Knot in My Backyard (A Quilting Mystery) (10 page)

I explained my theory that Martin would never have gone outside the field with someone he didn’t know and trust. “I just think it’s more likely they witnessed the crime and fled the scene out of fear.”

“Those poor people. I can’t stand the thought they actually live without decent shelter. Sure, the weather’s dry now in the summer, but what do they do when the weather’s cold and rainy? I wish we could give them blankets or something. . . .”

Bingo!
I looked at Sonia and smiled. “We can.”

“Can what?”

“Give them blankets.” I explained how our guild gave away quilts to hospitals, shelters, and the homeless. Maybe we could organize some kind of distribution. With Switch gone, I wanted to get into the wildlife reserve in the worst way so I could try to find out where Javier and Graciela had disappeared.

Sonia looked doubtful. “Nobody’s going to go anywhere near the place, Martha. It’s way too dangerous.”

“Things may have changed recently.” I wasn’t going to tell Sonia about Crusher putting Switch out of business. “I’ll check with some friends of mine to make sure, but I think that with some help, we could go in there and do some real good.”

Sonia smiled and stood a little straighter. “Well, I’m a pretty good organizer. I’ll be glad to help you.”

“Sure! I’ll call you later.”

I phoned Lucy the minute I got inside. I sat on the board of the quilt guild and my friends sat on the philanthropy committee. “Hi, Lucy. Are you still doing charity at the guild?”

“Yeah. Birdie and I still go once a month to help tie quilts. Why?”

I told her about my idea to organize an outreach in the Sepulveda Basin and to look for Javier and Graciela at the same time.

“Were you not listening yesterday? Did you not vow to change your ways? I thought you were through with your obsession to solve the murder and save your friend Ed.”

“Yes, I listened. I’m no longer obsessed.” I wasn’t going to correct Lucy and remind her I made no such vow. “Anyway, I think I stumbled upon a real suspect.”

“Get out!”

I told Lucy about Diane and her husband, Jefferson Davis, the headmaster of Beaumont School and Martin’s boss. “So you see, if Davis thought his wife had an affair with Dax Martin, that cradle-robbing control freak could have killed him in a jealous rage.”

“But that’s pure speculation on your part.”

“Doesn’t matter. As I understand it, we don’t need to prove he actually killed Martin. Finding proof is up to the police and the DA. We only want them to look at someone other than Ed Pappas. In the worst-case scenario, if Ed is arrested and goes to trial, we want to have enough evidence to convince a jury someone else
could
have done it. We need to create reasonable doubt.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

I ignored the sarcasm. “You remember my neighbor Sonia?”

“The one we met the other day? The former disco queen-slash-flower child?”

“She’s not so bad. She came up with the idea to distribute blankets to the homeless. Does the guild have any quilts to give away?”

“At the moment, we only have about five completed, but we’ve been gearing up for Veterans Day in November. We’ve at least ten more quilt tops ready to tie.”

Not all quilts were stitched together. To save time, many quilts were tied together every few inches. Strong yarn or heavy thread was stitched a couple of times in place through the three layers of the quilt and cut, leaving two-inch to three-inch ends. Then the ends were tied together to make a permanent suture. Using this method, one person could finish a bed-sized quilt in just a few hours.

“I’m going to ask Hilda to help. Today’s Thursday. The longer we take to arrange this outreach, the less chance we have of finding Javier and Graciela. So let’s aim for Sunday as the day to give away the quilts. What do you think?”

“We’ll have to call an emergency meeting of the committee to tie those other tops. We could end up with fifteen finished quilts by Sunday.”

“That’d be great, Lucy. Could you please get started right away? I’m off to find Hilda.”

My homeless friend was fanning herself in the shade near her usual space on Ventura. She wore a short-sleeved T-shirt, which had a picture of a hairy dog and the words
I
LOVE
MY
LABRADOODLE
.
The pockets of her chambray pleated maxiskirt were bulging and the hem was frayed. Hilda parked her shopping cart in front of Rafi’s place, where she could see it. We sat at a table near the window and each ordered a falafel combo plate, with assorted cold salads.

