Gone But Knot Forgotten (14 page)

C
HAPTER
19

Shortly after detective Farkas left, Julian Kessler, my forensic accountant, called.

“This is Julian. I found something.”

“Already? Good or bad?”

“It's big. Come to my office.”

The clock read one. “I can be there by two.”

I changed out of my yoga clothes into black trousers and a loose-fitting white blouse to hide my curves. I arrived in Kessler's waiting room early and knocked at the sliding glass window.

“Hello, Mrs. Rose.” Isis, with the spiked hair and multiple piercings, smiled brightly. A small sapphire sparkled in her left nostril. “He's expecting you.” She buzzed me through.

Kessler waited for me in his doorway, wearing jeans and a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt.

“Nice. You're early.” His Adam's apple bounced.

Once again he sat in the chair directly facing me. He handed me a printout listing twenty monthly checks paid to WC Household Maintenance for $9,900 each—totaling nearly $200,000. “One of my guys got suspicious. He couldn't find invoices or a contract corresponding to the payments, so he shot this over to me. When I saw the amount of the disbursements, I knew exactly what happened.” He sat back with a satisfied nod of his head.

“Okay, you have my full attention.”

His fingers drummed on top of his thighs. “All the checks were under ten thousand dollars, the magic number triggering an IRS algorithm for reporting bank transactions. Someone greedy wanted to siphon off as much as possible and still stay under the radar.”

“Who?”

“We haven't discovered who owns WC Household Maintenance yet, but all the checks were signed by Abernathy.”

“Crap! Abernathy embezzled funds from Harriet?” I closed my eyes. This whole probate thing just blew up in my face. Visions of lawsuits and years of legal problems clawed at the right side of my head, and my neck muscles slowly tightened. Did Harriet know? Did she confront Abernathy and threaten to expose him? Did Abernathy kill Harriet to keep his secret? “What do we do now?”

“I spoke to Abernathy earlier. He swears he knew nothing about the theft. He claims he signs hundreds of checks every week without really looking at them.”

“Do you believe him?”

Kessler hesitated. “At best, Abernathy got too lazy to properly oversee Mrs. Oliver's finances. Someone in accounting could have slipped bogus checks in with a large pile of legit ones, knowing he'd never look at the documentation. Abernathy's worried Mrs. Oliver's account isn't the only one they stole from. He wants to meet with me to ‘make it right.'”

“Come on, Julian. Tell me the truth. Is this why the DA scrutinized Abernathy's office?”

“No.”

I massaged my right temple. “I don't trust him anymore.”

“But you can trust me. Let me handle Abernathy before you decide anything.”

“At this point, what choice do I have? Did you find anything else?”

“Not so far. Most of my staff's working on the Oliver audit now.”

I got up to leave. “I don't get it. Why couldn't you tell me this over the phone?”

Kessler also stood and looked at the floor and mumbled. “I don't care if you do have slippers older than me, I'd like to take you out for dinner tonight. . . .”

How could I discourage this guy without alienating him? I needed his help more than ever. “To tell you the truth, Julian”—I moved toward the door—“I'm already dating a younger man.”

He looked up quickly. “So you're open to the possibility?”

 

 

I drove the short distance to Harriet's. Thankfully, the media circus was gone. One or two curious onlookers drove slowly past the house as I pulled into the driveway behind Carl's Corvette. He walked with me to the front door. I unlocked the entrance and handed him the spare key.

Carl headed toward the library. “I'm going to work on my computer.”

I headed upstairs to Harriet's closet.

The wooden stairs creaked a little as I climbed to the second floor. Outside her bedroom window, the yard below appeared exhausted and ravaged by the digging and sifting. A gaping hole stood where the flower bed used to be, and mounds of soil formed hillocks on the lawn. I'd pay Rudy and his guys extra to erase the damage done by the SID field unit.

The discovery of Nathan's body raised a new question. Who would be responsible for his new burial? His only next of kin were Estella and the elusive Henry. Would they step up or would I have to arrange yet another funeral?

I flipped the switch in Harriet's closet. The light hurt my eyes—part of the migraine thing. Trying to ignore the pounding in my head, I searched through the pockets of all her pants, jackets, and coats. Aside from a used Kleenex and a creased twenty-dollar bill, I found nothing of interest—no jewelry, no correspondence, no clues. A set of blue canvas luggage stood on the top shelf, along with stacks of clear plastic bins containing more folded clothes, hats, and handbags.

