Gone But Knot Forgotten (2 page)

C
HAPTER
2

The law offices of Abernathy, Porter & Salinger were located in a black glass high-rise on the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Federal Avenue in West LA, where parking cost five dollars for every fifteen minutes.

I stepped off the elevator into a plush suite of offices occupying the entire tenth floor. The reception area, situated in the south side of the building, revealed spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean all the way down to Palos Verdes and west to Catalina Island. The late-afternoon December sun striped the horizon in shades of pink and gold. Harriet must have been very well off to afford an attorney in this luxury setting. I was glad I wore a dress for the meeting.

“May I help you?”

I tore my eyes from the stunning view and approached a male receptionist sitting behind an antique walnut desk. A head of short, bleached hair appeared almost white in contrast to his latte skin. He blinked his eyes once, and a flash of black eyeliner caught my attention. Another part of LA's rich diversity I loved so much.

“Martha Rose for Deacon Abernathy.”

He pressed a button on a console and spoke into a headset, then smiled warmly and gestured toward the waiting area. “Mr. Abernathy will be free in a couple of minutes. Please make yourself comfortable. May I get you some water? Coffee? Soda?”

“No, thanks.” I returned the smile.

I sat in a chair upholstered in plum leather and gazed at the sunset, calculating how much each minute of waiting would cost me in parking fees. I had reached three dollars and forty cents when a slender woman wearing glasses walked efficiently toward me.

“Ms. Rose? I'm Mr. Abernathy's assistant, Nina. Sorry for the wait. He's most anxious to meet you. Will you please follow me?”

We moved down a long corridor decorated in original art to a huge corner office with a jaw-dropping view not only of the sunset but of the Veterans Administration to the east and the UCLA campus beyond. Vivaldi played soothingly in the background. If your name came first on the door, you could command the best office.

A thickset man with a receding hairline stood and came round his desk with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and shook my hand vigorously. “Ms. Rose, I'm Deacon Abernathy, but everyone calls me ‘Deke.'” Abernathy looked like a former athlete gone soft around the middle, probably thanks to decades of steak dinners and martini lunches. He led me to a comfortable sofa and sat in a chair facing me, across a coffee table with two glasses of ice water. Something about this guy seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite place him.

I took a deep breath. “Please tell me about Harriet.”

He tented his fingers and pressed them against his lips. “I've been Harriet's attorney for years. Our firm handled both her legal and her financial affairs. I tried contacting her recently. Some investment transactions needed her signature. When she failed to return my calls, I became alarmed and drove to her house. Nobody answered the door, so I went round to the back. Nothing looked out of place. The gardener still tended the grounds, but everything was quiet. Too quiet. I suspected something terrible had happened and called the police. They forced their way into the house and found her dead.”

My skin crawled. “How did she die?”

He coughed and covered his mouth. A slight tremor rippled through his hand. Was the poor man trying to hide his emotions? “The coroner couldn't determine the cause of death because of the state of her body. The police found no obvious sign of foul play. She could've suffered a heart attack.”

“Oh God.” My mouth felt dry; I reached for a glass of water. “What about her husband, Nathan? Did they have children?”

“One son, Jonah, was born in 1990 but died at the age of five in a tragic accident.”

This story grew worse and worse. “How?”

“Nathan took him on a charter boat to Catalina Island for a father/son fishing trip. Apparently the boy wasn't wearing a proper life jacket. He fell overboard and went under. Some fishermen dove in the water, but by the time one of them could find him and pull him out of the ocean, the child was dead.”

Poor Harriet. The death of her son was the second tragedy in her life. At nine, her twin brother, David, died under the wheels of a bus. Now she'd faced a similar horror years later with her son.

Nina, the assistant, materialized with a bottle of Pinot Grigio on a large silver tray with two wineglasses, platters of tapas—mini open-faced sandwiches—and ceviche served with tiny forks. She set the tray on the coffee table and offered me a glass, but I shook my head. I had to drive back home.

Abernathy handed me a napkin. “We offer happy hour to our clerks and associates on Tuesdays. Go on, help yourself.”

“Thanks, but I'm not hungry.” I usually enjoyed a warm and fuzzy relationship with food. However, as Harriet's story unfolded, I lost my appetite. Abernathy, on the other hand, shrugged and poured himself a generous drink and tucked into the raw fish with gusto.

My grandmother, who raised me, may she rest in peace, would rather have poked her eye out with a fork than eaten in front of someone else. She communicated through food. If any guest of Bubbie's refused to eat, she coaxed, cajoled, and wheedled until he gave in.
Just a small sliver. You need your strength. What. You don't like my cooking?
It worked every time.

