Gone But Knot Forgotten (5 page)

C
HAPTER
7

On the way to the maid's room, Birdie picked up one of the candelabras from the table. “This is very old silver and very heavy. You can see it's been around for a long time by the nicks and dents along the bottom.”

I examined the second candelabra. “This one has a big dent in the bottom. Someone must've dropped it.”

We moved to the maid's room. Lucy set up the bar-code equipment. Then she pulled down the carton from the top of the nearest pile and set it on the floor. The top of the box had already been slit open. I pulled back the flaps to find well-worn and stained white linen tablecloths and napkins with the letter “G” monogrammed in white thread. I looked at my friends. “These would have been precious to Harriet. They were hand-embroidered by her mother, Lilly Gordon.”

“They're old and stained,” said Lucy. “What are you going to do with them?”

I sighed and wrote
Donate
with a Sharpie on the outside of the box.

Lucy lifted down the second box. “This is heavy. Feels like books.”

The seal was broken on this box as well. Several oversized volumes of the Talmud rested inside. Harriet's father, Herschel Gordon, and my uncle Isaac belonged to a group that studied a different page of the Talmud each week. I wrote on the outside of the box,
Donate, American Jewish University Library.

We discovered two sets of fancy Bavarian china. I once helped Harriet and her mother bring them out of storage for use during Passover week, one pattern for meat and one for dairy. Harriet had whispered, “Just more stuff to keep clean.”

I marked each of the boxes and Lucy stuck bar codes on them.

Lucy knocked on every wall, looking for a hidden cache. She even tugged at the corners of the wall-to-wall carpeting, but nothing came loose.

Birdie laughed. “Heavens, dear. If I were going to hide something, I certainly wouldn't choose the maid's room.”

We moved into the kitchen and opened every drawer and cupboard. Lucy threw her hands up. “Do you really want to bar-code everything in here? There must be a jillion items.”

“You're right. I'll hire an estate manager to sort them into lots for appraisal and sale.”

I noted a couple of boxes of package brownies sitting on the shelf of the walk-in pantry and remembered, with a pang, the times Harriet and I made brownies during sleepovers.

Lucy balanced on a wooden Windsor chair and reached into the back of every upper cabinet.

I put my hands on my hips. “What in the world are you looking for up there?”

“Dang if I know.”

We drifted into the family room and Birdie pointed to the pile of video cassettes. “My, these are old.”

“Jonah's movies,” I said.

Birdie read the titles and shook her head sadly. “Heartbreaking.”

The media wall held a large flat-screen television and video components. Native American baskets and antique wooden toys sat on open shelves around the room, valuable items from the insurance rider.

Carl's heavy boots thudded on the kitchen floor. “Anyone hungry? It's after one.”

I found the flyer for the Salvadorian restaurant and ordered bean and cheese
pupusas,
fried yucca roots, chicken tamales in banana leaves, and fried
platanos
with sugar for dessert. A half hour later Pepe's delivered two huge grocery bags full of hot food smelling like cumin, garlic, onions, and a hint of cinnamon.

After stuffing our faces, we returned to the family room and carefully checked each basket against the list. I spotted a polychrome black on white basket shaped like a large pot with an opening just big enough for a hand. I carefully lifted it. “This was made over one hundred years ago by Dat So La Lee, a famous Washoe Indian weaver. It's valued at one million dollars.”

Birdie softly touched the dried grass coils. “Amazing. This looks so well preserved.”

Lucy picked up the printout. “A penciled note next to the photo says Dat So La Lee's main supporter and promoter was Abe Cohn, a distant cousin of Nathan Oliver's. I wonder how long this has been in the family.”

I turned the basket in my hands and something slid around inside. “What's this?” My heart sped up as I pulled out a small key. I turned it over, looking for some kind of identification. “What do you think this is for?”

“It's too small for a door.” Birdie furrowed her brow. “Maybe this opens a cupboard or a safe.”

“Or a jewelry box,” said Lucy.

I added the key to Harriet's key ring.

We carefully examined and cataloged the rest of the baskets. A photo of an auction receipt stated Harriet paid $350,000 for a Mono-Paiute polychrome basket, shaped like a large salad bowl and woven by Nellie Jameson Washington in the early twentieth century.

“Who knew baskets could be so valuable?” Birdie twisted her braid. “Don't you think it's odd your friend Harriet collected different kinds of Americana, yet she didn't collect any quilts?”

“Birdie has a point,” said Lucy. “I'd at least expect to see a Baltimore Album. I heard one sold at auction about ten years ago for three hundred thousand.” Baltimore Albums were a style of quilt popular among ladies of leisure in the nineteenth century with lots of intricate appliqués featuring flowers, baskets, and birds. Each block in the quilt featured a different usually symmetrical design.

“Yes, I do find that strange.”

After we accounted for every basket on the list, we moved to the antique wooden toys. The more valuable pieces in Harriet's collection were a horse and wagon pull toy, a sailboat with some of the original paint and spinning tops, including an antique Hanukkah dreidel from Portugal with Hebrew letters painted on each of the four sides.

