Gone But Knot Forgotten (3 page)

“I'll wait,” he smiled.

That night I dreamed I sat behind Crusher on his Harley, speeding in the dark down the 405 Freeway. Closing in behind us was
Malach haMavet,
the angel of death.

C
HAPTER
4

Thursday morning I rummaged through my closet, looking for appropriate yoga clothes. The flyer from Sublime Yoga pictured a slender blonde in a blue halter top and skinny black tights. No way could I ever put my size-sixteen thighs into tights. I finally located a pair of L.L. Bean dark knit trousers, with an elastic waist, folded in a pile destined for a small church in Van Nuys that ministered to the homeless.

I pulled on the trousers and an old red T-shirt and drove to the yoga studio on the boulevard in nearby Tarzana. In the middle of a sunny reception area stood a round counter and shelves full of yoga supplies for sale. Fit young men and women with rolled-up mats streamed toward the receptionist, who electronically scanned their little plastic ID tags before they disappeared into a classroom. I felt as out of place as a pork chop on Passover.

The blonde from the flyer stood behind the desk.

“Hi. My name's Martha. I'm here for a tour.”

She put her palms together and dipped her head. “
Namaste
. I'm Heather.”

After a quick circuit of the classrooms and locker room, Heather and I sat in a lounge where she poured me a demitasse of hot green tea. “I suggest you start out twice a week in a class for seniors.”

Octogenarians sitting around on chairs waving their arms?
“I think I can handle something a little harder.”

Heather just smiled and walked me over to an open classroom doorway. “This is our Vinyasa Flow class.”

I could have been observing an audition for Cirque du Soleil. The instructor called out, “Warrior two.” Everyone took a wide stance and lunged sideways with arms parallel to the floor. “Triangle.” Still in a wide stance, they all bent sideways at the waist and shot an arm straight up. “Tree pose.” The students effortlessly balanced on one leg and reached their arms straight overhead. I got the picture.

Ten minutes later Heather settled me on a borrowed orange rubber mat on the bamboo floor of classroom two. Two men stuck out in this class of mostly senior women of every body type, including a white-haired former ballet dancer and me.

The short, buxom teacher in her forties with wild cherry-colored curls stood in the center of the classroom and knocked together two delicate brass bells to get everyone's attention. “Hello, class!” she said in a thick Russian accent. “This is Yoga for Seniors, and I am Dasha. Do we have anyone new today?”

I raised my hand.

Dasha walked over and smiled. “Do you have physical problems I should know?”

I told her about my fibromyalgia.

“You're in the right place. Welcome.”

An hour later, after breathing deeply through leg, hip, and spine stretches, we assumed the corpse pose,
Shavasana,
and rested quietly on our backs for the last five minutes of class. My muscles protested against all the unaccustomed exercise, but I was energized. Maybe Dr. Lim at UCLA knew what he was talking about. I walked out of Sublime Yoga with a new pink rubber mat, a six-foot-long woven strap, and a little plastic tag with my membership number.

After a shower at home, I changed into jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and sweater and demolished the leftover coleslaw and
kasha varnishkes
from the night before. By twelve thirty I headed on the 405 south toward Harriet's house in Brentwood.

I took Sunset Boulevard west to Bundy Drive, turned right for a half mile to her large Tudor-style home, and parked in a circular driveway hidden from the street by lush landscaping. Not one flyer, throwaway paper, or business card lay on the ground. By the moisture in the soil, I guessed the gardener recently watered and cleaned up, just as he had been doing for the last ten months.

I braced myself before turning the lock with the keys Abernathy had given me. What would I find? What would I smell? Poking my head inside, I took small, cautious sniffs of the air. Thankfully, the house harbored no unpleasant odors.

At least a couple weeks of mail, dropped through the slot in the door, littered the hardwood floor. Several months' worth of envelopes and papers sat in cardboard boxes on a round table in the middle of the walnut paneled foyer, waiting for me to sift through them.

I closed the door and flipped a light switch. An iron chandelier with alabaster globes turned golden in the gloom. Directly in front of me a dark staircase led straight to the second floor. A powder room stood opposite the stairs. A painting hung on the foyer wall of a fair-haired toddler holding a toy fire engine. He bore Harriet's smile and sensitive eyes.

The living room to the right gave off an English vibe, with hand-rubbed plaster and a ceiling coffered in more dark wood. Harriet loved Jane Austen and Paul McCartney.

