Something's Knot Kosher (7 page)

C
HAPTER
12

“Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Towsley.” Birdie hung up the phone. Monday morning arrived and the coroner had just released her husband's body.

She frowned and wrung her hands. “The mortician asked me to bring some clothes for Russell to wear.”

Lucy patted her arm. “We'll help you, hon.”

Birdie led us to Russell's bedroom. She chose a black cashmere suit. Caressing the jacket lapel, she sighed. “This was his favorite. He wore it the evening he met Alan Greenspan at the Watergate Hotel and again the day he signed GyroTek, a multimillion-dollar account.”

She added a crisp white shirt and held up a pair of gold and onyx cuff links. “These belonged to his father. Russell was very proud of his heritage.”

“Maybe you should give those to Denver when you see him at the funeral.”

Birdie hesitated. “I don't think Denver has ever worn a pair of French cuffs. He was more of a jeans and cowboy hat type. But maybe you're right. Even if he doesn't wear them, he might want to pass them to his son.” She put the links back on the dresser. “I'll use these silver ones instead.”

Lucy pulled a black and silver striped necktie off a hanger in the closet. “Here's a nice tie. It matches everything perfectly.”

Birdie reached for a strip of sky blue silk. “I think I'll use this, instead. He liked the fact the color brought out the blue of his eyes.” She also collected socks, wing tip shoes, and underwear and handed them to Lucy to pack in an overnight bag on wheels.

“Is this everything?” Lucy zipped the bag shut.

“Almost.” Birdie gathered the Baltimore Album quilt folded at the bottom of Russell's bed and hugged it to her chest. “I want to make sure he stays warm.”

Lucy's mouth fell open slightly. “Uh, I don't think that's going to be a problem, hon.”

She can't mean to use her beautiful quilt as a shroud!
Each of the twenty cream-colored blocks making up the quilt top were painstakingly appliquéd with either a wreath or a bouquet. The symmetrical designs featured plants, flowers, birds, and animals. Birdie had used primarily solid green and solid red fabrics, with just a sprinkling of multicolored prints. Great skill and hundreds of hours of beautiful hand stitching went into its creation. Maybe I could persuade her to send her husband off in a more utilitarian blanket. “I know you want to make sure Russell is comfortable, but are you sure you want to use this particular quilt?”

“Definitely. I finished this quilt in 1991 specifically for him. It's a reproduction of an old family treasure made in the early 1800s. His Watson ancestors brought it to Oregon in their covered wagon.”

“Where is the original quilt now?”

“His brother, Denver, sold it in 1988. Russell's heart broke when he found out, so I used a photo of the original and made him a replacement. The project took three years from start to finish.” She ran her fingertips over the bumpy texture of the quilt. “He used this on the nights he actually slept here.”

How had the Watsons kept the secret of his double life for so many years? Lucy and Ray lived across the street, yet they never suspected a thing. Russell probably slipped out through the garage, which opened onto an alley behind the Watsons house. Nobody would have seen him drive away.

An hour later we found Jazz Fletcher waiting for us in the lobby of Pearly Gates Presbyterian Mortuary, wearing a pink linen jacket. The diamond wedding band sparkled on his left hand. He wasn't carrying the little Maltese today. Instead, he clutched a small brown leather duffel bag. He strode toward us, smiling, and kissed the air on either side of Birdie's cheeks. “
Merci beaucoup
for asking Towsley to notify me.”

I pointed to his bag. “What's in there?”

He winked. “I'm sure you'll be relieved to know it's not a loaded gun.”

Towsley appeared moments later. “Did you bring clothes for Mr. Watson?”

“I did.” Birdie and Jazz spoke simultaneously. They looked at each other.

“I brought his favorite outfit,” said Birdie.

Jazz hugged the duffel to his chest. “So did I.”

Towsley's eyelid started to dance. He glanced from one to the other and tilted his head. “Why don't we all go to a consultation suite?” He guided us to a small room off the hallway, where we sat around a conference table. He remained standing. “I'll just give you some private time to discuss this among yourselves.” Towsley quietly left, closing the door behind him.

