Forget Me Knot: A Quilting Mystery Part 17

Beavers nodded and turned to go across the street.

"What about my laptop?"

"In the works."

Should I tell him about reading the quilts? I'd wait until after the funeral, for Siobhan's sake. I wanted to spare her this new grief for as long as possible, and I needed to plan the best way to break the awful news. I went back inside with Birdie. "I'll stay here with you until Russell gets home."

"You might be waiting here for hours."

I looked at my watch. Nearly nine and I knew Birdie wasn't exaggerating. No matter what Birdie might need, Russell wouldn't come home until Russell was ready. This meant, of course, I'd just lost my last chance to examine the other quilts. Thank goodness for the photographs. An incomplete record was better than none at all.

I looked at my friend still nervously twisting her braid and forced a smile. "That's okay, Birdie. There's no other place I'd rather be right now. Maybe I could help you cut pieces for your Grandmother's Fan blocks."

As we worked in her sewing room, I told Birdie the story I deciphered in Claire's quilt the night before.

"Oh, Martha, how awful! Poor, poor Claire. Do you think her father is behind her death and the disappearance of her quilt?"

"While he has a strong motive for stealing and destroying the incriminating evidence in those quilts, I find it hard to believe he'd kill her. Why would he steal our quilts from the quilt show, too? That piece doesn't seem to fit anywhere in this puzzle."

At 11:45, Russell Watson returned home with a pint of Birdie's favorite Chocolate Cherry Cordial ice cream. I suspected this was as close as he ever got to an apology.

I left Russell and Birdie, but before I walked back to Lucy's house, I turned on the Watsons' garden hose and washed off their front porch. The crime scene people didn't need the dog c.r.a.p anymore.

Back at Lucy's I was greeted warmly by all the boys. I turned to Lucy. "Are the quilts ready to go?" She pointed to the pillowcases stacked neatly near the door.

Just then the doorbell rang. As Joey walked to the front door, Ray warned, "Be careful, Joe." A driver in gray livery stood on the porch with a white Bentley parked at the curb. Two minutes later he drove away.

I sighed and hooked my arm into Lucy's. "Well, they're gone," I whispered so n.o.body else could hear me. "But after all this trouble, I'd sure like to know what other stories those quilts have to tell."

"You and me both," she whispered back.

In the afternoon the Mondello men worked out a schedule for one of them to be with Lucy at all times. They each chose a gun from the safe.

Ray put his arm around my shoulder. "Your house is fixed now, Martha, but for the time being, I think you should stick with us rather than take your chances on your own."

"Thanks, Ray, but I can't stay here forever. I plan to go back home after the funeral tomorrow. I won't be terrorized into staying away from my house."

Richie turned to Joey and muttered, "No wonder she and Mom are such good friends."

Ray handed me a pistol. "Then I insist you take a handgun to protect yourself."

"I don't even know how to work one of these things." I turned the weapon over in my hands. "I'm a Democrat."

"Joey is going to take you to the shooting range this afternoon and make sure you know how to use the gun."

"But . . ."

"No arguments, please. We'd all feel better if you had some self-protection. Right, Lulu?"

Lucy nodded. "This was my idea, really."

I started to protest, but Joey grabbed the gun and led me by my hand to his pickup like a parent leading a child who doesn't know how she feels about the first day of school.

"Come on, Aunt Martha. I'm taking you to an indoor shooting range. In an hour or two you're going to know all about gun safety and, more important, you're going to know how to use this little baby."

Joey sheepishly grabbed all the empty fast-food bags off the pa.s.senger side and stuffed them behind the seat.

I hoisted myself into the elevated cab of the white pickup by holding on to the door with one hand and the grab bar with the other.

The inside smelled like onions and motor oil.

The shooting range was in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains to the east of the Valley. Straw bales with paper targets were set up outside for people with rifles. Inside a building with extra thick concrete walls, the range was shorter and looked like all the shooting ranges I'd seen on the cop shows on TV. It smelled like gun oil and sulfur. The gray room was divided into lanes with zip lines to move paper targets toward the back wall. Thousands of spent bullets with shiny copper and steel jackets littered the concrete floor.

Joey pinned up a paper target with a body silhouette on it and sent it down the line about twenty feet. He picked up the gun. "This is a Browning semiautomatic twenty-two caliber pistol." He showed me how to release the safety, chamber a round by sliding back the top, and sight down the barrel. The gun was heavier than I expected and I had a hard time holding it-even using both hands.

Joey put a headset on me to protect my ears. Then I heard a voice say, "Commence fire."

I'd never shot a gun before, but I was pretty sure I could hit the target. After all, it was only twenty feet away. Guns exploded in the lanes all around me. I aimed, sighted, and pulled the trigger. The kickback sent my arms down and back.

I looked at Joey. "Whoa."

"You're doing fine, Aunt Martha. Just try to keep your arms and wrists straight."

When the voice commanded, "Hold your fire," I put the empty gun down on the shelf in front of me.

