1 Forget Me Knot (4 page)

C
HAPTER
6

When I got home I went straight to the refrigerator, the place I always visited when I was upset. I was angry about my missing quilt. I’d spent months searching for and buying just the right reproduction fabrics because I wanted my Civil War quilt to be authentic. Now it was missing. Possibly in the hands of the person who murdered Claire Terry.

I cracked open a diet cola and drank straight from the can. Why would anyone want to steal my quilt? Claire’s I could understand; hers sold for thousands of dollars. Maybe the thief thought he could also sell Birdie’s beautiful quilt for the same price. However, why bother with a traditional one like mine? Another quilter or a Civil War collector might appreciate the authenticity, but it was hardly in the same class as the other two.

I pulled out the freezer drawer and rummaged around for the frozen cheese tamales. They were under the Angus burger patties from the supermarket. The phone rang, and I slammed the freezer shut. What now?

“Hi, Martha. It’s Barbara North from the guild. I’m so sorry about your quilt.”

Barbara was the board president. She ran the guild meetings like a drill sergeant, but I didn’t really blame her. The feminist in me hated to admit this, but three hundred chatty women in the same room could be hard to control. Barbara was all about control, a trait I understood and admired.

After my divorce from my manipulative husband, I took charge of my life and vowed never again to allow anyone else to tell me how to feel, think, or live. The only exception I’d ever made had been for my Uncle Isaac, who practically raised me, and my daughter, Quincy. Her needs had always determined my priorities.

“Thanks, Barbara. I just got home from Birdie’s. We were all pretty upset.”

“That’s why I hate to ask you this.” She took a deep breath and her words tumbled out as if she were running a race with them. “Martha, since you’re on the board, and since you had a connection to Claire Terry, and since your quilt was stolen, too, I thought you’d be the logical person to make an official condolence call to the family.” Finish line.

Oh no. The last thing I wanted was to face Claire’s family. What if they asked about finding Claire’s body? What would I tell them?

“Oh really, Barbara, I think as president you’d be the best person to call them.”

“Well, I would, but Hal and I are leaving in about ten minutes, and we won’t be back for two weeks. I can’t trust anyone else on the board. You know how they are. I really need someone sensible to handle this.”

Darn it!
She was right. I gritted my teeth and reached for a pencil and notepad. “Okay, give me the info. It’s spelled
how
?”

I hated things hanging over my head and decided to make the call right away. I deserved an extra tamale for my trouble, so I put two of them in the microwave and dialed the phone number Barbara gave me.

“May I speak to Siobhan Terry?” I pronounced her name “ShaVAHN,” the way Barbara pronounced it.

“May I say who’s callin’?” The woman spoke with a thick Irish brogue.

“This is Martha Rose calling from the West Valley Quilt Guild.”

“May I tell her what this is regardin’?”

Who talks like that anymore
? “This is a condolence call.”

“One moment, please.”

I watched the digital countdown on the microwave. Four minutes and thirty-nine seconds to go. At three minutes to go, the same voice returned to the phone. “Mrs. Terry will speak to ya now.”

There was a click and then a faint voice. “Siobhan Terry.”

“Mrs. Terry? My name is Martha Rose. I’m calling on behalf of the quilt guild to offer our deepest sympathy on the death of your daughter, Claire.”

“Martha Rose did you say?”

“Yes. I just wanted to tell you how sorry—”

“The same Martha Rose who found my daughter?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Miss Rose, I wonder if you’d be kind enough to pay me a visit.”

She was going to ask me about finding Claire. I just knew it. How could I say no? The poor woman just lost her daughter. I resigned myself to the inevitable. “Of course. How about tomorrow?”

“I’d be most grateful. Let me give you my address. Just announce yourself at the gate. Say at two? I’ll have tea waiting.”

I wrote down the information as the microwave dinged. Announce myself at the gate? Not unusual for her million-dollar neck of the woods.

I took out the steaming tamales, peeled off the cornhusks, and plopped them on a plate. My mouth watered at the smell of hot cheese, masa, and peppers. I pulled out a plastic container of guacamole with one more day until the expiration date and plopped about two tablespoons on top of each tamale. No use wasting good guac.

One of the best things about living alone was I didn’t have to worry about cooking for anyone else anymore. Aaron and I’d been divorced for years, and our daughter, Quincy, had her own life working on the East Coast.

