Knot in My Backyard (A Quilting Mystery) (11 page)

“When I come here to work on Monday, the police were already back there with the body of Coach Martin. I told them I don’t know nothing.”

“I’m not the police, Miguel. I’m concerned about my neighbor Ed Pappas. His house is right there.”

“Oh yes. I know who he is. He comes here many times during a game. He yell and argue with Coach Martin. Once, they fight and the police come.”

“Well, because of that fight, the police think my friend might have murdered the coach. They found the murder weapon in his backyard, but I think the real killer threw it over the fence. If the two people I’m looking for, Javier and Graciela, witnessed the murder from their camp, they could prove my friend is innocent.”

“If they saw something, they probably ran for their lives. Where I come from, if you are picked up by the police, you are never seen again. They probably think the police here are the same. Homeless Latinos are afraid of
La Migra.
They don’t want to be sent back to their country. Death there, death here, it’s all the same. I don’t think you ever find those people.”

“Listen, Miguel. I was the one who found Coach Martin’s body. I had gone for a morning walk, and I can tell you he was savagely beaten in the head. The killer must have been very angry. Did the coach have any enemies you knew of? Maybe someone at the school?”

Miguel shook his head slowly. “No, Mrs. Martha. No one.”

“Well, did you ever hear him arguing with anyone?”

Miguel said nothing. He just looked at the ground and put his hands in his back pockets. “I don’t think so.”

He seemed to be holding back. “Please, Miguel. I’m not interested in getting anyone else in trouble. I just want to get my friend Ed out of trouble.”

Miguel took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms. “Well, like I said, your friend, he come here more than once. Some of your other neighbors, they also complain about noise. A lady with long hair come once, with an old man on a scooter.”

Must have been Sonia and Tony DiArco.

“What did Coach Martin say?”

“Nothing. He was too busy arguing with one of the mothers. She scream at Coach to put her son on the field. The lady hit him with her purse when he tell her to sit down and be quiet.” Miguel stopped to chuckle at the memory.

“So the coach had trouble with the parents?”

“All the time. At one game, a fat man, he shove Coach Martin in the shoulder, and the coach push him away like a
pulga
, a flea. He fall down and the other parents laugh.

“Another father, he wears a black baseball cap with a
marisco,
a pink shrimp, and talks with a stutter. Coach make fun of the way he talk and say if he don’t shut up, he’ll never let his kid play.”

Miguel stopped and slowly shook his head. “Then there’s ‘Señor Rolls-Royce.’ He has
una perilla.
” Miguel stroked an invisible goatee on his chin. “That one don’t yell. He just talk quiet. He tell Coach Martin to take his son off the bench or he wish he never born. The coach don’t say nothing to that one.”

“Gosh, it sounds like the parents can get pretty ugly.”

“Yes, but the school is like a family. They argue with each other, but they fight together against anyone from the outside. The fat man and the shrimp hat, they help Coach Martin when your friend hit him.”

“Did you ever hear the coach argue with anyone else? Maybe someone from the school?”

“The coach, he was a macho guy. He argue with a lot of people. When they built this field a couple of years ago, he argue with the contractor, the workmen, and the woman from the army.”

He must be talking about the Army Corps of Engineers.

“Lately the coach have a new kind of trouble.” He hesitated and looked down.

“Please, Miguel, anything might help.”

“Coach, he comes here a few times a week to check equipment and check the field. He has an office inside.” Miguel pointed to the maroon-and-gold monstrosity directly behind Ed’s house.

“For the last six month, a lady come to see the coach at least once a week. They go in his office and he close the door. She stay for about an hour and then leave. Last week, another lady come. I think she is his wife, because this time he doesn’t close the door. I hear them fight. She yell, ‘Your whore will be sorry. I told her husband.’ I keep my head down and work. They think I don’t see nothing or hear nothing.”

“Can you describe the women to me?”

“His wife is small like you, and is
muy embarazada.
She is going to have a baby. The other lady, she is very tall, yellow hair.”

“Does she drive a yellow Mercedes?”

Miguel looked shocked.

I was right! Diane Davis and Dax Martin were having an affair.

“Did anyone else know about the coach and his girlfriend?”

He looked down and didn’t answer.