Standing on my tiptoes, I could barely reach the bottom of the stack of luggage, so I grabbed a hanger and slipped the hook through the handle of the bottom suitcase. I pulled and jumped back as three pieces of luggage tumbled to the floor.

My head throbbed when I bent over to see if Harriet hid her good jewelry or the Declaration Quilt inside. I unzipped the carry-on first. Only an old shaving kit sat inside. The next two large pieces were empty, except for garment hangers and four plastic shoe bags.

Darn!
Another dead end.

I rolled my head around my stiff neck and looked up. Whoa! There in the ceiling was a trapdoor, previously hidden by the stack of luggage. Was this the entrance to Lucy's hidden room?

A thin rope hung down about two feet, too high for me to reach. I looked around for something to stand on and spied a round tuffet upholstered in the same rose velvet covering as the bed and windows in Harriet's bedroom. I dragged the fancy stool underneath the rope and climbed on it.

With a short tug on the rope, the trapdoor opened and a ladder descended at an angle, forming a slanted staircase. I climbed the ladder far enough to poke my head and shoulders into the attic. It smelled dusty and dry. Afternoon daylight crept in through the dormer windows, creating a gray gloom. The heating and air-conditioning equipment hummed in the middle of the large space. Otherwise, the room appeared empty. I climbed back down.

Looking through Harriet's closet completed my search of her house. Despite Lucy's pounding every wall and searching every nook and cupboard, she'd found no secret hiding place. I reluctantly accepted the inevitable truth. A fortune had been stolen from Harriet Oliver's house. My watch read three-thirty, and I was slightly nauseated. Time to go home.

The pounding in my brain increased on the ride to Encino. As soon as I opened my front door, Arthur greeted me with an eager tail, and Bumper rubbed against my ankles. I fed them early and took my headache meds. Then I made a cup of strong black coffee and rested. Often called an aura, a jagged arc of light—or scotoma—appeared in my visual field growing larger and larger until it disappeared. Twenty minutes later the throbbing ebbed to a dull, foggy ache.

I felt well enough to make dinner at five. Arthur and Bumper watched my every move as I took a chicken out of the refrigerator and rubbed the skin with olive oil, salt, and spices. Drool dripped from the corner of Arthur's mouth as I popped the pan in a hot oven. After fifteen minutes the kitchen smelled like garlic, rosemary, and cumin. The phone rang while I washed the skin of five white rose potatoes.

Uncle Isaac's voice wheedled, “So? Do you have any good news for me?”

I dreaded this conversation. “Not really. We found the body of Harriet's husband buried in their backyard. And I just learned someone embezzled money from her account. Also, several valuable items are officially missing from her house.”

“
Oy gavalt!
You found another body? Martha Rivka Harris Rose, stop this
mishugas!
”

“I don't go out looking for bodies, Uncle. They just seem to pop up around me.”

“Someone has given you the evil eye. Are you wearing your
hamsa
?” He alluded to a gold charm symbolizing the protective hand of God.

“I'm fine, Uncle. Don't worry so much.”

“You shouldn't be alone.” He waited a beat. “Sooo, maybe you've seen Yossi Levy lately?”

Here we go.
“Yes, I saw him last night.”

“
Nu?
What did you talk about?”

I could just imagine him rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I think you know, Uncle.”

He chuckled with delight. “Did he pop the question?”

I rolled my eyes at this archaic expression. “Yes.”

“So tell me already. When are we going to have a wedding?”

“I told Yossi he can run to you and Morty all he wants, but I won't decide until I'm ready, and I'm not ready. So please butt out.”

He clicked his tongue. “I hate to say this,
faigela,
but you're not getting any younger.”

The headache that started at Kessler's office began to throb again. How could I deflect this conversation? “Speaking of not getting any younger, how's Morty? I'm worried about him. He left your house with Paulina right after the funeral.”

“Who's Paulina?”

“The young woman with a scarf wrapped around her head, wearing a purple cape.”

Uncle Isaac laughed. “The little zaftig one? I should've known. Morty likes a substantial woman.”