A pair of overstuffed chairs, upholstered with red chintz roses, sat on either side of a game table, and two green leather sofas flanked a large stone fireplace. Photos of Jonah, Harriet, and Harriet's family lined the wooden beam serving as a mantel.

Where was Nathan's picture?

Framed paintings hung slightly askew on the walls as if shifted by an earthquake. Didn't Abernathy say he thought things looked a little messy?

Continuing on to the right, a door at the end of the living room opened to a library, which also served as an office. Books stuffed the floor-to-ceiling dark shelves on the far wall. An antique rolltop desk sat in one corner and a rectangular table with six oak chairs took over the center of the room.

Two volumes lay on the floor. I read the titles as I picked them up and placed them on the library table.
Communicating With Spirits: Contacting the Dead
and
Aura Reading for Dummies.
Poor Harriet. She must have been aching to be with her deceased family. Just how far did she take this obsession?

The papers and envelopes lying in the desk were carelessly mixed up, not the way I'd expect Harriet's desk to look. When we did our homework together, I used to tease her about the precise way she organized her notebook by subject and date. She never turned in an assignment with sloppy handwriting. She wrote round, neat cursive and dotted her I's with hearts. Someone else had disturbed Harriet's desk.

I sorted through the mess, looking for an address book, and finally found a small one bound in blue leather with only a few names. No person on this list missed her for ten months?

The left side of the foyer led to a formal dining room. Two heavy branched silver candelabras, now tarnished, stood in the center of a long table covered in dust. A massive china cabinet with a curved glass front displayed dozens of pieces of fine porcelain. I winced at the thought of having to inventory each and every item.

A vintage design hid a state-of-the-art kitchen with white AGA appliances, black granite countertops, white cabinets, and a black and white checkerboard floor. A person could easily prepare meals for a hundred people in this space. When we were teens, Harriet and I baked package brownies in my bubbie's small kitchen. Heaviness gripped my chest as I guessed Harriet seldom used more than one of the eight burners on her fancy range.

Beyond the laundry room sat a maid's room and bath. About twenty cardboard cartons full of God knows what sat in the middle of the area. I'd have to open and catalog the contents of each one.

Something niggled at me.

Obviously Harriet didn't employ live-in staff, but she still needed someone to take care of this big house. Did the cleaner carry a key? Why hadn't she discovered Harriet's body?

I moved into a family room on the other side of the kitchen, filled with comfortable furniture and a large-screen television. Next to a VCR stood a neat stack of old video cassettes:
Pinocchio, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, Pippi Longstocking,
and
The Muppets.
Apparently Jonah's movies.

I steeled myself to go upstairs. Who knew what sort of unpleasant surprised awaited me? The finial on top of the newel post wobbled a little in my hand as I began to slowly sniff my way up the stairs. On the second floor, I peered down the wide hallway in both directions. Through an open door on the far end, directly above the living room and library, I spotted the large master suite, the place where Harriet's body lay for ten months. I'd go there last.

In the opposite direction, rooms sat on either side of the hallway. Another door at the end turned out to be a long, narrow linen closet. The shelves inside held piles of neatly ironed white sheets and stacks of towels in pastel colors. Blankets and pillows filled the bottom cupboards.

A cheery yellow guest suite greeted me behind the first door. Abernathy said Harriet had become a recluse. When did she last entertain visitors?

I stopped in my tracks as I passed through the door across the hall. Children's books, stuffed animals, Legos, and toy trucks filled the light blue room. A car-shaped bed, painted with a red racing stripe, sat in the corner under Lindberg's famous painting of an angel guarding two children crossing a bridge.

Harriett had preserved Jonah's bedroom for more than fifteen years, but this shrine to the boy's memory appeared disarrayed. One drawer gaped slightly open, and the small mattress sat somewhat askew.

I steeled myself to enter Harriet's bedroom. A portrait of Jonah sitting in Harriet's lap hung in a gilt frame on the taupe walls. Opposite the doorway a queen-sized bed with a headboard upholstered in rose velvet dominated the space. Black polka dots covered the matching duvet. Black dots also covered the carpet and every other surface. I looked closer. Dead flies scattered like dark cornflakes around the room. My stomach revolted and I ran to the guest room just in time to puke in the white toilet.

At the sink I swished water in my mouth, rinsed my face, grabbed a yellow towel, and regarded myself in the mirror.

I moved down the hallway toward Harriet's room, noticing that the dead flies also littered the dark hardwood floor. I stepped gingerly across the dotted beige carpet to a door standing wide open and forced myself to look inside a closet as big as my bedroom. The shelves and hangers filled with women's clothes lined three of the walls. I found no trace of a man's clothes or belongings.

