1 Forget Me Knot (17 page)

C
HAPTER
25

As we moved forward toward Claire’s casket, I slipped out of line and hurried for the door. I couldn’t face looking at Claire’s body. I also wasn’t ready to tell Siobhan what I knew about the quilts. I needed time to figure out what to do about Ingrid’s shocking disclosure. Doctor Alexander Godwin had now soared to the top of my suspect list.

I walked briskly down the hallway, my mind racing. Godwin’s wife was pregnant. Did he know that his lover, Claire, was also pregnant? Had Claire wanted to keep the baby? Had she expected him to leave his wife? Had she threatened to go public with their affair? What if she threatened to withdraw her bequest to BCA? Godwin might stand to lose everything. With Claire dead, his problems would be solved and his secrets would be safe. Maybe.

I started pacing in the lobby. If Claire had told him she sewed her stories into her quilts, Godwin would have good reason to want them to disappear. He didn’t match the physical description of the quilt show thief but, like Will Terry, he could have hired someone else to steal them. Godwin could also have easily gone to the BCA office when nobody was there, taken the quilt and thrown it in the Dumpster, never dreaming it would be rescued by a homeless woman.

There was something else: Alexander Godwin was a doctor with access to drugs. He had both the motive and the means to kill Claire.

I waited in the lobby for my friends as departing mourners streamed past me and out the front doors. I caught a glimpse of Godwin and his wife. That phony. That lying psychopath. There was his wife, tenderly shielding her belly with her hand as they made their way through the crowd. Smiling. Hanging on his arm. Trusting him. What would the awful truth do to her?

Exposing Godwin was going to devastate his poor young wife, and exposing Will Terry was going to devastate Siobhan. Each man wouldn’t have wanted the information in those quilts to become public, and either one could be Claire’s killer. The time had come to call Detective Beavers and tell him what I knew.

How had I gotten myself into this position? Lucy was right. Why couldn’t I just make quilts like a normal person? Right now I would have given anything to be sitting quietly at home running my size-eleven needle through the layers of my blue and white quilt while listening to a good audio book.

I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and looked for Beavers’s business card when Lucy walked up.

“There you are. Where did you go? One minute you were standing in line and the next you disappeared.” She studied my face for a moment. “You look awful. What happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything once we’re out of here.”

As we waited outside for Ray to bring the car, I quickly told them about Ingrid recognizing Godwin as Claire’s lover.

Birdie gasped. “But his wife is pregnant.”

Lucy made a disgusted noise. “What a sleaze.”

“Yeah.” I punched in Detective Beavers’s number. “He has plenty of motive to silence Claire.” After the fourth ring, I got voice mail. “This is Martha Rose. You need to call me back right away. I think Dr. Alexander Godwin could have killed Claire. I just found out they were lovers, and there’s more. Claire’s father also had a good reason to silence her. The information is all in the quilts. Call me back and I’ll explain everything.” I left my number and then disconnected.

Lucy bent her head and whispered, “Don’t look now, but a foul wind is blowing.”

Carlotta Hudson breezed up to us with her usual sour expression. She examined her fingernails, then focused on Birdie. “This is a real shame, isn’t it? The death of someone so talented. Let’s hope this isn’t some kind of trend.”

Birdie looked puzzled.

Carlotta leaned closer, her crow’s beak just inches from Birdie’s face, her eyes glittering behind her lavender glasses. “I mean, someone is killing quilters and stealing their prize-winning quilts. Did you ever wonder if you might be next?” Then Carlotta looked at Lucy and smiled. “Of course, you won’t have any reason to worry, Lucy. Only the good quilters seem to be in danger.”

“Well, you must also be greatly relieved. Didn’t the thief leave your quilt behind?”

“Witch!” Carlotta murmured as she turned and walked away. She headed for another group of quilters and as she got closer, she pulled a tissue out of her pocket and dabbed at her dry eyes.

Birdie put her hand on Lucy’s arm. “You know what? I do believe you might be right about Carlotta killing the competition.”

Lucy squeezed Birdie’s shoulder. “Hon’, Carlotta Hudson would have to kill off half the guild to be the best quilter around. She’s not that crazy. She’s just an out and out poor loser. Don’t you worry about her.”

I looked around. “I wonder what’s keeping Ray.”

Dixie Barcelona strode toward me with the same energy I remembered from before. Her short, frizzy hair looked slightly deranged and the dark circles under her eyes suggested she wasn’t getting much sleep.

Dixie thrust her arm forward, pumping my hand in a hard grip. “I’m so glad I found you, Martha.”

After a round of introductions she peered at me through the thick lenses of her glasses. “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you before. My cell phone was out of juice, and I didn’t realize it until this evening. You said you needed help, something about Claire’s quilts?”