Nina slipped quietly out of the office and I waited until Abernathy had washed down the food with more wine.

“What happened to Nathan?”

He wiped his mouth with a cocktail napkin and once again his hand trembled. Maybe he suffered a neurological problem.

“About two years after the boy's death, Nathan disappeared. Must've been the guilt. He left behind a note saying he intended to go back out to sea, to the place where Jonah died and join his son. We never found his body.”

I thought about all the episodes of
Cold Case Files
on TV. “What if he didn't kill himself? What if he just wanted to run away?”

“Naturally, we thought of that and hired detectives to search for him. But Nathan Oliver vanished. After seven years, without a trace, and on the strength of his suicide note, we had him declared legally dead.”

“What about her parents?” Herschel and Lilly Gordon, both Holocaust survivors, had been older when Harriet and her brother, David, were born. They avoided mentioning the aunts, uncles, and cousins who died in the camps. And like most survivors, they were overprotective.

“Both dead. No other living relatives.”

“Well, what about friends? A social life?” When we were teenagers, Harriet often spent the night at my house. She rummaged through my closet, changed into my torn jeans and leg warmers, and—unbeknownst to her parents—we hung out with our friends at the mall.

Abernathy shook his head. “Harriet became a recluse. She seldom left her home and rarely received visitors.”

My heart squeezed in pain at the thought of Harriet's devastating losses and her self-imposed isolation.

“Did she say why she chose me to be her executor?”

Abernathy spread his hands and shrugged. “Up until he disappeared, Harriet made her husband, Nathan, the executor. Then she selected her father until his death ten years ago. After that, she named her college roommate, Isabel Casco. Two years ago, Harriet changed her will again and appointed you.”

“You said you handled her financial affairs. How could she lay in her house for ten months without anybody knowing? With no one to pay the bills, didn't the overdue warnings from the utility companies raise a red flag?”

“Good questions. All her household bills were sent directly to our office. We routinely sent out monthly payments. As far as we knew, nothing raised a flag.” Abernathy popped a small slice of baguette, topped with an olive tapenade, in his mouth. “You sure you won't try one of these? You're missing out.”

I cleared my throat. “No, thanks. I hate to bring this up while you're eating, but I can't help wondering why the neighbors didn't detect a foul odor coming from the house.”

He put his small plate of tapas back on the table.

Maybe he does have limits
.

“Yeah, I wondered that too. But, as the coroner explained, Harriet's house stood on a large lot. Any odor would dissipate long before reaching the surrounding homes. And her location inside the house, well, not much of the smell would've traveled outdoors.”

“Where was she?”

“Upstairs off the master bedroom inside a windowless walk-in closet. The worst odor would've been pretty much confined.”

My stomach lurched. I tried not to think about the poor cop who first entered Harriet's closet. “Had anything been stolen? Could she have been killed by an intruder?”

Abernathy shifted his weight forward and studied me intently. His frown deepened the creases between his eyes. “You sound like a police detective, Ms. Rose.”

I maintained eye contact and said nothing.

He poured himself another glass of wine, relaxed back into the chair, and smiled slightly. “To tell you the truth, I didn't know what to expect when I contacted you, but it's clear you're both smart and, ah, insightful. I think Harriet chose her executor wisely. To answer your question, I couldn't tell whether anything was missing. I did notice a general messiness, as if someone might've been looking for something.”

I pictured the young Harriet going through my closet hunting for cool clothes. I tried not to picture the grown Harriet lying in her closet for ten months. She deserved to be in her final resting place as soon as possible. “So, what does being Harriet's executor involve, Mr. Abernathy?”

“Call me Deke. We're pretty informal around here. May I call you Martha?”

“Sure. Okay.”

He briefly reviewed the details of the will—she left everything to charity—and explained the process of probate. “It'll be your job to dispose of her assets and distribute her bequests. We'll take care of filing the court papers. The first thing you must do is make some practical and religious decisions regarding her burial. Harriet owned a plot at Gan Shalom Memorial Park next to her son, but she never specified any final details.

He stood and retrieved a bulging accordion file from his desk, reached inside, and handed me a handful of papers and a bulky envelope. “This is a copy of her will. Here are keys to her house and automobile.” He indicated the file. “The rest of these papers include copies of her death certificate, a financial summary, insurance policies, and an investment portfolio. Anytime you're ready, my accountants will give you full access to her records, statements, and whatever else you need to settle her estate.”