“I know who she is, Miguel. Did her husband know—like the coach’s wife said he did?”

He shuffled his feet in the dirt. “Please, Mrs. Martha.”

I couldn’t blame Miguel for not wanting to come right out and accuse his employer’s wife of having an affair with the coach.

Dax Martin’s murder was personal. Although I could sympathize, I could hardly see a small, pregnant woman beating her husband to death with a baseball bat, no matter how much he deserved it.

I doubted a rich and successful Beaumont parent, no matter how obnoxious, would kill Martin over his refusal to give their kid more playing time.

Diane’s husband, Jefferson Davis, the control freak, was still the most likely suspect in Dax Martin’s murder. If Javier and Graciela could confirm this, Ed would be out of the woods.

Of course this also meant Diane Davis could be in terrible danger. Who was to say Mr. Davis wouldn’t turn his rage on her next? I worried for her safety.

“Did you tell any of this to the police?”

“No, Mrs. Martha. I mind my own business. They do not ask and I do not say.” He looked worried. “Mrs. Martha? You know I could lose my job if they find out I talk to you. I have a family.”

I smiled and put my hand on his arm. “I promise I won’t tell the school you talked to me—not even if they send me to Guantanamo and pour water up my nose.”

He relaxed a little and gave me a slight smile.
“Gracias.”

CHAPTER 18

I continued to walk around the adjacent park to burn calories and put some mileage on my new exercise shoes. I stepped off the path to take a closer look at the deep violet flowers of a Mexican sage plant growing in a sunny patch. I smelled it before I saw the pasty dog crap now staining the sides of my clean white Skechers.

Back home again, I scraped most of the doody off my shoes and put them in the laundry room to wash for the second time in a week. I was disappointed to find out I’d been gone only twenty-five minutes, including my conversation with Miguel.

His story about Coach Martin’s affair was too good to keep to myself, so I put on my pink Crocs and walked over to Ed’s house, five doors away. Ed opened his door, looked at my Barbie-pink rubber shoes and smiled. “Where’s Ken?”

I walked inside. “I have some serious news, but we’ve got to be careful who we tell. If anyone at the Beaumont School finds out he gave us this information, Miguel could lose his job.”

“Who’s Miguel, and what did he say?”

“The groundskeeper. He confirmed Dax Martin had an affair with the headmaster’s wife, Diane Davis, for the past several months. Then a week before he was killed, Martin had a huge argument with his pregnant wife. From what Miguel overheard, the enraged Mrs. Martin knew about the affair and told Jefferson Davis.”

“Do you think Martin’s wife killed him?”

“That’s the thing. She’s small and very pregnant. Probably not able to beat a big man like Martin to death with a baseball bat.”

Ed looked impressed. “So you were right. Dax Martin could have been killed by the jealous husband of Diane Davis, the high-and-mighty headmaster of Beaumont School. Great news!”

“Well, great news for you. Not so much for Martin. He’s still dead.”

“Yeah. There’s that. Wouldn’t it be sweet to see the school taken down a peg by a scandal?”

Ed’s phone rang. He had a brief conversation and hung up. “That was Simon. He’s contacted a friend in the US Attorney’s Office. He should have some new information in time for our meeting tomorrow.”

I got up to leave. “Great. Hang in there, Ed. Things are beginning to look a whole lot better for you.”

I made a quick trip to the market to get all the ingredients for dinner, including a loaf of braided challah and some kosher wine. Uncle Isaac would never sing the Shabbat blessings with just any wine.

I peeled fresh Idaho potatoes on top of a newspaper for easy cleanup. Then I shredded them in my food processor with fresh onion and prepared a kugel to go in the oven later in the afternoon. Even though I had remodeled my kitchen a little more than a year ago, I mostly used my microwave to prepare meals. Still, I hadn’t lost the knack for cooking traditional Jewish dishes.

At about eleven, Lucy and Birdie showed up with quilts over their arms just as I put the brisket in my new stainless-steel oven.

“Coffee?” I asked.

Lucy shook her head and I followed as she and Birdie walked toward my sewing room. “Can’t stay. We’ve just set up a workshop in the parish hall at Saint Winifred’s. We’ve got about ten quilters and three sewing machines. Seven will be tying and three will sew on bindings. We brought you the five quilts that were already finished.”