A built-in bureau stood in the center of the closet. Nearby, a huge section of broadloom had been removed where Harriet's body must have lain. A dark, greasy spot stained the exposed subflooring. Clearly I'd have to replace everything before the house could be sold.

At first glance, the closet seemed orderly, just the way Harriet would have left it. When we were girls, she often borrowed the cool pair of jeans with the hole in the knee from my closet. She used to chide me for being disorganized and messy. “I can never find anything in here,” she'd complain.

On closer inspection, a few items lay on the carpet, and a floor-length gown hung out of place between her jackets and coats. Someone had searched this area after Harriet's death. How long after?

I stepped carefully around the missing carpet. Some nice pieces of ladies' costume jewelry sat in the top drawer of the bureau, but the expensive pieces listed on the insurance rider were absent. Also missing were any items belonging to Nathan. Why didn't Harriet keep something of his as a keepsake—a watch or a pair of cufflinks? After all, she kept everything of Jonah's.

Harriet would've been mortified for anyone to see her home in such a revolting condition. I retrieved a vacuum cleaner from the linen closet at the other end of the hallway and spent the next half hour getting rid of the fly carcasses. Before I left the house, I gathered up the mail from the foyer and carried the boxes to my car.

On the drive back to Encino, I reviewed my next steps. Make an inventory of every item in her house. Arrange for the appraisal of her possessions. Hire an estate manager to organize a sale. Hire Crusher's guys to secure the house in case the intruder decided to return.

The question of the absent housekeeper bothered me. Why hadn't she discovered poor Harriet's body? I needed to call Abernathy.

C
HAPTER
5

By the time I returned to the San Fernando Valley, Larry the Locksmith had locked his doors and I was too tired to hunt for another key shop. I headed straight for home and last night's salad from Trader Joe's.

Bumper meowed and scolded me for my late arrival, so I let him sit next to me on the sofa while I ate with a plastic takeout fork. He sniffed at my clothing, jumped up on the back of the sofa and nosed my hair. Then he yowled and leaped to the floor, staring from a distance. Bumper possessed a keen and discerning nose. Although I didn't detect unpleasant odors in Harriet's house, the scent of death must have hitchhiked home on my body.

After retrieving the boxes of mail from the car and dumping them in the living room, I headed straight for my second shower of the day. Then I climbed into my cozy blue flannel pajamas, sat on the sofa wrapped in a blue and white quilt, and wrote a to-do list with a call to Abernathy at the top. I reached his voice mail.

“Mr. Abernathy, Deke, this is Martha Rose. You were right about Harriet's house being disturbed. Someone's been inside. The private Brentwood Security Patrol has been useless. I'm arranging for twenty-four-hour protection on the premises. And something puzzles me. Didn't Harriet employ a housekeeper? Why didn't she discover the body? Where is she now? Please call me at your earliest convenience. Thanks.”

The measly salad wasn't enough, so I boiled a cup of spicy Indian tea with milk, sliced an apple, and cut a hunk of sharp cheddar cheese from an orange brick of Tillamook. Then I called Crusher at his bike shop.

“Hey, babe. Change your mind about dessert?”

I laughed. “Not yet. Listen, Yossi. I inspected Harriet's house today.”

“How'd it go?”

“Really creepy. Looks like someone searched through her things. Her good jewelry is missing, maybe more. Can I hire a few Eagles to secure the place?”

The playfulness left his voice. “I told you. Anything you want. How long will you need them for?”

“It may take a couple of weeks. The good news is, money's not a problem. I'll pay whatever you think is fair.”

The sound of shuffling some papers came from the background. “Two shifts. Twelve on, twelve off. How's fifty an hour sound?”

“Totally doable. When can they start?

“Give me the address. I'll send Malo over tonight. Do you have a spare key to the house?”

“I'll get a duplicate made tomorrow.” I gave him Harriet's number on North Bundy Drive.

“Need anything else?”

“I don't know, but this is good for starters. I'll be in touch. And thanks.”

Next I telephoned my best friend, Lucy.

“About time you called me, girlfriend. I've been dying to ask what you've been up to. How did the meeting with the lawyer go?”

“Gosh, that was two days ago.” I filled her in on my appointment with Abernathy and my trip to the cemetery. “Harriet's funeral is scheduled for Monday. I also visited her house today.”