She stood. “I gotta go wash my hands.” This wasn’t the first time I noticed that even though she didn’t have access to regular facilities, Hilda worked to keep herself reasonably clean. When she returned from the restroom, she’d also washed the sweat off her face and combed her tangled hair.

She tore off a piece of pita bread and swiped it through the baba ghanouj, a puree of roasted eggplant, olive oil, lemon, and garlic. “I heard what went down the other night. You and your friends really did a number on Switch. I also hear he’s cuffed to a hospital bed.”

She went on to describe how, after the brawl, the homeless people banded together and forced the other thugs to leave. “It’s a lot safer there now.”

“I’m glad, and I’ll tell you why. The weather won’t be hot like this forever. In just a couple of months, it’ll be cold out and the rains will come. I’d like to help those people prepare for the winter, so here’s my idea. We go into the reserve on Sunday with blankets to distribute. While we’re there, we can look for Javier and Graciela.”

“You should go soon. I heard someone say a couple was looking for a ride to Mountain View. I don’t know if it’s them.”

The town of Mountain View sat four hundred miles north in Silicon Valley. If Javier and Graciela left Los Angeles, we’d never find them. We needed to visit the reserve before they fled.

Hilda tilted her head. “You know, these people down there could use other things besides blankets.”

“Such as?”

She ticked items on her fingers. “Socks for the cold weather. Toiletries for hygiene, like body soap, deodorant, toothbrushes and toothpaste, shampoo, disposable razors, rolls of toilet paper, and small packets of laundry detergent.”

I thought about Sonia and her organizing skills. I’d ask her to contact the neighbors and solicit donations of those other items. “I think we can put something together by Sunday, but I need you to go there and let people know we’re coming.”

“No problem. You gotta respect their privacy. Hand out your packages and then leave. You and I can look for your witnesses.”

“Do you know how many people are living there right now?”

Hilda shrugged and looked at the ceiling, calculating. “At least fifty. Maybe more.”

Help for fifty people would be a challenge to organize in the next two days, but I was pretty sure it could be done with a little help from my friends. If I found Javier and Graciela, and if they witnessed Dax Martin’s murder, and if I could convince them to tell the police what they knew, I could clear Ed from suspicion by Sunday night.

CHAPTER 16

I laid my keys on the hall table, right next to the key Beavers angrily discarded the day before. I walked slowly to the kitchen and put a kettle of water on to boil. Some late-afternoon tea would help me think about what to do next.

I made my first call to Sonia. “We can go forward with our plans to distribute blankets to the homeless on Sunday.”

“Will we be safe?”

“Yeah. I’m going to ask my friend Yossi to be our escort, though.”

“Your big biker guy?”

My guy? That’s the second time she’s mentioned him today.

“Yes. You probably also saw he has a big white truck to transport the stuff.”

Sonia’s voice sparked with excitement. “Terrific! How many blankets do we need?”

“There are at least fifty people down there. We should also put together packets of personal hygiene products.” I recited the list Hilda suggested.

Sonia said she’d hit up the neighbors for donations. “Can your quilting friends get fifty quilts?”

“No. Maybe fifteen.”

“Well, then, how about I also ask the neighbors for donations of regular blankets? New or used, as long as they’re clean.”

Sonia agreed to have the items dropped off at her house and we’d put everything in packages on Saturday night.

The kettle whistled and I made myself a cup of
genmaicha,
Japanese green tea. I took a moment to enjoy the distinctive roasted-rice flavor, which always reminded me of sitting at a sushi bar.

Next I called Crusher’s cell phone.

“Yeah?”

“Hi, Yossi. It’s Martha. Are you up to doing another good deed?”

“Anything for you, babe. What do you need?”

“I need a big truck and a bunch of strong guys to keep the peace.”

“I’ve got more than that for you.” He chuckled. “When and where?”

I ignored the innuendo and told Crusher about the plan to distribute blankets and packages to the homeless on Sunday. “I’m hoping the groundskeeper can tell me something tomorrow about Javier and Graciela. If he can’t, we still might find them or someone who knows about them in the reserve. What do you think?”

“I’m in. You’re still gonna talk to the groundskeeper tomorrow morning, right?”

“Oh, sure. No stone unturned.”

“Do you want me to come along as backup?”

