Something's Knot Kosher (8 page)

Beavers locked eyes with me for five long seconds. Then he slowly reached down and stroked the top of the shepherd's head. “What do you say, Artie?”

The dog barked once and wagged his tail. Beavers ruffled his fur and leveled his gaze at me again. “Don't take any stupid chances, Martha.”

“I learned my lesson the last time, Arlo. I'll take good care of him.”

I hoped I could live up to my promise.

Lucy offered to help Birdie get ready for the trip, so Arthur and I returned to my house in the afternoon. Bumper met us at the door yowling and scolding me for abandoning him for the past week. But I could clearly see my neighbor Sonia had taken good care of him during my absence. I trusted her to continue his good care while I traveled. I'd have to remember to bring them both something special from Oregon. Maybe some Tillamook cheese for Sonia and a can of salmon for the cat. Or vice versa.

I spent the rest of the afternoon doing laundry and packing for the trip—including the loaded Browning semiautomatic pistol. God forbid we should encounter Rene Levesque, I wanted to be prepared.

C
HAPTER
13

That evening, Lucy picked me up in her vintage black Caddy. For once, all three of us wore dresses. She seemed strangely quiet on the drive to Burbank. We pulled into Pearly Gates Presbyterian Mortuary by six, but Jazz Fletcher hadn't arrived yet. Birdie insisted on waiting in the lobby for him before viewing Russell's body.

“Sorry I'm late.” Jazz rushed through the door, out of breath. “FBI Agent Lancet came by the house earlier this afternoon and grilled me for over an hour. It threw me way behind schedule. She acted nice, though. She said she was sorry for my loss. After she left, I had to make some rush decisions in packing. I completely lost track of time.”

Usually an interview only takes a few minutes. “Why did she question you for such a long time?”

When he saw the mortician approaching, Jazz leaned over and whispered, “I'll tell you later.”

Towsley steered us to a viewing room at the far end of a long hallway. “He's in a peaceful repose. I think you'll be pleased.”

I must say, I had never been comfortable with the notion of staring at the dead. Jewish burials involved closed caskets, or bodies completely covered in a shroud. But my traditions were not Birdie's traditions. And since I wanted to be supportive, I steeled myself to face Russell Watson's corpse.

We arrived at the viewing room, and Towsley left us at the door. “Do take all the time you need. I've placed a few refreshments on the table against the wall. Cookies and coffee.”

Even though the hot July sun still shone outside, the drapes were drawn and the lights were dimmed to approximate twilight. Jazz reached down and grabbed Birdie's hand. He took a deep breath and led her forward toward the open casket in the front of the room. Soft strains of Bach wafted through overhead speakers.

I touched Lucy's arm, and we stopped walking, allowing the two principal mourners to approach the casket by themselves. As I suspected, Jazz dissolved into tears at the first sight of his beloved Rusty. His choking sobs tore at my heart. He and Birdie collapsed into each other's arms. Only the most hardened person wouldn't weep with them.

Like FBI agent Kay Lancet, who came out of the shadows in the back of the room. Her boots squeaked across the floor as she approached Lucy and me. “I understand the four of you are driving with the body to Oregon tomorrow?”

“Yes. We've arranged to follow the hearse all the way to McMinnville.” I wiped my eyes and turned around to face her. She wore a loose-fitting gray pantsuit and no jewelry. Her hair, pulled back into a severe bun, emphasized her stunning cheekbones. A beautiful woman hid beneath that stern exterior. Hadn't Beavers said they knew each other? Now I wondered just how well.

Lancet rested her hand on her throat. “Detective Beavers thinks it's a good idea for you to take Mrs. Watson out of town. I don't.”

Lucy pulled her chin back. “Why not?”

“I think she'd be safer in witness protection. Rene Levesque has avoided capture for over ten years. He's slippery and dangerous.”

Lucy looked at me and tilted her head toward my purse. “Show her.”

I opened my purse wide enough to expose the Browning semiautomatic.

Agent Lancet frowned. “Is this your gun, Mrs. Rose?”

“It's registered to me,” said Lucy. “So is this.” She opened her purse to reveal an even bigger Glock.

Lancet thrust her head forward and stuck out her hand. “What are you, the Over-the-Hill Gang? Why don't you hand me those guns right now before someone gets hurt?”