“Ew. Her body laid there for ten months. The place must have been totally disgusting.”

I didn't want to think about the flies. “It wasn't as bad as I feared. Some jewelry seems to be stolen. I can't be sure. Maybe Harriet kept it in a safe. I'll conduct a more thorough search.”

Lucy sounded worried. “If things are missing, do you think it's wise to stay in the house by yourself?”

“I've hired a couple of Eagles for security twenty-four/seven. I won't be alone.”

“Need help?”

“Yeah, I need to create an inventory of every item in her house. Can you ask Richie to recommend some kind of database software I can use?” Richie, Lucy's middle son, trained as a computer engineer. He also happened to be gay and my daughter Quincy's best childhood friend.

“No problem. I can loan you the bar-code software Ray uses to keep track of inventory at his business.” Lucy's husband, Ray, an auto mechanic, built a string of successful auto shops in LA. “I don't mean to be nosy or anything, but you know me and antique stores. I love going through old stuff. Want me to tag along?”

God bless Lucy, always willing to lend a hand. “Absolutely! Why keep all the fun to myself?”

“Okay. Birdie and I will meet you at your house tomorrow at nine with all the inventory stuff. Then we can drive to Brentwood.”

“I'll have coffee.”

I picked up Harriet's blue leather address book and opened it. Only fifteen names were listed. I found my name with my old Brentwood address and phone number. Lines were drawn through eight of the names, including Herschel and Lilly Gordon, Harriet's deceased parents. I looked under “O,” hoping to find members of Nathan's family. There was a Henry Oliver, in Newport, Rhode Island. Written below was Estella Oliver in Pawtucket at the other end of the state. I decided to take the chance they'd still be up at ten Eastern time. I didn't know how they were related to Nathan, but I'd soon find out. I dialed Henry's number first and left a message on his voice mail. I got luckier with Estella.

She answered the phone with a certain Yankee straightforwardness. “This better be important, it's after ten at night.”

I introduced myself as Harriet's executor. Estella remained silent for a moment. “Harriet's dead?”

“Yes.” I briefly explained the circumstances.

“Too bad. How long did you say her body just lay there?”

“Ten months.” I informed her of the funeral arrangements on Monday.

“Don't know if I can travel on such short notice. Did she leave a will?”

Wow. Cut to the important stuff, why don't you?
“She did. May I ask how you were related?”

“I'm Nathan's sister. Harriet got everything when the courts declared Nathan legally dead. Was I mentioned in her will?”

“Not specifically, no.”

“Well, she kept some items belonging to our family. I'm sure Nathan would've wanted me to inherit them.”

I'll bet.
“There might be some leeway with things not earmarked for specific donation. What did you have in mind?”

Estella was all business. “A pair of silver candelabras, several place settings of antique Spode china, and an old quilt. Plus some silver serving pieces and maybe a few old books.”

Even though Harriet didn't name Estella in her bequests, I felt the heirlooms should stay in the family. “Are there other relatives who might also have a claim?”

“Only myself and my younger brother, Henry, but I doubt he'd want those old things. I can fly out next week and pack everything up.”

“I won't be making any decisions until after the funeral.”

“What funeral?”

I understood why Estella may have been overlooked in the will. “Harriet's,” I reminded her.

“Oh. Right. So when do you think you'll decide?”

“I'll be sure to let you know. And I'm sorry for your loss.”

I should have saved my breath. Estella had already hung up.

I tried the four remaining numbers in Harriet's small address book. I left three messages and talked briefly to a woman who turned out to be Harriet's old college roommate, Isabel Casco.

Isabel sounded like a habitual smoker because her voice registered ten octaves lower than normal. “I can't believe Harriet's dead.” Cough, cough.

“I'm contacting everyone in her address book. When did you last speak to her?”

“Oh gawd, I'd say almost two years ago. Why?”

I tried to think of a polite way of asking why nobody cared about Harriet. “I'm wondering how she lay dead for more than ten months without anyone knowing. Do you have any ideas?”

Isabel took a long drag off a cigarette. “I moved to Los Angeles in the mid-nineties just before Harriet lost her son. I did my best to help her through that terrible time. Then Nathan disappeared and she really needed a friend. But about two years ago, she stopped returning my calls and just slipped off the radar. Now I'm sorry I didn't try harder. How did she die?”

“Her body lay there for so long, the coroner couldn't tell.”

Isabel went into a coughing fit lasting for several seconds. She finally came up for air. “Dear Lord. Bad luck followed Harriet everywhere. Just let me know when the funeral is and I'll be there.”