Joey pressed a b.u.t.ton and the paper target came back. I'd shot fifteen bullets and there were seven holes in the paper. Four of those didn't even hit the silhouette, but the other three hit pay dirt. Two in the torso and one in the crotch.

"Awesome, Aunt Martha. We'll make a sharpshooter out of you yet."

"Do I have to change political parties?"

Joey, like the rest of his family, was a Republican. He looked at me and grinned wickedly. "You should do that anyway."

CHAPTER 24.

In the evening, Ray drove Lucy, Birdie, and me to Clancy Brothers Mortuary on Olympic Boulevard in West LA. for Claire's wake. Lucy looked like a Mexican mourner in her black linen dress, long string of black beads, and a black lace mantilla over her flaming hair. Ray wore a dark suit jacket concealing a handgun he'd tucked into his waistband. Before we left, we agreed to not tell Birdie about the gun for fear of alarming her.

This was one of those rare times when we got to see Birdie out of her overalls and Birkenstocks. She wore a plum-colored polyester dress and jacket and limped a little in her black leather walking shoes. Russell declined to join us, claiming fatigue. That man was about as supportive as a flat tire. He probably thought the Chocolate Cherry Cordial ice cream bought him a long-term pa.s.s.

At 6:45 we pulled into the driveway of a two-story red brick colonial with white columns in front. The valet opened the door and I stepped out of the car, smoothing the wrinkles on my black Anne Klein skirt and readjusting the collar of my silk blouse where the seat belt twisted it.

Ray insisted on parking his vintage Mercedes himself. One of his pa.s.sions was restoring old cars, and he wasn't about to trust his baby to a twenty-year-old valet. So we waited for him on the sidewalk.

All around the building, decorative shutters flanked tinted windows you couldn't see into from the outside. The small strip of front lawn was trimmed to the last blade of gra.s.s, and pink and white petunias bordered the short brick walkway from the sidewalk to the broad front steps.

A few minutes later Ray joined us. As we approached the double doors, white-gloved ushers in black suits opened them for us, and we stepped into a lobby with hallways leading in several directions. A sign on a stand in the shape of an arrow read MILLER and pointed down the hall to the left. Another sign pointing to the right read TERRY.

We followed the wood-paneled hallway until we came to a large room. At the far end was a bier draped in dark blue velvet. Lying on top was a polished mahogany casket with oiled bronze handles. It was open at one end and covered at the other end with a spray of white calla lilies and roses. Dozens of other bouquets filled the air with the sweet and spicy fragrances of tuberose and carnations. A string trio plus flute and harp sat off to the side playing Bach's "Sheep May Safely Graze."

I wasn't used to open caskets. In the Jewish tradition, the casket is always closed. I wondered if at some point tonight I'd be required to file past and look at Claire's dead body. I'd already seen it the day we discovered her. I really didn't want to see her again, but I also didn't want to offend her mother. Hopefully Lucy could guide me through the unknown waters of Catholic wake etiquette.

I scanned the room. Two walls were lined with Claire's quilts: those that I'd saved and others I recognized from her files as having been purchased by private collectors.

"Where did all these quilts come from?" asked Birdie. "I don't recognize some of them."

"Some of these are privately owned. Somehow the Terrys must have been able to borrow them for the evening."

"They certainly are displayed professionally. Look at the care with which they've been hung. All the clips along the tops are precisely the same distance apart." I counted three security men on each side of the room. Then I spotted Siobhan in the front row of seats. She seemed diminished, a fragile starling in an elegant black faille suit. "There's Claire's mother. Let's go and pay our respects."

As soon as Siobhan saw me, she reached up and pulled me down to her for an embrace. "Oh, Martha, thank you for coming." The musicians switched to Albinoni's "Adagio in G Minor," a piece poignant enough to make even Cruella De Vil cry. Siobhan glanced at Claire's casket a few feet away with an expression of grief so profound it sliced into my heart. Even if she'd been a negligent parent during Claire's childhood, she was a devastated mother now.

She turned in her seat toward a dapper older man sitting at her right. The fine wool of his black bespoke suit fit him perfectly. Hand st.i.tching around the edges of his lapels screamed money as well as the initials embroidered in tiny blue letters on the cuffs of his crisp white shirt. "This is my husband, Will."

Will Terry was a prisoner of his Irish genes and reminded me faintly of a leprechaun with his small stature, long upper lip, and ruddy complexion. And like a leprechaun, this impeccably dressed little man was sitting on top of a huge pot of gold-not to mention a sewer full of shameful secrets.

I could barely bring myself to look at him as he stood up to greet me. Before I knew what was happening, he grasped my hand in both of his. Eww. Just his touch made me feel dirty all over.

Terry's grip remained firm and strong while he searched my face. The muscles in his square jaw bulged as he clenched his molars and sized me up. Was he trying to guess whether I knew? Well, I was sizing him up, too, wondering if he could've murdered his only child.