Lucy showed the agent a piece of paper from her wallet. “I don't have to. I have a permit to carry. See?”

“How did you qualify for this?”

“I do the books for my husband's business, which requires me to carry deposits to the bank. I'm from Wyoming, Agent. I grew up with guns. I can shoot a fly off a cow's back at forty paces.”

Lancet grunted. “I'll bet your parents had a lot of unexplained bovine fatalities.”

She turned to me. “What's your excuse?”

I looked at Lucy then back at the agent. “I'm carrying this gun for Lucy. I'm sort of like a caddy, only I schlep extra firepower instead of golf balls. In case she runs out of bullets.”

“Get rid of it!”

Lucy reached over and transferred the Browning to her purse. “There. Are you satisfied?”

“Listen”—Lancet lowered her voice—“I know you're worried about your friend's safety, but so am I. We don't know why Levesque tried to break into her house. She'd be better off with professionals guarding her until he's caught.”

I closed my purse. “I don't disagree, but this road trip is Birdie's decision. So if she wants to drive to Oregon, then we're going to take her there.”

She pulled out two business cards and handed one to Lucy and one to me. “Call me every day. Let me know where you are. If you suspect you're being followed . . .”

“I know.” I waved the card. “Call 9-1-1 and head for the nearest law enforcement. Detective Beavers already told us the same thing. Believe me, you'll get no argument from us.”

The agent retreated to the shadows in the back of the room. Birdie and Jazz sat in folding chairs next to the casket.

I looked at Lucy and took a deep breath. “Shall we?”

She made the sign of the cross, and we approached the recumbent body of Russell Watson.

The first thing I noticed was how small he seemed in this roomy casket. The kill shots must have been in the torso, because his face and head were pristine. He might have looked like he was sleeping if it weren't for the slightly orange makeup. Birdie's green, red, and cream-colored appliquéd quilt was wrapped around him like a swaddling cloth, binding his arms inside. The collar of the lavender silk shirt printed with Maltese dogs peeked out sadly from the top of the blanket. I looked away and vowed to work hard to erase this picture from my memory bank.

Lucy and I sat, waiting for Birdie to signal she wanted to leave. A tall figure approached from the rear, and I tensed until I remembered Agent Lancet stood guard in the shadows.

I relaxed when I recognized Ivo Van Otten, president of First Encino Bank and Russell Watson's protégé. He stood quietly beside the casket, looking at his mentor and friend. Then he turned and spoke softly to Birdie, bending down so she could hear him. He shook hands with Jazz. Both men were tall, handsome, and very well dressed. They could have been featured in an ad for Dewar's or Mercedes-Benz.

There hadn't been time to announce the viewing in the paper, but thanks to social media, around fifty people showed up: several bank employees, four neighbors, and dozens of Jazz's and Russell's friends from West Hollywood. The friends seemed to gravitate toward Birdie like little children toward a favorite grandmother. And every single one of them hugged her before leaving.

Lucy hardly spoke. She was so busy texting.

“Is something wrong?” I pointed to the phone.

Her eyes filled with tears. “We just found out Junior's wife, Tanya, wants a divorce and is taking the kids with her to Hawaii. Junior now thinks she's been having a thing with her kung fu instructor.”

Ray Junior was Lucy and Ray's oldest son. Junior had a degree in business administration and ran the Mondello family business—a string of busy auto repair shops in Los Angeles and Orange Counties. The Mondellos were a close-knit three-generation family. If Tanya took her three boys to Hawaii, it would kill the whole Mondello family. No wonder Lucy was crying.

Lucy closed her phone. “Junior never saw this coming. He's vowed to keep his boys here. We're scrambling to find him a good lawyer.”

“I'm so sorry.” I squeezed her hand.

When we finally left Pearly Gates, darkness had fallen. Night-blooming jasmine, so ubiquitous in Southern California, perfumed the air, and hundreds of crickets chirped. Some nights in Southern California were perfect, and this was one of them. A warm, silky breeze slid over my skin, and I suddenly missed the strong arms and the huge presence of Crusher. Even though he was six feet six inches of solid muscle, he'd always been gentle and tender with me. He left five months ago, and I hadn't heard one word from him since. I kept telling myself he was probably working an assignment and couldn't call, but new doubts began nibbling away at the edges of my confidence.