“Where is Harriet's body now?”

“Still with the coroner. Info's in the file. Let me know what arrangements you make.”

I glanced at my wristwatch. An hour had passed. I gathered up the documents and stood. For the first time, I spotted a silver trophy with a football on top of an art deco pedestal. I walked over to read the inscription: UCLA R
OSE
B
OWL
J
ANUARY
1976.

Now I remembered why he looked so familiar. In 1976, my senior year at UCLA, we won the Rose Bowl when star quarterback, Deke Abernathy, threw the winning pass. His face appeared regularly in the
Daily Bruin.
We sat in the same geography class, although I was sure he'd never remember a married student like me. Deke Abernathy hung out with the jocks and sorority girls. I was, frankly, surprised to see this guy had been smart enough to become a lawyer.

“I thought I recognized you, Deke. We attended UCLA at the same time.”

He grinned wide enough for me to observe a mouth full of capped teeth. “Did we ever meet?”

“Well, we sat in one class together, but I'm certain you wouldn't remember.”

He put a meaty hand on my shoulder. “What a shame. I'm sure I would've liked you, Martha.” His hazel eyes crinkled at the corners and his teeth flashed.

“Probably not. I was married at the time.”

He winked and gave my shoulder a little squeeze. “Never too late.”

Really? Is he really trying to go there?
“Great. In that case, I have a question to ask.”

He chuckled. “Anything for a friend.”

I pulled out my parking ticket. “Do you validate?”

C
HAPTER
3

The next morning I woke with a fibromyalgia flare-up. My neck and shoulders were stiff, and every part of me hurt. All the dampness and weather changes turned winter into the crappy time of year for me. My sensitive body could predict rain three days before the first drops fell.

In the kitchen, my orange cat Bumper purred and rubbed his whiskered cheeks against my ankles as I poured star-shaped kibble into his bowl. I stood and spotted the yoga studio flyer from yesterday's mail. A flexible young woman sat smiling in the lotus pose, her palms pressed together in the prayer position. The last time I saw Dr. Lim at the UCLA Pain Clinic, he suggested I try yoga for the chronic discomfort of fibro. He pointedly looked at my hips. “It might help you lose a little weight while you're at it.” I could have been so insulted.

I reached for the phone and called the number on the flyer, still unsure whether yoga was for me.

“Sublime Yoga.
Namaste
.”

“Hello. My name is Martha Rose and I'm calling about your trial offer.”

“Great. I'm Heather. Let's set up an appointment to give you a tour of the studio and afterward we'll schedule you for a free class. When would you like to come in?”

A long list of chores waited for my attention, beginning with the task of reading Harriet's will and contacting Gan Shalom Memorial Park. “I'm pretty busy today, but how about tomorrow morning?”

“Perfect. Give me your phone number and I'll schedule a tour for nine on Thursday. And, Martha? Be sure to wear something loose and comfortable.”

An hour later I showered and dressed in black slacks and a gray pullover. Ever since my hair turned salt-and-pepper, I discovered gray clothes complemented my coloring. With the accordion file next to me on the sofa, I prioritized the papers by the most immediate task first. The contact info for Gan Shalom Memorial Park, located in West LA, sat on the top of the pile. I punched in the number on my phone and after two transfers, a Mrs. Deener came on the line.

“Hello. I'm calling about Mrs. Harriet Oliver. My name is Martha Rose, and I want to make arrangements for her funeral.”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Deener spoke in a pleasantly modulated, almost unctuous voice. “The lawyer's office told us to expect your call. You'll need to come and sign release papers so we can transport the deceased from the county morgue. Although Mrs. Oliver is a prepaid, there are still a few decisions to be made.

A prepaid?
I bristled at the way the woman just reduced Harriet to a commodity.

I looked at my watch. “It's ten now. I can drive over the hill and meet you at twelve.”

I got off the 405 Freeway at Howard Hughes Parkway and wound my way across Sepulveda Boulevard. A long driveway lined in Italian cypress trees meandered up the hill to the white marble administration building and chapel. Gan Shalom, one of several Jewish cemeteries in LA, had become a popular local destination. It was the first to offer “green” burials—not only politically correct but good for the environment. Here, according to ancient Jewish customs, the deceased could be wrapped in a shroud and placed in the ground without a casket or cement vault. Who knew that thousands of years of Jewish burial practice would become so LA hip?

