Something's Knot Kosher

by Mary Marks

  “Vaguely.”

  “I wonder if I could come over and ask you a couple of questions. Or we could meet somewhere for coffee if you’re more comfortable with that.”

  “I’ve already told the FBI everything I know. And anyway, I heard on the news the robber was found dead last week. What does Mrs. Watson want with me?”

  “Nothing negative, I promise you. She just wants to know about her husband’s last weeks at the bank. You could be a big comfort to her.”

  Gail sighed. “Okay. I guess I can meet you somewhere. But it has to be before noon, because I’m picking up my youngest from school.”

  Yes! “Thank you so much. You pick the place.”

  An hour later, I sat at an outdoor table in front of Il Tramezzino, a trendy Italian restaurant in Tarzana. Gail said she’d be wearing a pink baseball cap so I’d recognize her. I spotted her crossing the street from the parking lot and waved. I vaguely remembered her face from the brief encounter we had in the bank the day Birdie emptied the safe deposit box.

  Instead of a smart business suit, Gail Deukmejian trotted over wearing a tank top, workout pants, cross trainers, and no wedding ring. “Are you Martha?”

  “That’s me.” I smiled and offered her my hand.

  As soon as she sat, the waiter came over to take our order.

  I looked at the menu. “Are you hungry? Their pastries are to die for.”

  “No thanks. Gotta watch my figure.” She ordered a soy latte.

  I noticed with some envy that Gail’s thirty-something body didn’t have an ounce of fat. Some people had all the luck. Even when I was her age and exercising, I tended to be zaftig.

  I looked at the waiter. “I’ll take a chocolate cannoli and a nonfat latte.” You had to draw the calorie line somewhere.

  She checked her watch. “I’ve got an hour before I have to leave. How can I help Mrs. Watson?”

  “Do you remember Nancy King from Rainbow Enterprises?”

  The waiter brought our order, and she took a sip from the oversized cup. “Sure. Rainbow Enterprises is an important client of First Encino. What does that have to do with Mrs. Watson?”

  “Were you aware Sandra Prescott, also known as Rainbow, her CFO, Nancy King, Russell, and Birdie Watson were all old friends?”

  She shook her head. “No, not really.”

  “Well, we think a referral you made to Nancy King started a cascade of events that led to Russell’s death.”

  Gail stiffened. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  I put up a calming hand. “No, no. Not at all. You did absolutely nothing wrong. Do you remember the referral I’m talking about? To Five Star Packaging?”

  “Yeah, that whole thing was weird.” She screwed up her mouth. “It turned out the company didn’t exist, but they were definitely listed as a loan customer.”

  “Do you know how that might have happened?”

  “All loans go through a review process before they’re approved. Either the review process was skipped in this case, or someone made an error in data entry and listed them as a client when they weren’t.”

  “Who does the reviewing, and who makes the final approval?” I asked.

  “It’s the loan officer’s responsibility to gather all the pertinent documents into an application package. If the applicant meets all the criteria, then the package goes to the branch manager—in this case Russell Watson—who makes the final decision.”

  “Could anyone in the bank bypass this process?” I took a bite of my pastry and the chocolate filling melted in my mouth like butter and went straight to my thighs.

  “I suppose a loan officer could forge everything, but he’d have to be able to hack into the computer system. I wouldn’t know how, though. I’m no computer expert.” First Nancy King, now Gail confirmed the possibility.

  “What about the branch manager? Could he fabricate a package without anyone knowing?” I asked.

  Gail nodded. “Absolutely. Any branch manager could fabricate a package, attribute it to an unsuspecting loan officer, and approve it.” Her eyes widened. “Why? Do you think Mr. Watson perpetrated a fraud?”

  “I’d like to know what you think,” I said.

  Gail turned up the palms of her hands and shrugged. “He was always a stickler for details. And rules. I really can’t see him doing something like that.”

  “Do you know what Russell did after Rainbow Enterprises alerted him to the problem?”