When I turned down his latest proposal of marriage, he went back to working undercover for the ATF. Or maybe
Shin Bet,
the Israeli secret service. I never knew with him. At any rate, he'd grown tired of waiting for me to make a commitment.

But how could I? It wasn't the fact he was seven years younger than me. Nor was it the fact he was a rolling stone and had never been married and settled down. My romantic track record was dismal. Who was to say our relationship wouldn't end the way all the others had? Maybe it already had ended and I was just too stupid to realize it. An incredible sadness settled on me like a heavy blanket. What if he'd already found someone else?

“Martha? Martha!” I finally became aware of Lucy's voice. “We're home, hon.” Birdie had insisted on being alone that night, so Lucy had driven straight to my house from the mortuary.

Thank goodness for the darkness. I didn't want my friends to see the tears soaking my cheeks. “I'm sorry, Luce. Must have dozed off.”

She pulled the Browning out of her purse and handed it to me. “What Agent Lancet doesn't know won't hurt her.”

I stuffed the gun in my purse and hurried out of her car toward my empty house. As soon as I walked in, my phone rang. For one wild moment I wanted it to be Crusher. “Hello?”

“How was the viewing?” Beavers. “I tried calling you at Mrs. Watson's house, but when nobody answered, I thought I'd try your home number.”

“Hello, Arlo.” My heart sank. Would I ever hear from Crusher again? “It was sad, of course.”

His voice softened. “Do you want some company?”

Oh my God. I could be so tempted
. “Nice of you to offer, but no, thanks. I need to turn in. We're getting an early start in the morning.”

“You have everything you need for Arthur?”

“Yes, and thanks again for letting him come with us.”

“I'll call you every night to check up on both of you while you're gone.” I wasn't sure I wanted to hear from him every night, but I could understand his being concerned about his dog.

A half hour later I climbed into bed and turned off the light. Bumper curled up next to me, and Arthur stretched out on the floor. Just before I fell asleep, I realized I never did get to hear what Jazz told the FBI.

C
HAPTER
14

Normally, Lucy, Birdie, and I would spend today quilting at Birdie's house. But this Tuesday morning we took our sewing projects on a 900-mile road trip to accompany Russell Watson to his final resting place.

At eight, I parked my Civic in front of Birdie's house. Arthur and I walked across the street, where Jazz helped Lucy's husband, Ray, pack the spacious trunk of her 1960 Cadillac with five pieces of luggage, bags of dog food, and Zsa Zsa's small leopard print dog bed.

“There will only be four of us in the car,” I said. “Who's bringing the extra piece of luggage?”

Jazz raised his hand. He wore loose-fitting olive green trousers zippered tight at the ankles and a hand-tailored shirt pieced with floral prints and stripes. The pieces worked well together. “One for me and one for Zsa Zsa.”

Lucy and I exchanged a look.

“I couldn't decide what to wear to the funeral, so I brought a few choices. And I wanted Zsa Zsa and me to have matching outfits, so I packed several things for her as well. Will that be a problem?” He pinched his eyebrows together and looked at Lucy.

“I think we'll be okay, hon. There's plenty of room in this big trunk.” Lucy wore green twill pants and a green blouse. I blinked. Today her shoes were yellow.

Ray stood straight with his arms crossed and looked at each of us one by one: Lucy, Birdie, me, Jazz, and the two dogs. “You're not to take any chances. Do you hear me? Stick to the back of the other car like glue. Here.” He bent down and picked up a box from the side of the driveway and handed it to Lucy.

“Inside are two-way radios and some extra batteries. One for your car and one for the driver of the hearse.”

“Decedent vehicle, hon,” Lucy corrected him.

“Okay. Whatever. Keep the channel open. You're to stay in contact at all times. I don't want you getting separated, especially if you have to make an emergency pit stop. Check all your gauges regularly. You don't want to run out of gas or overheat the engine. Although, I tuned this baby up pretty good last night.” His voice softened. “She's purring like a kitten.”

Arthur barked once.

“Lucy, honey, I want you to call me every day and tell me where you're staying for the night.”

Where had we heard that before? If we called everyone every day, we'd have no time to drive.

“Keep those guns in your possession wherever you go. Even to the john. You never know when you might need them.”

Jazz, who'd been cuddling his dog, suddenly whipped his head toward Ray. “Lucy's armed?”

