said Birdie, “Miller’s has been around forever. It’s the best fabric store this side of Portland.”

  I leaned toward the phone. “Did you hear about the fire in Lafayette?”

  “Denny just told me. I understand it’s a bad one.”

  “We ran into your friend Phoebe. She was very upset.” I repeated her story about Gus and the Watsons.

  “Poor Phoebe.” Birdie clucked her tongue. “She’s been living in fear of this event her whole life.”

  More sirens sped down the street. Lucy bent her head toward the middle of the table, raising her voice a little to be heard. “We’re anxious to get back to Encino. Can you be ready in the morning?”

  Birdie was silent for a few moments. “I have a big announcement. Denny proposed, and I accepted. You’ll have to go back without me.”

  Jazz looked at me frantically and mouthed, Say something!

  Lucy placed her hand over her heart as if she were saluting the flag. “That’s, uh, great news, hon. Congratulations.”

  Jazz frowned and poked Lucy’s arm. “That’s not what I had in mind,” he hissed.

  What could I say? After the talk with Rainbow and Nancy King this morning, I understood what Russell’s diary was all about. I no longer believed Denver was a killer. I cleared my throat. “When do you plan to take the big step?”

  “We haven’t decided yet, but you’ll be the first to know when it happens.” Birdie’s voice held all the excitement of a young bride. “After all these years, Denny and I are finally going to travel the country together. Only this time, we’ll take his RV and go in comfort. We’re heading for Encino first so I can pick up some things from the house. While I’m there, Lucy, I’ll want to retrieve those items from your safe.”

  Lucy knitted her brows together. “Okay, hon, whatever you want.”

  Jazz blurted out, “I’m worried about you, Birdie. Anything could happen on such a long trip.”

  “She’ll be fine!” a male voice came over the speaker. Apparently Denver had been listening to the whole conversation.

  “She better be,” Jazz’s face hardened. “Or I’m coming after you, Watson.”

  Denver just laughed.

  Jazz’s nostrils flared, and he balled his fists. He opened his mouth to speak, but I put my hand on his arm and shook my head.

  “Keep in touch, Birdie,” I said. “We’ll see you when you get back to Encino.” I ended the call.

  “Je déteste that man!” Jazz spat.

  Lucy patted his hand. “I know, hon. But after all those years covering up for Russell, Birdie deserves to be happy. We have to respect her choice.”

  I pushed my chair back and stood. “Come on. I saw something in a store window this morning I want to buy. Then I have to get back to the hotel. Arthur needs a potty break.”

  When we returned to the Yamhill Country Inn, I phoned Agent Lancet. “I’m just checking in to tell you three of us are driving to LA tomorrow morning. Birdie is staying here with Denver Watson. They’re going to get married.”

  “Good for her. It’s nice to know something good has come out of this whole miserable case.” She hesitated for a moment. “I’ve been in touch with Arlo every day, since he’s been working with me.”

  “Oh?” Why was she telling me this?

  “He’s still interested.”

  “Well, Arlo can be persistent when he’s got a crime to solve. He’s very dedicated.”

  “I’m not talking about the murder. I’m talking about you. He’s still interested in you.”

  How inappropriate was that—Arlo Beavers discussing me with his ex-wife? “I don’t want to talk about him. What did he say?”

  Kay B. Lancet laughed. “This feels like junior high school. He said he made a big mistake walking away from you, and he wants to get back together. He asked for my advice.”

  “Hah! He can forget that. It’ll never happen. What did you say?”

  “I told him I didn’t think you were interested, and anyway, he should be talking to you not me. I said I didn’t want to be his go-between.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “But you carried the message anyway.”

  “Hey. We exes have to stick together. Just remember, Martha, if you do decide to give him another chance, don’t expect things to be fundamentally different. People don’t really change all that much. Especially at this stage of life.”

  She was right. Arlo Beavers had a lot going for him. He was attractive, smart, owned the best dog on the planet, and smelled really good. But if he couldn’t be in complete control of our relationship, who knew if he would cheat on me again? Did I want to live with that worry?

  Agent Lancet’s voice interrupted my thoughts. “I gotta go. My plane is boarding.”