Unless I heard from the others, Isabel and I would be the only ones from Harriet's address book to bury her. I'd ask Abernathy who else should be contacted. At this rate, I'd need Crusher for the
minyan
at her funeral after all.

I poured myself the rest of the Chianti from the bottle I opened last night and put the flash drive from Harriet's insurance packet into my laptop. Dozens of photographs appeared and I scanned for the objects Estella wanted. Item number five listed a pair of repoussé sterling silver candelabras dated from fifteenth-century Spain. On close examination of the image, I realized they were the ones sitting on Harriet's dining room table, dusty and tarnished.

A brief caption under the photo stated the candelabras came to Newport, Rhode Island, from Spain via Holland with Jacob Josè Oliver and his wife, Estella, in the 1600s. A photo of an article written in the
Newport Mercury
mentioned the Oliver family loaned the candelabras to the famous Touro Synagogue in Newport for its dedication in 1763—thirteen years before the American Revolution.

The Olivers were among many Sephardic Jews who escaped the Spanish inquisition at the end of the 1500s and found shelter in Holland. Some of their descendants immigrated to the British colonies in North America in the 1600s. By the time of the American Revolution in 1776, the Sephardic community had been established in Newport for over 100 years. The Touro Synagogue, the first Jewish house of worship in North America, now stood as a national historic site.

Even though the candelabras would no longer be handed down from Nathan to his son, Jonah, this treasure belonged with a family member. If Estella spoke the truth and Henry didn't want them, I hoped she didn't intend to sell these precious artifacts for the fifty thousand they were worth.

Item number fourteen consisted of a set of antique Spode china. Another potential windfall for Estella. An image of a beautiful blue and white Chinoiserie plate looked like the porcelain in Harriet's china cabinet. Another photo showed an old receipt with spiky cursive made out in 1833 to Henrique Adelan Oliver for the purchase of a service for fifty people.
Fifty people at a sit-down dinner? How many pounds of brisket would a person have to prepare?
On the bottom of the receipt a note in bolder cursive read,
“Para Sara, mi novia encanta-dora”
(for Sara, my enchanting bride).

Clearly the Olivers were both wealthy and prominent. Sara undoubtedly retained a staff to prepare and serve so much food. Although several pieces hadn't survived the intervening 170 years, the remaining collection appraised at $40,000.

Now I knew a little more about Nathan Oliver. He was a
Grandee,
a descendant of wealthy Sephardic Jewish colonists, among the first families in America. His roots ran deeper than most. At Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island, he met Harriet Gordon, a Jewish girl from California, whose family carried no such credentials.

Nathan may have loved Harriet, but I sensed Estella bore no such feelings. Perhaps she thought a sweet, middle-class girl from the Pico-Robertson area of Los Angeles and the daughter of Holocaust survivors didn't deserve the oldest son of an oldest son. I hated the thought of Harriet suffering her disdain.

I scrolled through dozens of shots cataloging Harriet's assortment of antique watches, a half million dollars in jewelry, and an impressive collection of priceless books dating back to the eighteenth century. Another group of images showed items of American folk art, including rare Native American baskets and Early American wooden toys.

A tsunami of fatigue hit me and my vision began to blur before I reached the end, so I sent the whole file to the printer and started getting ready for bed. The phone rang and I hurriedly spit out a mouthful of toothpaste before rushing to answer.

“Deke here, returning your call. I hope this isn't too late.”

“No, I'm glad you called me back.” I wiped my mouth with a towel. “I went to Harriet's today and I think you're right. Someone rummaged through her place. Did the police search the premises and disturb things?”

“No. The coroner couldn't tell for sure because of the state of her remains, but he said Harriet probably dropped dead of a heart attack. So the police found no reason to search.”

If the police didn't disturb the house, who did?
“Didn't Harriet have domestic help?”

Abernathy cleared his throat. “Yes, a woman who came in five days a week.”

“Yet she didn't discover Harriet's body?”

“Apparently Harriet let her go around the time of her death. Our accountant received instructions to cut her a final paycheck, which she sent to her via FedEx.”

I began to get irritated. Nobody bothered to check on Harriet after that? Especially those who were responsible for her day-to-day maintenance and financial well-being? “Nobody became concerned when Harriet didn't hire another cleaner? A woman in her position would have needed help with such a large house.”

Abernathy yawned. “Look. I would've been worried if I'd known. But our accounting department took care of the day-to-day matters of paying Harriet's bills.”