1 Forget Me Knot (20 page)

“He’s made himself right at home.”

“That would be an easy thing to do with you.”

I stared at the phone for a while, trying to decide if I heard him correctly. “My goodness, Detective, are you flirting with me?”

He chuckled. “What do you think?”

What did I think? I thought I should run right down to Weight Watchers and sign up.

C
HAPTER
30

I spent the rest of the morning straightening up the mess the killer made of my bedroom four nights before. After the break-in, Joey and Richie picked up my clothes the best they could, but I needed to finish the job.

I was surprised to discover I owned thirty-two short-sleeved T-shirts. Some I hadn’t worn for ages because stubborn food stains sat on the front where the girls formed a shelf big enough to catch a man falling from a three-story building.

As a quilter, I knew something about stains. For instance, soaking cotton fabric in black tea would permanently give it a darker hue. Many quilters used tea dying to soften the colors of a fabric. Also some unscrupulous antique dealers had been known to take a modern quilt made with reproduction fabrics and soak it in hot tea to make it look old, because antique quilts sold for a lot more money.

Another quilter’s trick was to soak indigo-dyed cotton with pure Ivory Soap in very hot water to set the dye and stop it from bleeding color. Also, most quilters knew if you pricked your finger with a needle and bled on your quilt, spitting on the fabric would take out the stain because your saliva dissolves your blood.

Food stains, however, if not treated immediately, were often impossible to remove from colored cotton. So I threw twenty-one T-shirts in the rag bag.

When I finished sorting my clothes at one in the afternoon, my stomach was growling. I’d managed to edit my entire wardrobe and was bagging all the old clothes destined for Goodwill. I was wondering whether to replace them now or wait until I lost some weight when the phone rang.

“Have you eaten yet?” Beavers had an annoying habit of not identifying himself when he called.

“No, Detective, and I’m starving. What about the license plate? Did you find out who it belongs to?”

“Yes. I’ll be there in twenty minutes with your laptop and the best barbeque you’ll ever eat.” He hung up.

I took one look at my sweaty self, tore off my dusty clothes, and jumped in the shower. Five minutes later I towel dried my curls and put on a pair of gray linen trousers and a peach-colored blouse with pin tucks on the front and little pearl buttons. I reached for the spray bottle of Marc Jacobs and this time I used it. Before I slipped into my sandals, I put a tiny gold ring I hadn’t worn since the 1980s on the middle toe of my right foot.

Arthur started barking and wiggling his body in ecstasy as soon as Beavers pulled up in front of the house. When I opened the door, Beavers grinned and handed me a large paper bag smelling of garlic and hickory smoke.

“I’ll need you to sign for your laptop.” He put it on the coffee table along with some kind of official-looking papers.

As I unpacked the food on the dining room table, Beavers bent down and ruffled the dog’s fur. “Hey, Artie, you been taking good care of this lady?” The dog licked his face in adoration. Bumper watched without blinking from a safe distance away.

I realized when he stood from petting the dog that Beavers wore his off-duty clothes again—cowboy boots, a crisp western shirt, and jeans that hugged his body perfectly. I blinked my eyes rapidly and felt warmth creeping up the sides of my face. “I forgot this was Saturday. I’ve disturbed you on your day off again.”

“I’m not complaining.” He rolled up his sleeves and walked toward the sink to wash his hands. I caught a whiff of his woodsy cologne as he passed, and I couldn’t help admiring this view of his hard bottom. Nor could I overlook his muscular forearms as he helped me open the food containers.

A mountain of food sat in front of us, enough for several people. “What, no dessert?”

Beavers smiled slowly and looked at me, letting his eyes roll down the front of my blouse and come to rest at my feet. I quickly turned around to get plates and forks and set the table with shaking hands. He must have been looking at my toes. Maybe I should have waited to put on the toe ring.

I put two slices of tri tip with crispy edges on my plate and then covered them with barbeque sauce, wondering how many Weight Watcher points I was going to have to pretend I didn’t eat. I added crunchy coleslaw, beans, mashed sweet potatoes, and corn on the cob. I passed on the fresh baguettes—too many carbs.