Jazz spoke first. “Heavens, here we are in another awkward situation.”

“We're just trying to write the final chapter in Russell's complicated life, dear. I'm sure we can work this out.”

Jazz grabbed Birdie's hand. “You're so sweet. I want us to become best friends.”

“Stand in line,” Lucy said. She opened the overnight case and carefully laid Russell's somber outfit on the table. “Let's take a look at everything we have.”

Jazz screwed his mouth sideways. “That is the fake Rusty.” He opened his bag and pulled out light blue spandex cycling shorts, with matching canvas shoes. “Rusty always said he felt so free wearing these. He bought them during one fabulous weekend we spent at the Madrone Inn. We stayed in the Valentine Room. You know the one? With a heart-shaped bed and red satin sheets?”

The Madrone Inn was a popular tourist destination on the California central coast. A different theme inspired over-the-top décor in every room. To put it another way, if the Hearst Castle married a whorehouse, the Inn would be their offspring.

“And I made this for his seventieth birthday, the same year we adopted Zsa Zsa.” He carefully laid out a lavender and green silk shirt featuring a print of Maltese dogs wearing various costumes.

He turned to us and smiled. “Ta da! This is the real Rusty.”

Maltese shirt? Spandex with no underwear? Russell?

“Mercy!” Birdie grabbed her braid.

Lucy raised her eyebrows and looked at me. I tried to stop myself, but the laughter burst out of my nose. Lucy joined in. Soon we were howling helplessly.

“What's so funny?” Jazz lowered his eyelids halfway.

After a minute I wiped my eyes. “Sorry, Jazz. This outfit is just so—different from the Russell we knew.”

“What are you going to do, hon?” Lucy asked.

“I want him to be comfortable.” Birdie smiled at Jazz. “Let's go with
the real Rusty
.”

Jazz beamed.

“What about the Baltimore Album quilt?” I asked, hoping she'd change her mind.

“He might feel cold in those shorts. The quilt goes with him.”

Darn!
More fiber art lost to posterity. I thought about all the thousands of quilts that never survived the Civil War. During the four-year conflict, the families of many soldiers sent them off to the army with quilts for bedrolls. When the soldiers died in battle, those blankets often became their shrouds. A whole generation of hand stitching went with them into the ground.

Jazz touched a red fabric cardinal stitched to a green branch on the quilt. “This is beautiful. I'd love to be able to make something like this.”

“Do you sew?” Lucy asked.

“
Mais oui
. I own Jazz, a men's boutique in West Hollywood. Maybe you've heard of my place?” He smoothed the sleeve of his pink jacket. “This is part of my summer line of resort wear. We dress some of the stars. Right now I'm working on a more youthful wardrobe for Johnny Depp.”

Lucy fingered the Maltese shirt on the table. “This is beautifully tailored. French seams. I'm impressed.”

He smiled. “I've noticed you have quite a flair for clothing yourself.”

Lucy smiled back, obviously pleased with the acknowledgment. Today she wore a vineyard theme: grape colored amethysts in her ears, lavender blouse, purple trousers, and purple leather sandals in the same shade. For the hundredth time, I wondered how she always managed to find matching shoes.

Jazz gestured to her feet. “Could I offer a teensy suggestion? Your color palette could use just a smidge of contrast. Maybe green shoes instead of purple? Maybe a yellow blouse? Too much matching is so nineties.”

Lucy squinted one eye and pulled her head back. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Jazz looked at my jeans and T-shirt and said nothing. I could be so insulted, but I knew he had a point.

Someone knocked softly on the conference room door. Towsley stepped inside. “Have we come to a decision?” He clasped his hands together and looked at Birdie.

She snatched the underwear from her pile of clothing and added them to the outfit Jazz brought. “I think Russell would feel most comfortable wearing these casual clothes.”

Towsley collected them from the table. “Whatever you wish.”

“And I want you to wrap him in this.” Birdie passed the quilt to the mortician. “I trust this won't be a problem?”