“Oh my God! He's over eighty-eight years old and she's nothing but a young con artist. You've got to warn him, Uncle.”

“Maybe you should warn the young lady instead. Morty's latest girlfriend, Marilyn Teitelbaum from the mahjong group, can't keep up with him and she's only seventy. The one before her died of a heart attack.”

Unwelcomed pictures began forming in my head. “I'll call you later, Uncle. I've got a bird in the oven.”

Ten minutes passed and the phone rang again. This time my daughter, Quincy, called from Boston.

“Hi, Mom. I just got off the phone with Uncle Isaac. He wants me to talk you into getting married to someone named Yossi Levy. Isn't he the big biker guy I met on my visit to LA four months ago? I thought you barely knew him.”

Darn Isaac.
“Quincy, honey, I would never do anything so important without talking to you first. Honestly, I don't know why Uncle Isaac's so anxious to marry me off.”

“So, what's the deal? Are you dating that guy? You aren't sleeping with him, are you? I mean, aren't you a little
old
?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake. Don't be so judgy. When there's something to tell, you'll be the first to get the news, okay?”

She laughed. “Well, if Dad can get married so many times, I guess it's only fair you get some too.”

I hung up the phone and a key scraped in the front door lock.
What the heck?
No one had a key but me, Quincy, and Lucy. Lucy would never barge in. She always called before coming over. My pulse hammered in my throat as I scanned the kitchen for a weapon. I grasped a cantaloupe from the marble counter so tightly my knuckles turned white.
Where's Arthur?

The door swung slowly inward and I braced myself to hurl the melon. As soon as I saw the size-sixteen boot, I let out my breath and loosened my grip. “You scared me half to death!”

Crusher smiled at me. “Honey, I'm home.”

“Very funny. How'd you get a key to my house?”

He pointed to the dish on the hall table. “I found a spare sitting there.”

Beavers had tossed the key there four months ago when he broke up with me.

“Darn it, Yossi, you're pushing too hard. This morning I discovered your clean clothes in my closet and your dirty clothes in the hamper. I'm not washing those things and you're not moving in!”

“Babe.” Crusher took a step closer.

“You shouldn't have gone to Uncle Isaac. He called me tonight to put the pressure on me to get married. He said I'm not getting any younger.”

“None of us are and I'm getting older by the minute waiting for you to make up your mind.”

I ignored him and held out my hand for the key. “Now I find out you snatched my house key.”

He looked puzzled. “How else can I unlock the door?”

“Really? Have you been listening to me?”

“Okay, you're right. I should have asked about the key before I took it.” He handed it to me. “We'll go slow from here on out, I promise.”

“Don't be so sure of yourself, Yossi Levy. Someone else asked me to dinner twice this week already.”

Alarm sparked his eyes. “Who? You're not going out with him, are you?”

I tossed the key back in the dish. “You can conspire with my uncle until the Messiah comes, but I'm still in charge of my life.”

After dinner, Crusher massaged the stiffness out of my neck and shoulders and proved Quincy wrong about my being too old for certain things.

C
HAPTER
20

Friday morning I put a small brisket with carrots and potatoes in the slow cooker for Shabbat dinner. Then I picked up the phone. Time to confront Isabel Casco and demand to know how she got Harriet's cocktail ring. When she didn't answer her phone, I called again, just to make sure I'd punched in the right number. After the tenth ring, I gave up in frustration.

Maybe I'd get luckier with Paulina and find her at home seeing clients. I jumped in the car and headed for the West Side, determined to find out if the diamond bracelet Paulina wore to the funeral belonged to Harriet. If so, I'd make Paulina tell me how she got hold of it. I'd also confront her about preying on poor old Morty.

I took the Venice Boulevard exit from the 405 and drove west. Paulina's black BMW sat parked in her driveway right beside Morty's gold Buick Regal, in flagrante delicto.

I fumed as I marched up the porch stairs, past the dying hibiscus, and knocked sharply on her front door. Whatever was going on in there would stop right now.

Paulina did a double take as she opened the front door. Her long black hair cascaded over her shoulders in sensual waves. “Martha? You shoulda called first. I'm busy with a client. Come back later.”

I pushed past her into the darkened, terra-cotta–colored room. Purple candles flickered in the dimness, the air heavy with frankincense. A movement caught the corner of my eye, and I turned. Morty was seated at the round table with the shiny purple cloth.