  “He spent a lot of time at the computer and asked me to pull the actual paperwork for a few old loans made through several different branches of the bank, not just ours.”

  I put down my fork. “Gail, do you remember the company names on those old files?”

  “Let me see.” She scowled in concentration. “Mississippi Solar was one of them. There was also a nursery. I remember wondering why a plant nursery would need a half-million-dollar loan. Oh. And Wong Technologies. There were a couple more, but that’s all I remember.”

  My pulse quickened. All those names were in Russell’s diary. “Did he say anything to you about the files, or why he wanted to see them?”

  “No, but the more files he looked at, the more upset he became.” She sat back and tilted her head. “I did notice that all of those companies closed within a year of receiving their loan.”

  Now I knew what the dates in the middle column of Russell’s diary meant. He was recording the creation and the demise of each company. No doubt Five Star Packaging was scheduled to close its proverbial doors this December, exactly twelve months after receiving the loan.

  “Who pays back the loan when a company goes under?” I asked.

  “Nobody. The bank has to absorb the loss as a bad investment.”

  So that was how it was done. The embezzler set up a bogus company, somehow arranged for a loan, and pocketed the money. After a year, he closed down the company so any future investigation would lead to a dead end.

  “Wouldn’t a string of bad investments raise a red flag on the profit and loss statements? Maybe call attention to an incompetent manager?”

  Gail pushed her lips together. “Well, if the loans looked like they originated in different branches, there wouldn’t be a pattern pointing to any one branch manager. I could see how bad loans could escape notice. During the recession, so many businesses went belly-up. That’s why the government had to bail out the banks.” She studied my face. “You think the bank robbery and shooting was tied to something Mr. Watson found in those files?”

  “Yes.” I finished my coffee.

  “Are you saying he was deliberately killed?” She rubbed her hands on her bare arms and shivered, despite the July heat.

  “Not only me. The FBI is also saying that. They just don’t know why. But I think you and I have figured that out.”

  By now Gail Deukmejian was hugging herself. “Do you think I’m in danger for helping Mr. Watson?”

  I didn’t want to alarm her. “Probably not, but let’s keep this conversation between us for now. It may not be safe to discuss what you know just yet. You never know who the real killer might be. If he thinks you have something incriminating to tell the authorities, you could be in danger. I have something I intend to hand over to the FBI. Once it’s in their hands, the details would be common knowledge and you should be safe.”

  I scribbled my phone number on a napkin. “Here’s how I can be contacted. Take this and call me if you think of anything else. I promise to let you know the minute I’ve given the evidence to the FBI.”

  “Evidence?”

  “Russell kept a record of all the information you helped him uncover. The FBI will be able to use that record to track down his killer.”

  “But I thought the killer was already dead. That’s what they said on the news.”

  “The man who pulled the trigger is dead, but the one who hired him is still out there.”

  CHAPTER 33

  After I left Gail Deukmejian, I walked to the market down the street from the restaurant a
nd picked up four bags of badly needed groceries. I had just unloaded the last of the organic veggies in my kitchen, when I remembered tomorrow was Quilty Tuesday and, for the first time in sixteen years, Birdie wouldn’t be there. I made myself comfortable on the sofa and called Lucy at home.

  “Hello, hon,” she answered slightly out of breath. “You calling about tomorrow?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You keep forgetting about my powerful sixth sense.”

  I laughed. “Or maybe you’re just a good guesser. Where shall we meet? Your house or mine?”

  “Jazz called this morning and says he wants to join us. He’d like to get started on a memory quilt, so I told him to bring all his fabrics and meet us at my house at ten. What’re you up to today? I’ve got loads of laundry from the trip.”

  I told her about my meeting with Gail the loan officer and how Russell discovered the string of bad loans. “I’m ready to hand over his diary to Agent Lancet. From what Gail described, it seems pretty clear Russell was uncovering the embezzlement, not covering it up.”

  “Nice work, girlfriend. I’m sure both Birdie and Jazz will be sad but relieved to know Russell wasn’t doing anything illegal.”