“Oh, false alarm. I figured out what I needed to know and, as you can see, the baby quilt made it safely back to the Terrys. How’s the silent auction going?”

“Lots of work, especially now Claire’s gone.” She looked at us eagerly. “You know, I’m still looking for donations to the auction. This is one of our major fund-raisers, and the people who attend are looking for unique and beautiful items to buy. All proceeds go to programs teaching Braille to children. I wonder if any of you ladies have a quilt you’d like to donate?”

Birdie shook her head.

Lucy shrugged sympathetically. “Not right now, but if you let me know with enough time before your next event, I could probably whip up a baby quilt.”

A picture of the little blind boy walking awkwardly into the elevator flashed through my mind. He clung to his mother’s hand, trying to navigate through unseen territory. “I actually have a small quilt I can donate. You should be able to get a few hundred dollars for it.” The quilt was a wall hanging I’d entered in last year’s show, featuring a center medallion with appliquéd fruit in a basket and borders pieced with one-inch patches. The thing was only about thirty inches square but represented dozens of hours of stitching.

Dixie gushed. “You ladies are unbelievably generous. Martha, when can I come over to pick up your quilt?” We settled on Sunday evening.

Back at Lucy’s house, I stood at the refrigerator giving Bumper a late night snack of cheese when my cell phone rang.

“You’re still playing amateur detective?” asked Beavers.

“Nice to talk to you, too.” I tore open a small package of M&Ms and spread the contents on the kitchen table.

“So . . .” The tinge of amusement in his voice really annoyed me. “What evidence did you uncover implicating Dr. Godwin and Will Terry? The entire homicide division of the LAPD would be grateful to know.”

I refused to rise to the bait. He’d be singing a different tune soon enough. “It’s complicated.” I crunched a red M&M and lined up another. I preferred to finish one color at a time.

“Well, let’s start with Godwin. How did you find out he and Claire were lovers?”

I told him what Ingrid saw as I separated out all the green ones. “Godwin was Claire’s lover and is presumably the father of her unborn child, but he already has a pregnant wife.”

By the silence on the other end, I was pretty sure Beavers was considering the implications much the same way I did.

“Of course,” I continued, “her father also had a strong motive to get rid of her quilts. He could have killed Claire out of desperation to protect the secrets hidden in them.”

“Her father? What possible evidence . . .”

I told him about deciphering Claire’s quilts and what was hidden in the Braille of the French knots. By the time I’d finished talking, all that were left were the yellow and brown M&Ms.

Silence again. “First of all, I gotta admit I’m really impressed with how you figured that whole message thing out, Martha. You really do know quilts. But you aren’t an expert in Braille. Are you absolutely certain that is what you read?”

“Disgustingly certain.”

“Have you told anyone else about this?”

“Just Lucy and Birdie.”

“What about Mrs. Terry? Have you told her?”

“She knows I’ve cracked the code, but she doesn’t know the code is Braille or what the messages are. Frankly, I don’t want to be the one to tell her, so I’ve been avoiding her.”

“Good. I don’t want the three of you talking to anyone about this. I need some time to check this out. If you’re right about Godwin, he’s murdered once and would probably murder again.”

“What about Will Terry?”

“You don’t want Will to suspect you know about him and Claire. He’s a very powerful man. If he could kill his daughter, he wouldn’t think twice about having you killed. You’d be wise to stay at the Mondellos for now.”

I put the last brown M&M into my mouth. “I admit I was terrified at the thought of someone breaking in to my house and stabbing me. Now I’m just mad! My new alarm system will be hooked up tomorrow, so after Claire’s funeral, I’m going back to my house. I need to start cleaning, and I want to sleep in my bed again.”

Beavers sighed. “I didn’t think I could talk you out of going back home, so I’ve arranged for some extra protection.”

“Extra protection? I won’t need protection since I’m going to take one of Ray’s guns home with me.”

“Not! You need a permit to have a gun, and that process takes time you don’t have.”

Oh crap
. I shouldn’t have mentioned the gun. “Did I say I had a gun already? I only meant I could get one if I need it.”

Beavers wasn’t about to be brushed off so easily. “Suppose you did have a gun. Are you prepared to shoot to kill? Because if you hesitate at all, the killer will disarm you and kill you instead. Trust me. Statistics show you’d be the one most likely to be hurt. What I’m proposing is better than a gun, and a lot safer.”

“What is it?”

“Arthur.”

“Who?”

F
RIDAY

C
HAPTER
26

I woke up Friday morning at eight-thirty and looked out the window to see what kind of day it would be for Claire’s funeral. The weather was typical for late April in Los Angeles: the slightest breeze, aqua skies, plenty of sunshine, and dappled shade from the new green leaves of the liquidambars lining the streets. LA contained the largest urban forest in the nation, and every single tree was teeming with songbirds.

