Gone But Knot Forgotten (24 page)

Color:
Get acquainted with the color wheel. Find out which colors complement each other and use them together. For example, I love blues, so I find that if I want a contrast that's not too jarring, I'll combine blue with orange, its opposite on the color wheel. If I want the contrast to be a little more dramatic, I'll combine blue with yellow, a color that's close to orange, but just different enough to be noticeable. Remember, a little bit of a complement goes a long way. Of course you can combine blue with any color. Each combination evokes a different feeling. Experiment with the colors you like and see what pleases your eye.

 

Pattern:
Unless you are making an Amish-style quilt, you will be using printed fabrics. Try to vary the scale of the print. For example, I love flower prints, especially calicos with ditsy little flowers scattered all over. But a quilt made with nothing but small flowers can be chaotic to look at. So I often combine those small-scale calicos with large-scale flower prints. The larger prints give the eye a chance to rest, and the overall design is clearer and less confusing.

 

Graphics:
Try to include some stripes, checks, plaids, or polka dots with your more traditional prints. The geometric shapes provide a pleasing contrast and add just the right amount of spice. Black and white graphics can be even more interesting. Try to be as judicious in their use as you would be when seasoning your recipe with salt and pepper.

 

Background:
I love traditional quilt block designs. The geometrics of squares and triangles can be combined in an infinite way with colors and patterns. But not every element of the design can feature a strong pattern. Some of your fabrics need to play a more subtle role. These quieter background fabrics will allow the flavors of the featured fabrics to come through, and provide that overall balance you're looking for.

 

Finally, it's your quilt. Experiment with the colors and patterns you like. Make sample blocks if you're not sure whether the fabrics work for you. If they do, great. If not, try something else until you're satisfied. There are no right or wrong choices, so go forth and create!

C
HAPTER
1

I looked at caller ID and smiled. My best friend, Lucy, often rang in the middle of the afternoon to chat. I fully expected to hear that her youngest grandchild had made the honor roll at Encino Elementary. I certainly wasn't prepared for the shocking news.

“Turn on your TV, Martha. Channel seven.”

“Why? What's up?”

“It's bad. I'll stay on the line.”

Her voice held an urgent tone I didn't like. I dashed to the living room and grabbed the remote. A local newscaster stood on the sidewalk on Ventura Boulevard next to yellow police tape. “This brazen robbery occurred two hours ago in front of a dozen customers and employees of First Encino Bank. Witnesses said a single masked gunman forced everyone to lie on the floor in a back room and then pushed a hostage to the vault.

“A minute later, witnesses reported hearing four gunshots. The robber escaped carrying a duffel bag. When the police arrived, they discovered the body of the hostage inside the vault. His name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.”

My pulse hammered in my throat. “Oh my God, Lucy. Does Birdie know? That's Russell's bank.” Birdie's husband Russell was the vice president of First Encino. “Who got shot?”

“I'm here with Birdie. I was visiting her when the police came to notify her.”

“Notify?” My stomach turned a flip. “Russell?”

“Yes. He's dead, Martha.”

“I'll be right over.”

Russell Watson hadn't been one of my favorite people. He didn't treat Birdie with the tenderness she deserved. Still, his shortcomings didn't justify murder. I couldn't predict how long I'd be gone, so I made sure my orange cat Bumper had enough food and water to last for a while. Then I grabbed my keys and jumped in my new Honda Civic. Less than five minutes later, I pulled up in front of Birdie's house behind a familiar silver Camry.

Lucy Mondello and Birdie Watson lived right across the street from one another in a more upscale part of Encino. My name is Martha Rose, and the three of us have been quilting together every Tuesday for sixteen years. We were so comfortable with each other, we didn't bother to knock before entering. I rushed up the stairs of Birdie's front porch and pushed the door open.

A pair of cozy, overstuffed green chenille chairs faced a slip-covered sofa in the living room of the California bungalow. Dressed in matching yellow blouse and trousers, Lucy sat next to Birdie on the sofa, hugging the older woman's shoulders with a comforting arm. Birdie wore her signature blue denim overalls and white T-shirt.

Across from them, a woman in a blue FBI jacket with yellow letters sat in one of the easy chairs. LAPD homicide detective Arlo Beavers sat in the other. My ex-boyfriend. In his mid-fifties, with a shock of gray hair and a white mustache, he appeared fit and handsome as ever in his suit and tie. Just the sight of him made my toes tingle. We exchanged a brief glance; then I rushed to sit next to Birdie and grabbed her hand.

“I'm so sorry, Birdie. I can't believe Russell's gone. You know you're not alone, right? You've got Lucy and me.”

Birdie sniffed and reached a shaking, blue-veined hand toward the tissue box on the coffee table. She nodded and blew her nose. I was saddened to see how the shock and grief transformed her normally cheerful face. Her mouth hung slack and her eyes brimmed. She looked all of her seventy-six years.

“I know, Martha dear. I'm glad you're here.” Silent tears spilled down her cheeks as she twisted the end of her long white braid.

I nodded at the agent, but looked at Beavers. “Do you know who did this? Why did they have to kill Russell? Why couldn't they simply take the money and run?”

Beavers pursed his lips under his mustache and shook his head once.

Agent Lancet wore her brown hair pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense bun. “We don't have much information at this point. It's still early.” She stood slowly and handed her business card to Birdie.
Kay B. Lancet, Special Agent FBI
. “We'll do everything in our power to catch the people who killed your husband, Mrs. Watson. Meanwhile, if you can think of anything to help our investigation, please call that number. I'm very sorry for your loss.” The heavy rubber soles of her boots squeaked on her way to the front door.