  My next call was to Agent Lancet’s cell phone. “Hello, Kay. How was your flight back to LA?”

  The phone beeped a couple of times and her voice faded back in. “. . . Virginia for a debriefing.”

  “Well, I have something that will break your investigation wide open.”

  She chuckled. “Come on, Martha. No disrespect, but what could you possibly have that we haven’t already thought of?”

  Well, that was a bit snarky. I told her about the diary.

  “You held back evidence all this time?” Her voice turned from amused to angry.

  “We had no idea what we had at first, so we didn’t know how important it was. But after speaking to Gail Deukmejian this morning, I’m convinced I know why Russell was killed. I’m confident you’ll find out who’s responsible. It looks like it’s someone within the bank.”

  “Are you accusing anyone specific?”

  “According to Gail, it could be any of the other five branch managers. Even one of their loan officers, if he had access to the database and computer skills good enough to bypass the approval process. You probably know a lot more about how these things work than I do. Anyway, I’m more than happy to have you take this diary off my hands.”

  “You’re damn right you’re handing it over. I’ll be back in LA early tomorrow morning. I expect to see you first thing.”

  “Wow, Kay. That wasn’t the reaction I expected. I mean, how often does the FBI get such a big clue just dropped in their lap like this? Whatever happened to ‘We exes have to stick together’?”

  “That only applies to boyfriends and husbands. I mean it, Martha. Don’t leave town.”

  Not more than five minutes later my phone rang. Arlo Beavers sounded really annoyed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “Did you not like my earlier message about adopting your German shepherd? It’s just that Arthur is such a great dog, and I’ve grown so fond of him. But if you’re going to get all sensitive on me, forget I ever asked.”

  “Kay just called. She told me about the diary you’ve been sitting on all this time. She wants me to take it from you before you do anything else stupid.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I huffed. “She wouldn’t call me stupid. We’ve bonded.”

  “You and my ex-wife? God help me. I’m finishing something up here at the station. Don’t leave the house. I’ll be there in a half hour to retrieve the evidence and my dog.”

  The shepherd nuzzled my hand, asking for ear scratches. “So you’re definitely going to take Arthur back?”

  The tone of his voice changed, and he spoke quietly. “Artie is part of a package. If you want to adopt the dog, you have to adopt me, too.”

  “I’ll pack his things.”

  My body still ached from sitting in a confined space for eighteen hours the day before. I wanted to lie down, but a suitcase full of dirty clothes stared at me. And since my underwear drawer was almost empty, I had no choice but to start a load of laundry. I’d be able to relax once everything was clean and put away.

  I’d just turned on the delicate cycle of the washing machine when someone knocked on my door. Beavers already? I looked through the peephole. Only one person I knew wore thick green eye makeup—my neighbor Sonia Spiegelman.

  I opened the door and embraced her. “Sonia. Come in. Thank you so much for taking such good care of Bumper while I was gone.”

  “It was no problem. I really enjoyed spending time with him each day.” The Indian bangle bracelets tinkled on her arm as she crossed the threshold and pointed to a pile of envelopes and catalogs on the hall table. “I brought in your mail each day and separated out the solicitations from the bills. No letters. People don’t write letters anymore.” She picked up one of the envelopes. “I noticed you’ve changed from cable to satellite. Do you like it better?”

  Sonia was our resident yenta. Nothing, and I mean nothing, happened in the neighborhood without her knowledge. Her prying used to irritate me, but I gained a real affection for her when she helped save my life a year ago. Sonia was a lonely, middle-aged ex-groupie of Mick Jagger’s. Her house was a shrine to the seventies, and she smoked medical marijuana for a condition I had yet to figure out. I guided her toward the living room and gestured for her to sit.

  “How was your trip?” she asked.

  “Exhausting. And my hip is really bothering me today. I brought something back for you.”

  Her face lit up. “You shouldn’t have.”

  “Wait here.” I retrieved a small cloth bag containing the handmade turquoise earrings. “When I saw these I thought of you. The tag that comes with them says turquoise has tremendous healing powers and protects the wearer.”