“Martha?”

“Morty! What are you thinking? She's young enough to be your granddaughter. Nothing good can come of this. You need to leave now, and I'm not moving 'til you do.” I crossed my arms.

Morty opened his mouth to speak, but Paulina got there first. “What're you. His mother? Morty's a big boy. He can do what he wants.”

Morty finally found his voice. “I don't get it, doll. Why are you here?”

“To save you from this, this gold digger!” I pointed my finger at Paulina.

“Just a minute!” Paulina snarled.

I strode over to Morty and grabbed his elbow. “You're coming with me.”

A soft, unfamiliar voice spoke from behind me. “And who are you?”

I whirled around.

A plump, white-haired woman emerged from the hallway. “What did I miss while I was in the powder room?” She frowned. Morty stood and patted the woman's arm. “Martha Rose, meet Marilyn Teitelbaum.”

I stared at her dumbly. “From the mahjong group?”

The woman smiled cautiously. “Why yes, how did you know?”

“M-Morty talks about you.” I snuck a glance at Paulina, who bit the inside of her cheek.

Marilyn put her hand through Morty's scrawny arm and pulled him toward her ample breast. “Well, my sweetie brought me to this nice young lady to get some special herbal tea.” She lowered her voice. “I'm way past menopause, if you know what I mean.”

I covered my eyes and shook my head.
Please, no more unwanted pictures.

I looked at Morty, then Paulina. “I'm sorry. I thought . . .”

Paulina snorted into laughter.

“I'm an idiot.” I put my hand to my forehead.

“Times ten,” Paulina cracked.

The confused but happy couple left a few minutes later, carrying a fifty-dollar brown bag of Paulina's Senior Love Goddess Tea and a complimentary purple candle. The psychic closed the door behind them. “Your aura's almost back to normal. When you shoved your way in here, it oozed dark brown.”

“I still have some serious questions about you.”

“Sit down.” Paulina disappeared into the kitchen and banged around for a couple of minutes, emerging with two tuna sandwiches and a plastic tray of Oreos. “Tea's almost done.”

I launched into the sandwich like a junkyard dog. The tuna crunched with chopped dill pickles, and the small baguette was fresh and crusty. Okay, so maybe I jumped to conclusions about Paulina and Morty.

She returned with two cups of tea. “So ask. Whatever has your panties in a twist, you won't be satisfied 'til you do.”

I sipped a cup of herbal tea sweetened with honey.
She means to calm me down with food and it's working.
“The diamond bracelet you wore to the funeral. Can I see it?”

Paulina sighed and got up from the table again. She returned with a glittering cuff about an inch wide and paved with hundreds of cut stones. I reached in my purse and pulled out the pictures of Harriet's missing jewelry. The bracelet wasn't a match.

“Swarovski,” said Paulina. “Four hundred bucks' worth of crystals. Satisfied?”

I handed the bracelet back to her. “Okay, but I had to know. If I can locate Harriet's missing jewelry, I might find her killer.”

“Don't look at me.” Paulina leaned forward. “I saw on the news you found Nathan's body. Did you touch him or anything on him?”

“Well, kind of.” I shuddered at the memory. “I slipped a ring off his finger bones.”

“No wonder your aura's tinged with brown.”

“Aura schmaura. If you're as good as you say you are, how come you never sensed Nathan's grave right under your nose in Harriet's backyard?”

Paulina sat up straighter. “Harriet and I never went outside. You gotta be outside to discover graves.”

Of course you do.
“So Harriet never mentioned she buried her husband in the backyard?”

“No. But even if she did, I wouldn't tell anyone. That's confidential.”

“There's no such thing as psychic/client confidentiality.”

“There is in the
other
world.” She finished her tea. “Be careful, Martha. Spirits attach themselves to anyone who touches their bodies. Lucky for you, I possess the gift of banishing unwelcome spirits.”

“I don't think that's my problem.” I rose to leave. “But thanks for lunch.”

“Call for an appointment if you change your mind.”

When I got in my car, I tried Isabel again on my cell phone. This time she answered. “Isabel, I'd like to come over and talk.”