I’d attended many funerals over the years, beginning with my grandmother’s when I was nine. Bubbie’s casket was closed, according to Jewish law. During the service, the cantor sang El Maleh Rahamim, God Full of Compassion, and the mourners recited the Kaddish. While Uncle Isaac talked about how sweet and generous Bubbie had been, I sobbed into my mother’s lap.

I couldn’t imagine my life without Bubbie’s soft hands coaxing my unruly curls into braids, “just like challah,” or her Friday night dinners beginning with chicken soup, ending with apple crisp, and served on the lace tablecloth she crocheted as a young bride. The ache in my heart would take years to subside.

Yet that was the right order of things, the young burying the old. How much more excruciating for Siobhan to bury her daughter today? Did a parent ever recover?

After Bubbie’s graveside service, we returned to the house we’d all shared: Bubbie, Uncle Isaac, Mother, and me. A pitcher of water and a towel waited for us on the front porch so, according to tradition, we could wash death and the cemetery off our hands before entering our house of mourning. All the relatives, neighbors, and friends were there eating and talking softly.

The first thing I noticed was that all the mirrors in our house had been covered with cloth according to Jewish tradition. During the time of mourning, we were supposed to focus on prayer, grief, and communion with God. To help in that pursuit, we would not be allowed to look at ourselves for an entire seven days.

I went to the table to get some deviled eggs before they were all gone. My ugly aunt Esther intercepted me and whispered, “Poor little
mamser,
no Bubbie to wipe your tushie anymore.” Aunt Esther and I had been secret enemies ever since I was three. I was terrified of the large brown mole that disfigured her right cheek and once when she insisted on holding me, I screamed and peed on her lap. From then on she called me a bastard whenever nobody else was around. At such a young age I was confused about what the word meant. I knew it had something to do with my never knowing my father, but my family told me he died before I was born. Could I help it if I was a half orphan?

I put two eggs on my plate and looked up at her. Three black hairs grew out of her mole and her eyes gleamed, but not from tears. “You’re the only one who hasn’t cried yet,” I observed.

“Feh,” she spat, and walked away.

I shrugged away the memory and wondered who wouldn’t be crying at Claire’s funeral today.

It had felt good sleeping in, but I knew I needed to hustle to get dressed in the outfit I’d brought from home—a chocolate-colored linen dress and my good strand of Mikimoto pearls. As I put on my shoes, Lucy knocked on the bedroom door. “You up yet?”

I opened the door and smiled as Lucy, wearing all black again, thrust a cup of coffee into my hands. “Glad to see you’re dressed. We’re leaving in about an hour, and you haven’t eaten breakfast yet. You’ll need something that sticks to your ribs.”

I walked to the stove and helped myself to some steaming oatmeal with raisins, sprinkling on a heaping spoonful of brown sugar and topping it off with milk. As I ate, I told Lucy about my conversation with Beavers last night. “He warned me not to take Ray’s gun. Said I need a permit. Then he told me he was getting me a bodyguard named Arthur. Don’t you think that’s—excuse the pun—overkill?”

Lucy smiled. “Until the murderer is caught, it might not be such a bad idea. Wasn’t that sweet of the detective to arrange a bodyguard? I think he likes you, Martha.”

Oh God. Lucy was worse than a mother. I rolled my eyes and finished my cereal, secretly wondering if she were right about the him liking me thing.

Ray, still in protective mode, insisted on driving us. Before Birdie arrived, he tucked a handgun into his waistband, concealed under his jacket like he had the night before. “Where to?” He started the engine.

Lucy checked the paper in her hand. “St. Genesius Catholic Church on Maple and Santa Monica in Beverly Hills.”

“St. Genesius?” asked Birdie. “That’s not a name I’ve heard before. Who was he?”

Ray looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Beats me.”

“I Googled him. The church was built in the nineteen thirties by the movie people. St. Genesius was the patron saint of actors, theatrical performers, clowns, and lawyers.”

Ray snickered. “Like there’s a difference?”

We drove over Coldwater Canyon in silence, arriving at the church with about twenty minutes to spare. St. Genesius was easy to spot—a neogothic stone building with pointed windows and slender twin towers on either side of the arched entryway.

We cruised the surrounding streets until we found a parking spot suitably safe for Ray’s car. Ray offered Birdie his arm as we walked slowly up the broad front steps, blending with the crowd streaming in to the church. When we reached the bottleneck at the door, Ray positioned himself in front of us, unbuttoned his jacket and, with his head slowly moving from side to side, constantly scanned the crowd.