Is he kidding? A three-hundred-pound hulk with a do-rag?

“No thanks, Yossi. Better I go alone. I look less threatening, if you know what I mean.”

He laughed. “I pity the guy who underestimates you.” He paused. “Is that what happened with Beavers?”

I remembered the confusion, anger, and disappointment I felt when Beavers accused me of spending the night with Crusher. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sorry, babe. You wanna get some dinner tonight? We could go to the Cantina on Mulholland Drive. They have killer enchiladas.” I’d never been to the Cantina, a notoriously rowdy hangout for bikers, cowboys, and movie stuntmen. “I can pick you up in a half hour and you can ride on the back of my bike.”

There it was. Crusher told Beavers he wanted to get me on the back of his bike—also known as the “bitch seat.” Beavers had gone livid. Was Crusher really interested in me, or was he just playing me because he wanted to stick it to Beavers? When did I get so cynical?

“No thanks, Yossi. It’s been a long day. I’m just going to chill at home and go to bed early.”

“Okay, but one day you’ll get over him, and I want to be first in line when that happens.”

First of all, I didn’t know if I’d ever get over Beavers. Second of all, there wouldn’t be a line. There had never been a line. Third of all, even though he was growing on me, I still didn’t like Crusher in
that
way.

“You’re sweet, Yossi. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I made myself another cup of tea and the phone rang.

“Hi,
faigele.
Are we still on for Shabbat dinner tomorrow?” My elderly uncle Isaac always called me by that Yiddish endearment, “little bird.”

“Of course.”

“I called to say you don’t have to pick me up. Morty’s gonna visit a friend in Northridge. He says he’ll drop me off at your house on the way.”

“Why don’t you invite Morty for dinner? I’m cooking a brisket.”

“I did, but he’s got other plans. He’s got a new girlfriend.”

“How old is he, anyway?”

“Morty? He’s almost eighty-eight, but he’s as strong as an ox. Still drives his car. And still, you know, likes the ladies.”

“What happened to the last one?”

“Heart attack. Second girlfriend in two years. The senior center is full of nice Jewish ladies our age, but they can’t keep up with him. So he decided to go younger. This new one, Marilyn, she’s only seventy. A little on the zaftig side, which is the way he likes ’em.”

I laughed. “I hope she lasts.”

I said my good-byes to my uncle and began cutting veggies for salad. I knew all about
zaftigkeit.
Being plump was a Jewish woman’s curse, a lifelong battle in my case. How many salads had I made over the years, only to ruin my good intentions by topping off the meal with a sugary pastry or grabbing fast food on the run?

Tomorrow was going to be a long day, and I needed to plan ahead, so I opened my Weight Watchers book for inspiration. I only wished I could open a book with a recipe for finding Dax Martin’s killer.

CHAPTER 17

Friday morning’s weather report promised more ninety-degree heat. At nine in the morning, the temps were already reaching into the high seventies. I put on lightweight khaki cargo pants, a V-neck T-shirt, and my clean white athletic shoes; then I walked behind my house over to the Beaumont School baseball field. A lone figure rode on a green mower along the first base line near the street; the smell of freshly cut grass filled the air.

“Hello!” I shouted through the chain-link fence. My voice was lost over the loud rumble of the mower. I walked onto the field and stood near the catcher’s mound. He finally saw me when he turned the mower toward home plate. He drove up to me and turned off the engine.

The driver, a dark-haired Hispanic man, jumped off the machine, took off his work gloves, and walked toward me. On the left side of his maroon golf shirt was the Beaumont School crest and the name “Miguel” embroidered below in school bus yellow thread.

“Can I help you, Mrs.?” He spoke with the accent of someone who wasn’t born in the United States but had lived here a long time.

I attempted to dazzle him with my most disarming smile. “I hope so. My name is Martha, and I live in the house over there.”

“I am Miguel. What can I do for you, Mrs. Martha?” He spoke softly and with the charming deference Latino men showed to older women.

“I’m looking for someone, and I hope you can help me.”

“My pleasure.”

“Did you notice a couple camping out behind the field over on the other side of the river?” I pointed in the direction of left field. “Their names are Javier and Graciela.”