He thrust his jaw forward. "Miss Rose, let me say how grateful we are. My wife told me about the unpleasantness with the police."

Yeah. I was in the place you ought to be. Jail. However, all I could bring myself to say was, "I'm sorry for your loss."

He nodded gravely, let go of my hand, and sat.

Lucy cleared her throat.

I reached behind me and waved them over. "I'd like you to meet my friends. This is Birdie Watson, Lucy Mondello, and her husband, Ray."

"You must be the other ladies who discovered . . ." Siobhan stopped and cried softly.

Birdie, her long white hair neatly wrapped in a conservative bun, leaned forward and touched Siobhan's arm. "I really admired your daughter. I was looking forward to getting to know her better. I'm so sorry for your terrible loss."

Siobhan nodded graciously. "Thank you."

The musicians stopped playing and we looked up. The priest stood nearby apparently waiting to speak to the Terrys.

Siobhan turned to me and pulled me down again so she could whisper, "Martha, before we leave tonight, you must tell me what you know about the messages Claire sewed into her quilts."

"Absolutely." Would I really be able to? We walked away and I turned to my friends. "Does anyone have a hand wipe?"

Ray looked at Lucy with a big question mark on his face as she dug a small bottle of Purell out of her purse and handed it to me. She gave him a look that clearly warned, Don't ask.

I squeezed a blob into my palm and scrubbed until my skin was dry again. "Let's sit in the back of the room. I want to see who shows up."

From our seats we counted twenty guild members, including Carlotta Hudson, who wore a homemade number looking like something straight out of the 1940s with little puff sleeves, shoulder pads, and a sweetheart neckline. The bandage I saw on her forearm several days ago was still there, but smaller. When she saw us looking at her, Carlotta's mouth twisted into an unattractive smirk.

Birdie looked hurt. "What's with her?"

"Probably came to gloat. You know, one down and one to go." Lucy was referring to her theory that Carlotta was knocking off the compet.i.tion so she could finally win first place in the applique category at the quilt show.

Birdie had a horrified look.

"Oh, hon', I'm just kidding."

I pointed out Alexander G.o.dwin, who came in with a beautiful brunette. She looked about six months pregnant. G.o.dwin held her elbow and gently guided her to a row in the middle of the room. He briefly smiled at her when they sat down. Then he took her hand and kissed it.

Everyone seemed captivated by this glamorous couple so obviously in love.

"That's Claire's shrink and, I a.s.sume, his wife."

Lucy raised her eyebrows. "They make a perfect-looking couple-she looks like a model and he looks like the actor, whatsisname."

Ray, who'd remained silent up to now, nudged Lucy and gestured toward the front.

The priest had taken his place and was about to start the rosary.

I watched fascinated as Ray's large hands, slightly stained with engine grease and oil, gently fingered the black beads of his rosary.

My heart gave another powerful squeeze.

Lucy was so lucky to have a man who had a spiritual side. Ray was a rock with a humble soul.

Aaron was a Sunday-morning-at-the-deli-lox-and-bagels kind of Jew. He attended services only on the high holidays at the most a.s.similated congregation in the city. The man didn't know the Shema from the Kol Nidre. What would it be like to be married to a man of real faith like Ray?

I closed my eyes and listened to the Hail Mary being recited over and over by a hundred voices. The chanting was calming and rea.s.suring. The closest thing I could compare it to in Judaism was the Mourner's Kaddish. The Kaddish prayer wasn't repeated over and over like the rosary but was recited once at a funeral, three times a day during the period of mourning, at every anniversary of the death, and on solemn holy days thereafter. Reciting the Kaddish gave me great comfort after the death of my bubbie.

During the service, Dixie Barcelona slipped quietly into the room. She walked over to the yellow baby quilt I'd rescued and reached out her hand to touch it. A security man quickly intercepted her with a smile but a firm shake of the head. n.o.body was going to get near those quilts. I tried to get her attention as she looked for a seat, but she seemed oblivious.

How close had Dixie and Claire been? Dixie had given me the impression they were close friends and she'd relied on Claire for years, not only to raise funds but to help teach the children. With her death, Dixie had not only lost a personal friend but an important supporter and advocate for the Blind Children's a.s.sociation. I'd just have to wait until after the service to find out why she never returned my call, although now I was glad she hadn't. The fewer people who knew what Claire wrote in those quilts, the better.

After the service we joined a line of people walking toward Claire's casket. There was a tap on my arm. I turned around. Ingrid, Claire's next-door neighbor, smiled. With her blond hair falling softly on her dark green dress, she was a knockout. Ingrid gave me a weak smile. Was it just my imagination or were her lips a tad plumper than the last time I saw her?

"h.e.l.lo, Martha. This is really sad, isn't it?"

"Unspeakably sad."

Ingrid leaned close and growled in a low, angry voice, "I see Claire's boyfriend is here."

What did she just say? I looked wildly around to see who she was talking about.

"Over there." She scowled and pointed a brightly painted acrylic fingernail. "Can you believe it?"