I savored the tamales. There was something very comforting about spicy hot food in the stomach. Food didn’t make up for the theft of my Civil War quilt, but eating always made painful things more bearable.
That’s why I have size sixteen hips,
I thought with just a tinge of self-justification.

I reflected again about my Civil War quilt and why so few of the old ones survived. Army supplies were sometimes so scarce soldiers on both sides had to come up with their own provisions. Most families sent their quilts with their fighting men to keep them warm during the bitter winters. Also, groups of women, such as those in the Ladies’ Sanitary Society in the North, got together to make quilts for the Union soldiers.

Those quilts got hard use as bedrolls when the soldiers slept on the ground. Historians estimated that up to seven hundred thousand people died in that war, many of them buried wrapped in their quilts as shrouds.

As I finished the last bite, the phone rang again. It was Lucy.

“Just thought I’d call and see how you’re doing.”

“Lousy!” I told her about the condolence call and the invitation from Siobhan Terry.

“What are you going to tell her?”

“God help me, I don’t know.”

S
UNDAY

C
HAPTER
7

The next day I wound through the very pricey hills of Beverly Hills, pulled up to an iron gate blocking a long driveway, and double checked the address on my Google printout: 248 Benedict Canyon. I rolled down the window and pressed a button next to a speaker on a pole.

A few seconds later a voice asked, “Yes?”

“Martha Rose.”

There was a buzzing sound and the gate swung inward. I looked up into a security camera pointed at my face. At the end of a long driveway stood a very large, white, colonial, two-story mansion with eight columns in front divided by a porte cochere. Holy crap.
Bring out the mint juleps, Hattie. I think I’ve landed at Tara
.

My knock was answered by a red-haired maid dressed in a black dress with a starched white apron. “Please do come in, Miss Rose.” She had the same lilting accent I heard on the phone yesterday. “Mrs. Terry’s expecting ya.”

Who has Irish servant girls these days?
I stepped inside a foyer the size of my entire living room and easily two stories high. The creamy walls were washed with natural light from a window high above the porte cochere. A red silk Tabriz carpet lay in the middle of the white marble floor. Directly ahead was a graceful curving staircase of dark, polished mahogany. To the left was a set of closed double doors and to the right a wide entrance leading into a living room.

I was glad I wore my good pearls with a silk blouse and my Anne Klein skirt. I followed the maid to the right and tried to ignore the slight swishing sound my panty hose made as my thighs rubbed together. I’d been blessed with a Jewish figure: large bosoms and a smallish waist with abundant thighs and rear end.

Siobhan Terry sat like a small bird in an armchair generously upholstered in blue damask. Her long hair was arranged on top of her head creating a white halo around her face. I guessed she was Birdie’s age, but aside from the hair, the similarity ended.

Aquamarines sparkled in her ears, and her gray cashmere sweater hugged her tiny figure. She looked at me with eyes the color of her earrings and extended her right hand but did not rise.

I wrapped both of my hands around the older woman’s. Her fingers were bony and dry. A huge diamond ring pressed sharply into my palm. “Mrs. Terry, I’m Martha Rose.”

“So good of you to come. Please, sit here.” She indicated a matching chair near hers.

I sat and looked around the room. The blue silk drapes pooled extravagantly on the creamy wool carpeting. Crystals hanging from a massive chandelier deflected shards of light around the room. A seventeenth-century oil painting of fruit and flowers on a dark brown background hung over a massive fireplace. Didn’t I once see this very painting at the Getty Museum? If so, it was worth a gazillion dollars.

The maid wheeled in an old-fashioned tea cart with a silver tea service, Belleek china, platters of finger sandwiches, and fancy small cakes.

Siobhan picked up the teapot with both hands. “What do you take in your tea, Ms. Rose?”

“I prefer milk or cream, and please call me Martha.”

The older woman sighed. “The only way to enjoy it, I think. You must call me Siobhan.”

The maid placed a small plate, fork, and linen napkin on the small table next to my chair and brought the platters of food over.

I felt like a schoolgirl taking an important test I hadn’t studied for. What if I spilled something on the pristine furniture or, God forbid, on the creamy wool carpeting? I looked longingly at the chocolate petit fours but chose instead a small cucumber sandwich and a vanilla cookie because if I dropped either of them, the damage would be invisible.