  “Have a good flight, Kay. And thanks.”

  I felt guilty not telling her about Russell’s diary, but I told myself I’d give her everything once I’d talked to Gail, the loan officer at First Encino Bank. I just wanted to be able to underscore Russell’s innocence before I handed over evidence of bank fraud on a grand scale.

  By Saturday evening, the conflagration in Lafayette had been all over the national news, including the legend of Anna’s curse. Officials determined the blaze started in a mobile home park, where an outdoor barbecue loaded with burning coals and half-cooked hamburgers mysteriously tipped over, igniting dry weeds. The brushfire spread to a nearby trailer and surrounding pine trees. Burning embers traveled on the wind, igniting rooftops. The flames spread through surrounding neighborhoods clear into the center of the small town, destroying the city hall and several shops.

  Gus Marple and his mother, Anna, were getting their final revenge.

  CHAPTER 32

  We left the Yamhill Country Inn at five Sunday morning. Lucy took the first shift driving. Jazz took Birdie’s seat in front, where he had more leg room. Arthur and I had the whole backseat to ourselves. We ate our meals on the road and drove in shifts, managing to cover the 850 miles back to the San Fernando Valley. We arrived at Lucy’s house before midnight.

  An exhausted Jazz drove Zsa Zsa back to West Hollywood, and I took Arthur home. My orange cat, Bumper, greeted us at the door and gave me an earful for taking Arthur and leaving him behind. He refused to let the dog sniff his butt.

  “So sorry for leaving you, my little fuzzball. But I’m home for good now.”

  After listening to my apology, Bumper allowed me to scratch him behind his jawbone.

  A quick look around the house told me my neighbor Sonia had once again taken excellent care of him in my absence. I’d thank her with the pretty turquoise earrings I’d purchased at the Yamhill County Art Association store. After a quick hot shower, I fell into bed, grateful to be horizontal.

  Arthur woke me the next morning, desperately dancing in place. “Okay, boy, I get the message.” I quickly unfolded my body from the bed and let him out into the backyard. I w
ould miss my canine pal when he went home to his owner.

  I telephoned Arlo Beavers and got his voice mail. “We’re home in Encino, safe and sound. I guess you’ll want your dog back—although I’m perfectly willing to adopt him permanently. Please call me.”

  The next item on my agenda was to locate the loan officer who referred Nancy King to Five Star Packaging, the nonexistent company. I hoped I could get her to talk to me. I called Russell’s branch of First Encino bank and asked for Gail. “I’m sorry, I forgot her last name, but I know she’s a loan officer.”

  A pleasant male voice responded. “Do you mean Gail Deukmejian? She no longer works here.”

  Deukmejian was a well-known Armenian name. George Deukmejian had been governor of California in the late eighties. Was Gail a relative? “Do you know how I can contact her?”

  “No. But I can help you. Do you want to apply for a home mortgage, business loan, car loan, line of credit? We do it all.”

  “Uh, neither. This is actually a personal matter. Did she leave for another job? Do you know where she went?”

  “I’m sorry, I couldn’t say.”

  Couldn’t or wouldn’t? Time to think of something creative. “Please, I’m trying to notify her of the funeral of a mutual friend in two days. Can’t you give me something to go on? A direction to search for her?”

  “Well, I know she lives somewhere in the Valley near the Armenian school where her kids go. Maybe they can help you.” I thanked him profusely for the lead and silently apologized for lying through my teeth.

  An online search turned up two Armenian schools in an area of Hollywood called Little Armenia, and five schools in the San Fernando Valley. My search of the digital white pages yielded ten Deuk-mejians. I eliminated the ones not located in the Valley and hit pay dirt on the fourth number, which bore a Canoga Park address. “May I speak to Gail please?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Are you the Gail Deukmejian who worked at First Encino Bank?”

  She asked in a voice tight with caution, “Who’s calling? What is this about?”

  I decided to play it straight. Trying to remember lies took too much effort. “My name is Martha Rose. I’m calling on behalf of my friend Birdie Watson, Russell Watson’s wife. I accompanied her to the bank two weeks ago when she came to pick up Russell’s things. Maybe you remember?”