She took a drag on a cigarette. “It's been all over the news you discovered Nathan's body. How awful for you. I wish I could talk, but I'm out the door. Leaving for a long weekend in Palm Springs. We'll have a nice, long chat when I get back. I'll call you next week.”

I couldn't let her go so easily. I wanted to question her in person, where I could gauge her reactions. “Any chance you can delay leaving for a bit? I'm close by. I can be there in ten minutes.”

Isabel coughed. “I'd really like to, but my date's picking me up in five minutes. You know what that's like, right? I don't want to seem like an old cliché and keep the man waiting.”

“This is really important, Isabel. Especially with the discovery of Nathan's body. Harriet must have known about the grave.”

“Just give it up, Martha. What's done is done. If you want what's best for Harriet, you'll drop the whole thing. Now I really have to go.” She hung up.

On the way back home, I stopped at Bea's Bakery to pick up a raisin challah and ten inches sliced off a long apple strudel for dessert. Crusher would be bringing Uncle Isaac over at six, allowing me plenty of time to make a salad and prepare the dinner table with a snow white cloth and my bubbie's silver candleholders. I had just put the last piece of good silverware on the table when the phone rang.

“Hello, Mrs. Rose? This is Henry Oliver.”

“Nathan's brother?”

“Yes, I'm sorry I didn't call you back sooner. I was on my way out of the country when I received your message about Harriet's death. When I returned home to Rhode Island last night, I got a frantic phone call from my sister, Estella. She'd been contacted by the Los Angeles Police Department. They told her you found our brother's body buried in his backyard. Could you please tell me what's going on?”

I laid out the sequence of events: Harriet's murder, the discovery of her body, my being named executor, and the discovery of Nathan's grave. “I'm really sorry for these terrible losses to your family. I suppose you'll be making arrangements for Nathan's funeral?”

“Of course. Estella and I are his only family. I'm flying to Los Angeles next week. I wonder if we could meet and talk.” His voice turned silky. “Several items in Harriet's possession were family heirlooms, and I should like to have them back.”

Wow. Not a word about Harriet's death.
Like his sister, Estella, Henry Oliver didn't seem to care about poor Harriet.

“I'm certainly open to discussion, Mr. Oliver, but you have to realize Harriet made no provision for you in her will. She wanted everything she owned to be donated or sold for the purpose of financing the Jonah David Oliver wing of the Children's Hospital.”

His voice tightened. “Not everything was hers. Several items have been in my family for generations.”

“And you don't consider Harriet to be a part of your family?”

“The police say Harriet killed Nathan. She can't gain from his death. As his closest relative, Nathan's estate should come to me.”

What about Estella?
I'd ask Abernathy if Henry Oliver was right about the laws of inheritance. If he filed a legitimate claim to the estate, Bunny Friedman, the fund-raiser, could kiss the Jonah David Oliver wing of Children's Hospital good-bye. “I'll have to clarify this matter with Harriet's attorney before I can consider your request. I have a duty to fulfill Harriet's last wishes, and I intend to do so.”

“I don't know who you are,” he growled, “but you have no authority to dispose of items that are rightfully mine!”

“They may already have been
disposed of,
Mr. Oliver. I hate to break the news, but in preparing to liquidate Harriet's estate, I discovered several things have vanished, presumably stolen by her killer. I suspect some of the family heirlooms you're talking about are among those missing.”

After a long silence, he said in a clipped voice, “If anything is missing, I'll hold you personally responsible. It's the executor's duty to protect the estate from theft. I'll sue you. I'll file a criminal complaint.”

“And I don't know who you think you are, Mr. Oliver, but I don't take kindly to threats and I don't like bullies. I've been executor for less than two weeks. Those items went missing long before I came on the scene.”

“Some of those things are worth millions. Others have great historical and personal significance. They didn't belong to Harriet.”

“I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt right now because you've just received some disturbing news, but don't think you can intimidate me. Now, I am not unsympathetic to your desire to keep the heirlooms in the family. So, if you can be civil, I'd be willing to discuss this again once I've talked to the attorney.”

“I'll call you next week,” he snapped, and hung up the phone.

What a jerk. Apparently the Oliver family spawned a generation of bullies. Yet, even though Henry Oliver insisted he owned those family heirlooms, why didn't he step forward to claim those items after Nathan was declared legally dead? Why had he waited until now?