  Sonia’s eyes sparkled. “I love handcrafted jewelry. I’m going to put them on right now.” She walked over to the mirror above the hall table, removed the silver hoops she already wore, and threaded the new gold hooks through the holes in her earlobes. The turquoise stones swayed when she turned to face me. “How do I look?”

  “Like a healthy, safe person.”

  “And I have something for you.” Sonia reached into her pocket and pulled out a handmade cigarette. “I’m sorry you’re feeling crummy.”

  “Weed?” I asked.

  Sonia laughed. “Ganja. Boo. Paca lolo. Have you ever tried it for your fibromyalgia? I take a couple tokes of this special blend when I’m in pain.” She thrust her fist forward and deposited the joint in my hand. “Just try it, but be careful. It’s powerful. One or two hits should be enough.” She kissed my cheek and turned toward the door. “Thanks again for the beautiful earrings.”

  With my mouth hanging open, I stared at her back as she walked out, leaving as abruptly as she came. I doubted Dr. Lim at UCLA would ever prescribe cannabis as an anti-inflammatory. But now that medical marijuana was legal in California, maybe I’d take her advice and give it a try. I put the cigarette on the hall table and headed for the kitchen, thinking what was the worst that could happen?

  Beavers called again. “Sorry I’m late. Something came up. But I’ll be there around six to pick up the diary and Arthur. Do you still have enough kibble to feed him dinner?”

  What did that man have against saying a simple hello? “Sure. Everything’s ready. See you later.”

  I ended the brief call and unloaded the bags from Miller’s fabric store on my kitchen table. Most of my purchases were pieces of fabric cut into fat quarters. Cotton yardage was typically around forty inches wide. So a yard would measure forty inches wide and thirty-six inches long; a half yard 40”x18”; and a quarter yard 40”x9”. A quarter yard cut that way was not a very useful strip of fabric. But if the half yard was divided vertically down the middle, the resulting piece was 20”x18”, a much more useful size. Buying fat quarters was an economical way to build a st
ash of fabric, and quilt stores were happy to provide them for their customers.

  I had a rule about new fabric. Every piece had to be washed and dried before it was allowed in my sewing room. For one thing, I wanted to get rid of all the chemicals from the manufacturing and dying process. For another, I wanted to preshrink the cotton fabric so the seams of the finished quilt wouldn’t pull apart when washed later. I unfolded each of the fat quarters and sorted the lights and darks in preparation for washing after my clothes were done.

  By early evening, the pain in my hip and lower back had reached a crescendo. I limped from the laundry room, where I was folding clothes, into the kitchen to take my pain meds. I reached for the bottle of Soma but stopped in midair. Maybe I should try that joint. What if smoking pot really could ease my chronic pain?

  At least thirty-five years had passed since I’d experimented with marijuana in college, but I still remembered what to do. A small box of wooden matches hid out in the kitchen junk drawer. I pawed through expired coupons, rubber bands, odd plastic lids, and orphan screws to find them. Sitting at the kitchen table, I lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply, and held the hot smoke in my lungs. A cough exploded out of my chest.

  What would Quincy think if she could see me now?

  I inhaled a second time and pinched the flame off the end of the cigarette. As I held my breath, a gentle feeling of euphoria began to swirl around me in a soft cloud. No wonder Sonia smokes this stuff. I forgot all about my throbbing hip.

  A sharp pang in my stomach reminded me it was dinnertime. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate, and I was starved. I could make a salad with the organic veggies I had just purchased, but that would take too long. I rummaged through the freezer, looking for something already prepared that I could nuke.

  Instead, I found something even better; a quart of Trader Joe’s double creamy Coffee Bean Blast ice cream with a million calories per half cup, which came to eight million calories per quart. I took the unopened container straight to the table. Who needed to bother with a bowl when you could eat it right out of the carton? The coffee flavor burst on my tongue, and the cold silky texture cooled the inside of my mouth. My taste, my sight, all my senses seemed to be a thousand times more acute.