I pulled up to the complimentary valet parking, surrendered my car keys, and walked inside. I checked in at the reception desk at eleven fifty-five. At twelve sharp, and not a moment later, the middle-aged Mrs. Deener appeared in a baby blue wool suit and a brown wig drooping slightly forward. She clasped her hands together in front of her bosom and gave me the slightest smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Rose. I am so sorry for your loss. Shall we get started?”

In her cozy peach-colored office, I signed papers and filled out forms. I insisted on reading everything and she didn't rush me. I admired Mrs. Deener's skill and patience in performing her slightly creepy job.

Harriet specified she wanted to be buried next to her son in a section called
Ayelet Ha Shachar,
literally “Gazelle of the Dawn,” or “Morning Star.” Since this wasn't the “green” section, Mrs. Deener asked me to choose a casket. She led me to a room full of coffins. As Bach played softly in the background, I briefly wondered how it felt to be dead.

I didn't know Harriet's preferences, but I remembered her parents had been religiously observant. So, to be on the safe side, I chose a strictly kosher casket—a box made with soft pine wood and plant-based glue and held together with wooden dowels instead of nails. Jewish custom required an easily biodegradable coffin that would return the deceased to the earth as quickly as possible.

Harriet's body was far beyond the stage where she could undergo another custom, a ritual washing called a
tahara.
However, I did hire a
shomer,
a “guardian” to sit with her remains from the time she arrived at Gan Shalom until she lay in the ground.

Mrs. Deener picked up a large datebook. “Because Shabbat begins in two days, on Friday, I've scheduled the funeral for the first thing tomorrow morning, Thursday. It's customary to bury the dead as soon as possible. Given the circumstances of Mrs. Oliver's demise, I'm sure you're anxious to move forward.”

“I'm sorry, but tomorrow isn't feasible. We'll have to delay her funeral until I've had a chance to notify people. Harriet has waited over ten months. A little more time won't make a difference now.”

We settled on Monday morning, allowing me four days to go through her address book and call everyone. Maybe Abernathy's office could provide further guidance.

I asked Mrs. Deener to take me to see Harriet's plot. We drove in a golf cart to a pleasant expanse of lawn bordered by willow trees, waving delicate fingers of green. The nearby lilac bushes, now bare in winter, would burst with fragrant blue blossoms in the spring. She directed me to a quiet spot in the back near a rock wall. I read the engraving on a pink travertine square slab: J
ONAH
D
AVID
O
LIVER
1990–1995. Elegantly curving letters told his story in Hebrew. The foot of his grave pointed east toward Jerusalem.

Poor little boy, there's nobody alive to mourn you.
Tears blurred my eyes as I lifted a small pebble from the stone wall and placed it on Jonah's grave in an ancient symbolic gesture.

I left a message for Abernathy, advising him of the time of Harriet's funeral, and headed home. On the drive north through the Sepulveda Pass, the beginnings of a migraine started over my right ear and curled around my temple to my eye. The stress of the last couple of hours was taking a toll. The clock on the dashboard read nearly three and by the time I reached my house in Encino, my whole head throbbed. I stumbled inside and went straight for the medicine cabinet.

A couple of pills, a hot cup of tea, and a half hour later my headache had subsided. I sat on my cream-colored sofa and studied Harriet's will, shocked to discover she provided me with a financial stipend of $10,000 a month until the closing of probate.
What is this?
In addition to the generous stipend, Harriet invited me to choose one item from all her belongings as a keepsake. No restrictions.

I never would have considered paying my daughter, Quincy, or my best friend, Lucy, to carry out my last wishes. However, Harriet and I hadn't seen each other for a couple of decades. Maybe she thought she owed me something for my trouble.

Harriet financed the Jonah David Oliver wing of the new Children's Hospital through a major bequest of thirty million dollars. The rest of her assets would be divided between a number of charities, including the LA Regional Food Bank and Haven House, a battered women's shelter.

Where did all this money come from?

A rider attached to Harriet's insurance policies listed her treasures, and a flash drive contained photographs of each item. Among her assets were some very good pieces of jewelry, including a diamond bracelet worth over a hundred thousand dollars. Her eclectic tastes led to an accumulation of fine porcelain, rare books, a group of antique American pocket watches valued at a quarter of a million dollars, and a stellar collection of American folk art.

Holy crap!
According to Harriet's will, I could become the owner of any one of several very valuable items.

Abernathy mentioned Harriet's house looked messy, as though someone had rummaged around looking for something. I'd have to make an inventory of every item in her house to cross-check with the rider. That way I'd discover if anything was missing. Clearly, I needed to hire security as soon as possible, and I knew the perfect person to call.