The mortician's eyes widened in appreciation. “Not at all. Many families like to send their loved ones off with something meaningful. There will be plenty of room for this gorgeous piece of art in his casket.”

Jazz stood. “Can we see him now?”

“I'm afraid it's too soon. He'll be ready for viewing at six this evening. Oh, and I've arranged for the decedent vehicle to leave in the morning. The driver's been briefed and will wait until you get here.” He cleared his throat. “There's still time to hire a limousine for you ladies—in case you've changed your mind?”

“Thanks anyway.” Lucy waved her hand. “We're fine.”

Towsley nodded and left with Russell's things in his arms.

Jazz picked up his empty leather bag. “Well, I've got a lot of packing to do for Zsa Zsa and me. Meet you back here this evening. Au revoir.” He threw air kisses at Birdie and left.

Lucy replaced Russell's unused outfit in the roll-on, and we headed back to Encino.

An hour later we sat in Birdie's kitchen eating tuna sandwiches on homemade bread when someone knocked on Birdie's door.

“I'll get it,” she said.

“How are you, Mrs. Watson?”

Beavers? What was he doing here? Lucy and I jumped up and joined them in the living room. Arthur greeted his owner with a furiously wagging tail.

Beavers glanced at me and a corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly upward in a smile. Then he addressed Birdie. “I have news. Thanks to Martha, the Feds think they've ID'd the man who killed your husband.”

A warm wave of pleasure washed over me. For the first time ever, Beavers acknowledged my role in solving a crime. “Who is it?”

“Name's Rene Levesque. A Belgian.”

“What was he doing in Encino?”

“Long story. The FBI narrowed the field of possible suspects using the spiderweb tattoo and his approximate height from the surveillance video, but they didn't have any solid leads. Your information about him speaking French prompted them to contact Interpol. Turns out the bullets pulled from Mr. Watson's body were a match to other murders committed in France, Germany, Italy, and Florida—crimes definitely linked to Levesque.”

“Great! Did they make an arrest?”

Beavers wagged his head. “He's a pro. Interpol's been after him for a decade.” He reached in his pocket and handed me a photo of a middle-aged, dark-haired man with a cruel sneer and a spiderweb tattoo on the side of his neck. “Does this look like the man you saw outside the house taking pictures?”

I examined the face and tried to conjure up the figure standing behind the crowd of journalists and photographers. I shuddered at the flinty eyes staring from the picture. “This could be him, but like I told the FBI, I didn't pay much attention.”

“Well, here's the bad news. Levesque doesn't rob banks. He's a professional assassin. Freelance.”

“Dear Lord!” The color drained from Birdie's face.

“What makes you think robbing First Encino wasn't just a career change?” I asked.

“Witnesses heard Levesque threaten Mr. Watson with a
payback
. The Feds believe the robbery was just a cover for his real objective.”

My stomach dropped to the basement. “Are you saying someone hired Rene Levesque to kill Russell?”

“All the evidence points that way. Levesque may have pulled the trigger, but someone else paid him to do it.”

“Oh my God! He almost got inside this house the other night. Who in the world would want to have Birdie killed? She'd never hurt a fly.”

He turned to my white-haired friend. “Maybe you should consider accepting the offer of witness protection from the FBI, Mrs. Watson.”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “That won't be necessary. We're leaving on a road trip first thing in the morning. I'm going to bury my husband in Oregon. If Rene Levesque comes here again, he won't find me.”

“Leaving town is smart.” He pointed to the picture in my hand. “Take the photo with you. Keep your eyes open while you're on the road. If you have the slightest suspicion anyone is following you, call 9-1-1 and head for the nearest law enforcement. Have them contact the FBI immediately. Call me too.”

Had I crossed over into a parallel universe? An assassin was after Birdie? “What if he's been watching the house? What if he follows us to Oregon?” Somehow I had to convince Beavers to let me have Arthur for the trip. I took a deep breath. “Can we take Arthur with us? He acted so fierce when Levesque tried to break in. If he comes anywhere near Birdie again, the dog will recognize his scent and warn us.”