“So what about the license plate? Who owns the car?”

He split open a baguette and forked on slices of tri tip. “The car belongs to a Carlotta Hudson.”

Carlotta from the quilt guild! Somehow I always knew she was a little crackers. I could just see her skulking through the dark to booby-trap our front porches with dog crap and nasty notes, but I couldn’t picture her actually killing someone. “Carlotta is the killer?”

“No, she was attending some kind of quilting conference in San Jose the night of the killing. She also alibied out for almost every night after. We checked them out. When we pressed her, however, she did confess to putting those packages on the porches.” He smoothed a layer of coleslaw on top of everything, closed the sandwich, and before he took a bite he asked, “Do you know why she would be driven to such a juvenile act?”

“Pure jealousy and spite. She’s the kind of quilter who enters a quilt in half a dozen shows in the hopes of earning a prize. The best she’s ever been able to pull off is third place because she’s just not that good.”

I noticed a bit of sauce clinging to his mustache and stopped myself just in time from reaching over and wiping his mouth. “So did you throw her in jail?”

Beavers shook his head. “At worst it was malicious mischief. That doesn’t earn you jail time.”

“Well, what about trespassing?”

“She could only be trespassing if she went through a barrier onto fenced-off property. All of your houses are open to the streets.”

My voice rose with indignation. “Well, what if we insist on pressing charges?”

“The DA doesn’t prosecute ‘mal mish’ cases. At the most you’d get a referral to a dispute resolution counselor.”

I put down my fork and jabbed at my chest with my thumb. “You mean I was forced to stay in that putrid jail overnight for nothing while this crazy woman gets a free pass?” I slapped the table with the palm of my hand. “How fair is that?”

He raised a bottle of Heineken to his lips. “I’m sorry, Martha. Your arrest was a mistake, but Carlotta Hudson gets to walk this time.”

“When were you planning to break the news about Carlotta to Lucy and Birdie?”

“This afternoon.”

I vigorously cut my meat into small pieces. “Maybe I should pay Carlotta’s front porch a visit some night.”

“I didn’t hear that. To change the subject, how’s the food?”

“Tastes really great.” I wasn’t ready yet to forget about Carlotta, and certainly not ready to forgive. “Are you a barbeque expert?” Judging from his western attire, I guessed Beavers probably came from some state where they ate barbeque all the time; like Texas or Kansas. Almost everyone in California came from somewhere else.

“Well, I’ve developed a taste for it. Where I grew up, we ate a lot of fish.”

“Where was that?” I was now thinking Louisiana or the gulf coast of Alabama.

“Oregon. Siletz Reservation on the north coast.”

“You’re Native American?” Nothing could have surprised me more, and yet the more I looked at him, the more I saw it in his dark eyes.

“Half. My mother. Never knew my father. He was some white dude she picked up in a bar. I grew up with my grandparents on the rez near Lincoln City. They were good people.” He looked at me and grinned. “I’m a good guy, too. They raised me right.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“Died of an overdose in the sixties.”

I don’t know why I decided to tell him about myself, but hearing about his childhood made me go all soft inside. “I never knew my father either. His name was Quinn. My family always maintained he died in a train wreck before I was born, but mean Aunt Esther always called me a mamser.”

“What’s that?”

“Illegitimate. So I’ve always had my doubts. When I met Jerry Bell and heard how he located his birth mother, it started me thinking. I’ve never actually seen my mother’s marriage certificate, so the only thing I know about my father is his first name, Quinn. I once asked my mother why my last name was the same as hers and Bubbie’s and Uncle Isaac’s. She just told me, ‘It was easier that way.’

“Anyway, my mother never seemed to recover completely. She wasn’t very functional and needed to be taken care of. We lived with my grandmother and my uncle Isaac. Bubbie died when I was nine, so my uncle Isaac just sort of took over. He even put me through college.”

“Sounds like he was just as good as a father.”

“Yeah. He warned me against marrying my ex. He said, ‘He’s not for you, faigela.’”

“What does that mean?”

“Little bird.”

Beavers smiled. “That sounds Indian.”