Ray crossed his arms again and leveled his gaze. “You don't have a problem with that, do you?”

Jazz clamped his lips together and shook his head. “Nope!”

“Good. Time to move out.”

“Promise me you'll keep me updated about Junior.” Lucy grabbed Ray's arm.

“I promise.” He kissed his wife, who had to bend down slightly since her wedge heels elevated her four inches above her husband. He kissed Birdie and me on our cheeks. Finally, he shook hands with Russell Watson's lover, who also towered over him by a few inches. “I'm trusting you to take care of my girls, Fletcher.”

Jazz pushed his shoulders back. “You can count on me, Ray.”

“If you know how to use one, I could arm you with your own pistol.”

Jazz's shoulders drooped a little. “I never learned. But don't worry; I took a class once in jujitsu.”

Forty-five minutes later, we parked in the lot of Pearly Gates. The shiny black hearse sat in the driveway with the engine idling. A man in an ill-fitting black suit and fisherman's cap leaned against the driver's side door smoking a cigarette.

When he saw us get out of the car, he pinched off the end of the cigarette and put the butt in his pocket before limping in our direction. As he came closer, I saw his face was folded into a thousand creases. This man was way past retirement age. Would he be capable of piloting a hearse all the way to Oregon?

He removed his cap and smiled, revealing a row of crooked yellow teeth. He took one look at Birdie and smoothed his thin white hair back with the palm of his hand. “The name's Earl. I'll be taking you folks up to Oregon. May I ask which of you beautiful young ladies is Mrs. Watson?”

Birdie raised her forefinger. “I am.” She briefly introduced the rest of us.

“At your service, ma'am. My deepest sympathies.” He placed the cap over his heart and bowed deeply from the waist. I was afraid he wouldn't be able to stand up again.

I glanced at Jazz, who tapped his fingertips against his lips. Lucy looked at me sideways. We must all be thinking the same thing. Where did Towsley dig up this guy? I wanted to go inside and demand he find us a living driver.

Lucy clutched the walkie-talkie in her hands. I could tell she wasn't ready to hand it over just yet. “Earl, you look like you're in a little pain, hon. Are you sure you're up to this long drive?”

“Nothin' to worry about, Mrs. Mondello. My sciatica's acting up today, that's all. Comes from sittin' down my whole professional career.”

“What did you do?”

“Bus driver. Forty years. And in all my years of hauling passengers, I never once had a accident.” He slid his eyes over to Birdie and winked. “You can trust me to take care of your dearly departed.”

She nodded slightly.

“So.” He rubbed his hands together. “Let me brief you. We'll be driving a little slower than traffic, so the trip'll take us three days. If we leave now and don't stop too often, we should make Stockton by late afternoon. Tomorrow we'll drive as far as Ashland, Oregon. We'll easily make it to McMinnville on the third day. Mr. Towsley already booked hotel rooms at all three stops.”

Lucy hesitated then gave him the walkie-talkie. “You know how to work one of these?”

“I reckon. We used something like this in Korea.” He pulled up the antenna. “I drove a Army supply truck.”

“Good. Keep it turned on. We'll be following right behind you. Since we have two dogs and an elderly woman with us, we'll be making frequent pit stops. So we need to stay in constant contact.”

“Good thing you told me. Otherwise I woulda turned off my hearing aid. Saves on batteries, don'tcha know.”

Lucy reached over and switched on his walkie-talkie. “Okay, let's get this show on the road.”

Earl smiled again at Birdie. “Anything you need, just ask. Shame that a lovely woman like you should be all alone in the world.”

Jazz put his arm around Birdie's shoulder. “Does she look like she's alone?”

Earl ignored him and put his cap back on. “Keep your headlights on. You'll be easier for me to spot in my rearview. Plus it might discourage other drivers from cutting in between us. Although, you'd be surprised how some meatheads have no respect for a funeral procession. They don't realize one day they'll be taking the same ride.”

Five minutes later we headed down Alameda Avenue toward the northbound onramp of Interstate 5.

Lucy kept both hands on the wheel. “I'm getting one of my bad feelings about this Earl.” She claimed to have ESP, but I maintained her intuitions sprang not from some sixth sense but from the challenges of raising five sons. “He's a little long in the tooth to be driving.”

I had to admit, however, I shared her feelings.