When Detective Beavers walked toward us, Ray’s shoulders seemed to relax a little.

Beavers shook Ray’s hand. “You remind me of a cop, Mr. Mondello.”

“Nam. Military police.”

“Right.” Beavers never took his eyes off Ray. “You got a permit to carry a weapon?”

Ray returned the look, his hand moving slightly to button his jacket. “What weapon?”

“I’m not in the mood to confiscate concealed weapons today. Especially if the weapon stays concealed.”

Ray nodded once.

Beavers turned to go. “Best to leave the policing to the ones who get paid for it.”

Lucy covered her head with her black lace mantilla as we entered the sanctuary and filed into a pew at the back, the better to observe the mourners. Ray took the aisle seat and unbuttoned his jacket again.

The congregation rose when three boys in white robes, one holding a cross, walked in as eight pallbearers in white gloves carried the mahogany casket into the church. Two priests dressed in white vestments met the coffin at the doorway and escorted it down the aisle.

Next came the Terrys, escorted by another priest. Will Terry stared straight ahead, clenching and unclenching his teeth so the muscles rippled in his square jaw. Siobhan’s head was bowed in grief. I couldn’t be sure because it happened so quickly, but I thought I saw Siobhan stumble slightly. Will reached out to steady her, but she quickly drew away from him, leaning instead on the arm of the priest. Then they sat down in the front row and I thought I recognized several dignitaries, including one United States senator. The Terrys were no lightweights, that was for certain.

We sat and my mouth fell open as I took in the sheer scale of the interior. Stained glass windows lined both sides of the sanctuary, depicting the stations of the cross. In the nearest window Jesus carried a cross while a crown of thorns sent blood drops cascading down his face. A woman on the side of the road held out a piece of cloth, but a Roman soldier barricaded her way with an outstretched spear. I had learned something about the cross Claire bore in her lifetime and, in wanting to help find justice for her, I felt just like the woman on the side of the road.

I looked farther up. A graceful network of tall buttresses crisscrossed to form points high up in the vaulted ceiling. On the front wall hung a huge gold-leafed crucifix with a compassionate Jesus looking down on Claire’s casket, feet facing the altar.

I was impressed to see the resident cardinal in attendance, standing near the altar with his distinctive red biretta and cape. The press often suggested he was an influential part of the Catholic hierarchy and had the ear of the pope. His presence today only underscored how well placed the Terry family was.

Off to one side of the podium was a lectern raised up higher so the priest would have to ascend a few stairs to give his homily. The whole purpose of the soaring interior space and the priest’s aerie was to draw the eye upward toward heaven, the source of all hope. All very inspirational and theatrical.

I turned around. Detective Beavers stood in the back, eyes scanning the crowd the same way Ray had done outside. A few stragglers were trying to find seats. One of them was Jerry Bell, Claire’s son. Beavers looked at him with keen interest as he walked to a seat two rows in front of us, genuflected, and sat far enough to the side that I could just make out his profile.

Birdie sat on the other side of me, sniffing and dabbing her eyes throughout the service. Beyond her, Lucy sat with Ray’s comforting arm around her shoulders. She wore the pink and diamond bracelet he’d given her after we discovered Claire’s body.

When a vocalist sang “Ave Maria,” I reached into my purse for a tissue. Mothers losing children. It was too much to bear.

Remembering the way he teared up the day I told him of his mother’s death, I was curious to see Jerry Bell sitting stony-faced throughout the service. I didn’t know Claire very well, and yet here I was dabbing my eyes and blowing my nose. Where were his tears?

Maybe my suspicions on the day we met were true. Maybe Jerry Bell was the real killer. After all, he had a motive. As her son, he could file a claim to Claire’s sizable estate. All that talk about reconciliation might have been a smoke screen to cover up anger at having been given up for adoption.

Could he be the one who broke into my house three nights ago and stuck a knife in my pillow? I turned around and looked for Beavers, but he was gone.

At the end of the service, we all stood as Claire’s coffin was carried back out of the sanctuary to the hearse waiting outside. Siobhan and Will Terry walked slowly behind, Will working his jaw.

I glanced again at Jerry, who watched the Terrys with sharp interest. The muscles in his square jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth. Just like Will Terry. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Jerry was taller than Will, but both of them shared the same military posture, square jaw, long upper lip, and blue eyes.

Wait a minute. How old was Jerry? Around thirty? Claire was fourteen when he was born. Was her father still molesting her at the time? Oh my God! My stomach did a nasty leap. I’d just stumbled onto another of Claire’s horrible secrets. What if she didn’t get pregnant by a boy in school whose name she conveniently forgot? What if that part of the story was to hide the fact Will Terry was Jerry’s real father?