My jaw dropped as I read Harriet's financial summary. She owned rental property, including a couple of commercial buildings in Westwood, had an investment portfolio in the eight figures, and had interest in a couple of small business franchises. How in the world did someone go about liquidating such a complicated estate?

Even with the thirty million destined for Children's Hospital, Harriet's remaining net worth added up to much more. How did a sweet girl from a middle-class family in the Pico-Robertson area of Los Angeles end up with so much money? Who was Nathan Oliver, exactly?

All of a sudden, “selling stuff” seemed like a huge task. I began to understand why Harriet had provided me with a generous allowance. Settling her estate had just turned into a full-time job. What had I gotten myself into?

My stomach rumbled and complained of neglect. I pulled a Trader Joe's Southwestern salad from the refrigerator and emptied the measly contents of the plastic container into a bowl. With Weight Watchers in mind, I added a quarter of an avocado and tossed in two tablespoons of low-fat dressing. I put my feet up to watch the six o'clock news when the phone rang.

“Hey, babe.”

“Hi, Yossi. What's up?” I met my biker friend Yossi Levy, also known as Crusher (don't ask), a few months ago. We helped prove a mutual friend innocent of murder.

“I'm at Brent's. Do you want me to bring over a couple pastramis on rye?”

Oh my God. Brent's Deli sold the absolute fattest, tastiest, most mouthwatering pastrami on the planet. I'd save the salad for tomorrow. A person needed a little protein, didn't she?

“Heck yes. I'll open some red wine.”

Thirty minutes later the roar of a Harley engine pulled up in front of my house. The bearded Crusher filled the doorway with his six foot six, three hundred pounds of solid muscle. He wore his leathers against the December chill. A blue bandana covered his graying red hair.

He grinned as he handed me a large paper bag like a present. By the weight and smell, I realized with a frisson of guilty pleasure the bag held more delicious things besides two sandwiches.

We sat at my kitchen table and I poured two glasses of a hearty Chianti. I pulled apart my sandwich and smeared brown mustard on the spongy rye bread. Then I helped myself to kosher green tomatoes, crispy coleslaw, and
kasha varnishkes,
a warm dish made of buckwheat groats and egg noodles. I never said I did Weight Watchers perfectly.

Between bites I told Crusher about Harriet Oliver's tragic life and death and how I became involved in settling her estate. “You know, Yossi, I can't get over the dreadful way she died. Nobody missed her.”

He fixed his blue eyes on me. “How come?”

“That's one of the questions I hope to answer. Anyway, I scheduled her funeral for Monday, so my next task is to notify people.”

“Do you need me for a
minyan
?” Crusher referred to the quorum of ten Jewish men necessary for the recitation of certain prayers during the mourning period. To be part of a minyan was considered a
mitzvah,
a good deed.

“Thanks for the offer. I'll know more when I get a sense of how many people will be attending.” I took a sip of wine. “When we were teenagers, Harriet loved being with friends, but she died a recluse. I'd sure like to know more about why.”

Crusher chewed a bite of sandwich and poked an errant string of pastrami back into the corner of his mouth. “Seems to me you'll get to know a lot about her by the time you're through. Need any help? We made a great team investigating the murder of the baseball coach.”

How could I forget? Crusher protected me from a knife-wielding psychopath, guarded me against death threats, and then proposed marriage two weeks after we met. He and the guys in his motorcycle club, the Valley Eagles, helped me out a couple of times.

I grinned. “Actually, yes. Some really valuable things are sitting in Harriet's unoccupied house. I want to hire some of the Eagles to protect the place until her stuff can be sold or relocated.”

“Anything you want, babe.”

I put the leftovers in the refrigerator and wiped the table clean. Crusher stood watching me as he drank a glass of wine. “How about some dessert?”

“Sorry, I don't think I have anything sweet. I do have a little fruit if . . .”

Crusher laughed. “I'm not thinking of food.”

My love life tanked three months ago. My boyfriend, LAPD Detective Arlo Beavers, dumped me when he learned his dog was seriously injured defending me. Crusher briefly stepped in to take Beavers's place. Each of them decided they wanted a permanent, exclusive relationship with me. So I did what any right-thinking woman of my generation would do. I turned them both down. Crusher and I agreed to be just friends, at least until I figured out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. Beavers, not quite as sanguine, dropped out of sight.

Crusher looked at me expectantly. Remembering the one night we spent together made my toes curl with desire. I took a deep breath. “Not tonight, Yossi.”