I smiled back. “My uncle is a wise man. He warned me Aaron would break my heart, but I was too young and infatuated to listen to him. I stubbornly defended Aaron because he was going to be a doctor and help sick people. My uncle said, ‘Doctor, schmokter. He’s a schmuck.’”

Beavers chuckled. “Maybe you should have listened to him.”

“Ya think? But much to Uncle Isaac’s credit, when my heart did get broken, he never said a word. He just loved me as usual and helped me and my daughter, Quincy, to get through it. He’s still alive and well, and I adore him.”

“I can see why. What about your mother?”

“She continued to live in her own world. She died of cancer about ten years ago. Her last words to me weren’t ‘I love you,’ but ‘Where’s Quinn?’”

Beavers listened intently. “Are you interested in finding out more about your father? You’re obviously good at research. Not that I approve, but look at the way you uncovered so much information about Claire Terry.”

“I’m still thinking about it. I’m fifty-five years old. If there’s a chance he didn’t really die in a train wreck, he might still be alive. He could even still be in his seventies. But I’m not sure I’m brave enough to go there.”

“I think you’re brave. Reckless, but brave. But it’s time for you to back off this case, Martha. I’d much rather see you researching your father’s identity than digging into this dangerous murder.”

I waved my hand dismissively. I wasn’t going to stop until Claire’s murderer was found, and deep down I’m sure he knew it. “What about you? What was it like growing up on the reservation?”

“Well, I guess I have a similar story. My grandparents did for me what your grandmother and uncle did for you. We didn’t have much, but I was lucky. My grandfather worked me so hard I didn’t have time to get in trouble, and my grandmother insisted I get an education. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for them.”

“They must be very proud of you, being an LAPD detective and all.”

Beavers smiled. “They wanted me to become a lawyer. Fight for Indian rights, but I decided to pursue the law in a different way.”

“Are they still alive?”

“No. If they were, they’d be over a hundred.”

“You were lucky to have such loving grandparents. Think of Jerry Bell and the awful situation he’s facing.”

Beavers nodded. “Claire Terry lived a tangled-up life.”

“So you’re no closer to finding the killer? What about Claire’s quilts? Have you translated them? What do they say?”

“The Terrys have powerful friends. There’s been a lot of pressure on my captain and on the DA to back off and leave the grieving family alone. Consequently, the DA has been reluctant to move on getting a warrant. Bottom line, the quilts are still with the Terrys.”

“I don’t believe it! The rich and powerful always seem to escape the rules the rest of us have to live by.”

“Don’t worry. We,
and I don’t mean you,
aren’t through with our investigation. We,
the police,
will get the guy who did this.”

He cleared off the table while I rinsed the dishes. Working together seemed as natural as if we’d been doing this for years. I was pissed about Carlotta and even more pissed about the quilts. I still kept a little something up my sleeve I didn’t want Beavers to know about. I wanted him to leave so I could get to it. I thrust the last dish in the dishwasher, wiped my hands on a dish towel, and looked pointedly at the clock. “Thanks for the lunch break; the food was delicious.”

Beavers glanced at my foot and started to say something but must have thought better of it. “I’ll get going as soon as you sign for your laptop.”

I completed the release form, and he handed me a copy as I walked him to the front door.

“I’m beginning to figure you out, Martha. You’ve got that look that tells me you’re up to something. Even though we know who is responsible for the dog poop, we still have a killer on the loose, a killer who put a knife in your pillow.”

He folded up his copy of the release and put it in his breast pocket. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me so keenly I couldn’t concentrate. “If you know something else, now’s the time to tell me. Don’t do anything stupid.”

He really looked worried. Impulsively, I stood on my tiptoes to give his cheek a reassuring peck. The next thing I knew, he was kissing me. Deeply and thoroughly. I closed my eyes and lost all sense of space. East, west, north, south, up, down, all swirled around me. I could drown in this man. Finally I pulled away and we stared at each other, shocked by the electrical storm that just sizzled through us.

“Sorry.” He grinned and pointed down. “That little gold thing . . .”

Hallelujah. I was happy to know that after all these years my lucky toe ring still worked.