I examined the quilts lying on my cutting table. The blocks were simple Windmills, a square of eight triangles with their points meeting in the center. The alternating dark and light fabrics created a whirligig pattern. The backings were pieced with spare yardage and everything was tied together with perle cotton embroidery thread. Binding had been sewn on by machine, and the resulting blankets were utilitarian but cheerful.

Birdie tugged on her braid. “Martha dear, do you have any extra batting? We may not have enough.”

I pulled out a bolt of low-loft pure cotton batting—as tall as I was—from the closet. Batting was usually sold in cuts just big enough for one quilt. Since I made so many quilts, I bought in bulk. “There should be enough for about six more quilts here.”

Birdie felt the batting between her expert fingers and made a face. “We can’t use all cotton, dear. Pure cotton batting needs to be stitched in place so it doesn’t separate. We need a polyester or poly-cotton blend that won’t pull apart between the ties.”

Of course I knew what Birdie meant. I’d seen some antique quilts tied every four inches. Over years of use, big lumps of cotton had bunched in between the ties. “Sorry. I can’t help you, but I’ll give you a donation to buy some more today.”

Lucy smiled and held out her hand. “Seems only fair since this whole thing was your idea in the first place.”

“By the way, I found out I was right about Diane Davis having an affair with Dax Martin.”

Birdie perked up. “What’s all this? Are you talking about that dead coach you found? Lucy told me about the young woman you suspected he had an affair with.”

“How’d you find out?” Lucy demanded.

“I’m sworn to secrecy. But, believe me, I’m one hundred percent certain.”

“You amaze me, Martha Rose.”

I laughed. “I amaze myself sometimes.”

After lunch I took a break from cooking and drove to the Boulevard to find Hilda. I wanted to know if she’d notified the people we were coming on Sunday. She was sitting with Rafi inside his restaurant. They were sipping something cold, and Rafi had just made her laugh. They both saw me at the same time and waved me over to the table.

Hilda’s slightly greasy hair clung to her scalp, and dust and perspiration from the August heat coated her skin. A spot of grease stained the front of her Labradoodle T-shirt and the hem of her blue chambray skirt had picked up more dirt.

After a bit of small talk, I asked Hilda, “Have you told everyone about Sunday?”

“Yup, and they’re pretty excited. They want to meet the woman responsible for gettin’ rid of Switch.”

I rolled my eyes. Then I got inspired.
Tonight is Shabbat and I’m fixing a big dinner. Hilda is homeless. She could use a good, hot meal.

“Listen, Hilda, I have a large roast in the oven I have to get back to. I’d really love for you to come home with me and have dinner tonight.”

Hilda looked at me for the longest time, fighting with some inner demon, trying to decide. Her eyes became glossy with tears. “What about my cart?” she asked in a small voice.

“We can load your stuff in the back of my car and bring it with us.”

Rafi gently patted her hand. “You park your empty cart in back behind the Dumpster. Nobody take it from there. Cart will be waiting for you.”

“Yeah, okay.” She wiped her eyes. “Yeah.”

We drove to Ralphs grocery store, with the recycling center in the parking lot. Hilda exchanged two bulging black trash bags full of cans and bottles for a few dollars. She folded the empty bags and put them in the pocket of her skirt. The bills went down the front of her T-shirt.

When we arrived at my house, she said, “I know this house. I’ve seen it from the park. You have a nice yard.”

Because of my fibromyalgia, I didn’t do much of my own gardening anymore. My talented landscaper, Abraham, gave me the most beautiful yard on the street. Graceful pepper trees shaded the perimeter, and fragrant, drought-resistant plants, such as rosemary, sage, and lavender, grew in little communities. Even the white Iceberg roses did well in the xeriscape.

“Listen, Hilda, as long as you’re here, you might as well take advantage of my washer and dryer. Do you have any clothes you’d like to wash?”

She seemed embarrassed. “Yeah. It’s hard to stay clean. I visit the Laundromat as often as I can, but those machines are expensive. I do a little washing by hand in the restroom of a Mobil station over on the corner of Balboa and Burbank. They’re real nice to me there ’cause I don’t leave a mess afterward. They even pay me sometimes to clean the restrooms.”

“What do you do with your wet clothes?”