Beavers also rose and turned to me. “Can I speak to you outside?”

I followed him out the front door, curious. Agent Lancet drove away in an unmarked black SUV. We hadn't spoken since December, almost seven months ago, when I babysat for his dog while he took his new girlfriend to Hawaii. He turned his face toward me and his eyes softened. “How have you been, Martha?”

Those dark eyes. Why did I still find them irresistible?
“Fine, until now. I'm still in shock.”

He nodded. “Yeah. Nobody's ever prepared for a thing like this. Listen. Since this is a federal crime, the LAPD is offically off the case. But I know Agent Lancet. We go way back. She allowed me to come here as a courtesy when I told her I knew the wife of the vic. Can you think of anyone who might've wanted Russell Watson dead? Did he have financial problems?”

“I haven't a clue. Why do you ask?”

“Just trying to cover all possibilities.”

“Well, Russell wasn't the warmest human being on the planet. He probably managed to piss off a few people in his time, but don't we all? Shouldn't you be asking Birdie this?”

Beavers ran his fingers through his thick gray hair and blew a puff of air out of his mouth. “Kay did ask, but Mrs. Watson couldn't think of anyone. Maybe when the shock wears off she'll remember more. I figured she might've mentioned something to you and Mrs. Mondello in passing.”

I shook my head. “Sorry.” I turned to go inside.

He put up a restraining hand and cleared his throat. “Are you still seeing Levy?” Beavers was referring to Yossi Levy, aka
Crusher.
Crusher and I had gotten together—sort of—after my breakup with Beavers. Seven months ago, Crusher—an undercover ATF agent—caught a bullet in a shootout and almost died. After I turned down his latest offer of marriage, he left LA for a new undercover assignment in parts unknown. I hadn't heard from him since, but I didn't want to admit that to Beavers.

I answered with a question of my own. “Are you still dating what's-her-name? Kerry? Arthur's veterinarian?” Arthur was Beavers's German shepherd. I loved that dog.

“No, I broke up with her awhile back. She was too . . . possessive.”

I jerked my head up and snorted right in his face. “Look who's talking!” When I dated Beavers a year ago, he'd become jealous and demanding. When I refused to be manipulated, he broke up with me.

Beavers had the grace to stare at the ground, and said, “I'd like to take you out to dinner sometime. Just to catch up. Maybe start over. . . .”

Did I hear him right? He wants to pick up where we left off ?
“I can't think about that, Arlo. The only thing I want to do right now is go back inside and help my friend.” He nodded and backed away as I turned around and pushed my way through the front door.

Lucy studied my face as I closed the door noisily behind me. Her perfectly penciled red eyebrows raised in question marks. I kept walking and bit my lip. I'd discuss my love life at a more appropriate time. Like when pigs came to Passover.

I headed toward the kitchen. “I'll make us a pot of coffee.”

The items Birdie used every day were conveniently displayed on open shelves or behind glass doors in her old-fashioned kitchen. The coffee press occupied a permanent spot on a counter paved with colorful Mexican tiles. I turned on the fire under a kettle of water on her large cast-iron stove.

The aroma of cinnamon and molasses led me to a freshly baked ginger cake cooling in a square jadeite dish. Birdie loved to bake in the mornings. Surely the present crisis justified my indulging in a slice. I'd think about Weight Watchers later.

I returned to the living room with a tray of steaming mugs and plates of cake. Birdie gratefully accepted coffee but declined the food. “I couldn't possibly eat anything, Martha dear. But you girls help yourself.”

Lucy stretched, arching her back like a tall, redheaded cat. “So what did Arlo talk to you about?” she asked, forking a piece into her mouth.

“He asked if anyone would want Russell dead.” I avoided looking at Birdie. “He also asked if you were having financial problems.”

Birdie wrinkled her forehead. “Yes, Agent Lancet asked me the same questions, but I couldn't think of anybody who'd wish Russell harm. I mean, I wouldn't have been privy to something like that, anyway. Russell never talked about his work.” She sighed. “As for financial problems, I wouldn't know about that either. He never bothered me with such things.”

I understood what Birdie meant. She and Russell lived in a sterile marriage. They coexisted in separate bedrooms and didn't share much of a life. Why she had settled for such a loveless arrangement had baffled Lucy and me for years. All Birdie would ever tell us was, “He has his good points.”

“Still,” I persisted, “did Russell seem worried lately? Did he act any differently? Show some signs that something was bothering him?”

Birdie thought for a moment. “Well, he did get a phone call a week ago. Afterward, he was more snappish than usual.” A look of alarm clouded her face. “Do you think the call's connected to his death?”

“Who knows? I mean, Arlo's question was odd. When a crook uses a gun in a bank robbery and kills someone, it's usually not personal. Right? So why would he ask if anyone wanted Russell dead? It's almost as if he thinks Russell was a target.”

Beavers' question suggested Russell Watson's killing was deliberate. If so, did Russell know the masked man? Did he have problems? Did he scheme to rob is own bank? Did something go wrong at the last minute that got him killed? I hoped not, for Birdie's sake.

Birdie looked off into the distance, wrung her hands, and muttered something I couldn't understand. She looked more fragile than I had ever seen her. Poor thing would be mortified if she learned Russell was involved in some kind of heist. I didn't want the FBI's suspicions to add to her distress.

I wish I knew more, but getting Beavers to part with any facts wouldn't be easy. He's always been super professional. Conscientious. He never once revealed confidential details about a case when we were dating. Could I convince him to make an exception now because of Birdie?

Persuading Beavers to reveal information would take a lot of finesse on my part, but I owed it to Birdie to try. I'd start with that invitation to dinner.