When the maid left the room, Siobhan put down her tea and looked at me with tears in her eyes.

I braced myself.

“Please tell me about my daughter.”

I felt a rush of empathy for this grieving mother. God forbid anything should happen to Quincy. My own tears would never stop.

I pretended I didn’t know where this conversation was headed. “Well, I didn’t know her very well. . . .”

“I mean tell me how you found her. What did she look like?”

Rats!
“Siobhan, I don’t think—”

“Please. I want to know. Did she suffer?”

“I really can’t answer that. When we got there, she was already gone. She was lying on the floor like she just went to sleep.” I was not going to tell Claire’s mother about the vomit around Claire’s mouth and in her hair, or the blood on her hands.

“So you don’t think she suffered?”

“She didn’t look that way to me,” I lied.

“You know”—I hoped to deflect further questions—“Claire was widely admired. She was the best quilter in the guild. My friends and I were so pleased she invited us to quilt with her.”

“I was upset when they told me yesterday a thief stole her quilt.”

“I know how you feel. My quilt and my friend Birdie’s quilt were also stolen.”

“Yes, Detective Beavers told me. Claire had no children, so her quilts are all I have left of her. I think this last one is the best she’d ever done. I’d very much like to get it back.”

“Yes, but I don’t think the police are very optimistic about our chances. They’re more interested in . . .” I stopped myself.

“In who killed her?”

“I’m sorry. Yes. In who killed her.”

The older woman looked somewhere over my shoulder. The blue in her eyes turned to ice and her face hardened. Parchment skin stretched over the white bones of her knuckles as she clenched her fists. “Whoever killed her will pay.”

I didn’t know what to say in the face of her grief and anger. I decided this was one of those times when it was better to just say nothing.

After a minute, Siobhan relaxed a little and looked at me. “How did you get involved in quilting?”

“Well, my grandmother was a quilter. I have fond memories of her cutting out pieces of colorful old clothing and sewing them together to make beautiful patterns. I made my first quilt for my daughter’s crib. That was thirty years and over one hundred quilts ago.”

“I’m afraid I would never have the patience required to sit and sew like that.”

“That’s a common assumption people make. Quilting has nothing to do with patience. Working with your hands can be a form of meditation. It can bring great peace.” I looked at the other woman’s well-manicured hands and doubted they’d ever done a day of work.

“Would you say you know a lot about quilts after thirty years?”

“Actually, yes. I’ve studied technique, textiles, and quilt history extensively.”

“In that case, you may be just the person I’m looking for. Claire once told me her quilts were her journals. When I asked her what she meant, she said they each have a story to tell about her life. Because you know so much about quilts, maybe you can figure out what those stories were.”

“Well, there is such a thing as a Story Quilt. Those depict everyday scenes from the life of the quilt maker. Each block is appliquéd or embroidered to make a scene of some significant event in the quilter’s life. The pictures are usually quite obvious and simple, like planting corn or sweeping the house. The overall effect is primitive but quite charming. Did Claire ever make one of those?”

“No, but I keep thinking maybe she left some kind of message in her quilts.”

“You mean like a note sewn inside each one?”

Siobhan looked up earnestly. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m hoping you can figure out.”

“Why don’t you tell all this to the police?”

“I tried talking to that young detective, but I don’t think he took me seriously.”

“Detective Kaplan, Beavers’s partner?”

“Yes, I think that’s the one.” Siobhan fixed me with a pleading look. “Martha, I want you to look at her quilts. Most are privately owned now, but a few are at Claire’s. Go back to her place. There’s a key on the side of the house. You can let yourself in.”

I remembered Claire’s neighbor, Ingrid, reaching around the corner of Claire’s house to get the key. “Her neighbor took the key to open the door last Tuesday, when we were there.”

“I know. She called. I asked her to put it back. Take the key and keep it for now. See what you can find, and please hurry.”

We stood.

Siobhan appeared diminutive and breakable, but her gaze was firm. “Maybe the clue to my daughter’s death is in her quilts, especially the last one. I keep thinking that whoever stole Claire’s quilt may also have killed her.”

I bent down to hug the older woman, something I wouldn’t have dreamed possible when I first walked into this imposing house. Bird bones hid under her soft cashmere sweater. “I’ll do what I can,” I said, mother to mother. “I promise.”