Birdie looked at her watch. “It's four, dear. We should get on the freeway and head home.”

I nodded. “It's been a long day.”

Lucy wagged her fingers in an air quote. “No problemo. I had fun, considering.” She looked in the direction of Harriet's bedroom and her voice dropped a notch. “We still have the upstairs to do.”

We said good-bye to Carl and headed for Encino. They dropped me off at my house around sundown. Shabbat had officially started. I rushed inside to phone my daughter, Quincy, who lived in Boston, and left a greeting on her voice mail. Next I called my uncle Isaac, my mother's brother. He took care of me, my mother, and bubbie the whole time I grew up. Uncle Isaac was the only father I ever knew.

“Shabbat shalom, Uncle.”

“Good
Shabbos, faigela.
What's new?”

I briefly told him about Harriet, but left out the grisly parts.

“Oy! What a
ganze shandeh.
Such a nice girl. I knew her father, may he rest in peace.”

“Will you come to her funeral? She needs a
minyan.
”

“Of course. I'll bring Morty and the boys.” Uncle Isaac played poker every week with his seventy-and eighty-year-old friends. At their age they were experts at funeral prayers. Poker and Talmud. A person should live a balanced life.

“So,
nu
? What's going on with you? You still seeing the detective? What about that big Jewish fellow, Yossi Levy?” Uncle Isaac always referred to Crusher as “that big Jewish fellow.” Crusher impressed my uncle when he confessed to using his do-rag as a religious head covering. At Shabbat dinner four months ago, we were impressed by Crusher's knowledge of Torah, his “hidden depths” as he called it.

“I haven't heard from Arlo in months, Uncle. He dumped me, remember?”

“But I thought he changed his mind.”

Until he found out I slept with Crusher.
“We had some issues.”

“What about Levy?”

Ah yes, what about Levy? I didn't tell my uncle Crusher wanted to marry me. Knowing my uncle, I'd never hear the end of it. Uncle Isaac meant well, but I didn't want him to pressure me. Better to be alone than with the wrong person.

“I see Yossi from time to time.”

“Okay, okay, I know when to stop asking.
A glick auf dir.
” Good luck to you.

I laughed. “I love you, too, Uncle.”

The house seemed unusually quiet as I covered my head with a sequined blue scarf. Lighting two candles in my bubbie's silver candleholders, I recited the Sabbath blessing and thought wistfully about spending Shabbat with someone I loved. Did Harriet feel the same way in her isolation? Did she ever put pure white candles in those fifty-thousand-dollar candelabras and recite the blessing in her big, empty house? I felt lonely enough for both of us.

The doorbell pulled me out of my reverie. I looked through the peephole. Crusher smiled at me from the other side of the door. He wore a brown tweed sport jacket, a blue shirt open at the neck, and a traditional black skullcap instead of a do-rag.

Oh no
. I didn't know if I was ready for this. The only other time he'd come over in nice clothes, they ended up on my bedroom floor.

I opened the door and he handed me a bouquet of pink roses and stepped inside. In his other hand he held a bag from Brent's. “I figured you'd be tired from working all day, so I brought Shabbat dinner.” He noticed the Sabbath candles flickering on the dining room table and when he looked back at me, his eyes glistened. “You feel like home.”

I sensed my defenses evaporating. “I'm all dusty and yucky.”

He gently tilted my chin and kissed me softly on the lips. Electricity sizzled down my spine.

His deep voice cracked. “Go do what you have to do and I'll get dinner ready.”

My heart sped as I rushed to my bedroom. After a quick shower, I blew my hair dry and rubbed my body with fragrant oils. I chose a pink silk blouse and a long black skirt. Twenty minutes later I took a deep breath and walked into the living room.

Crusher waited for me in one of the big chairs. When I walked in, he stood and looked at me for a full five seconds. “God, you're beautiful.”

Dishes of food rested on a white tablecloth at my dining room table. We sat and he opened a prayer book with a scuffed black cover. According to tradition, he chanted in Hebrew the
Eshet chayil,
from the book of Proverbs. Heat rose in my cheeks as he began the love song.
An excellent wife, who can find? She is more precious than pearls.

Then he raised the cup of wine for the
Kiddush,
the blessing that ushered in the Sabbath. He took a sip and handed the cup to me. The essence of all the Sabbaths and all the holidays for thousands of unbroken years lay distilled in the taste of sweetened Concord grapes. After he blessed the raisin challah I bought at Bea's Bakery, he tore off two pieces, sprinkled them with salt, and handed one to me.

A sense of peace slowly washed away the sadness. Everything felt right. A Sabbath table with familiar savory foods. A man who respected and embraced our common traditions. I studied his face in the candlelight. Gray flecked his neat red beard, and his startling blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at me. The places inside me, aching and empty only an hour before, filled with the honey of life. We didn't speak about Harriet. We didn't speak about much at all but ate in a contented silence. Without discussion and without negotiation, I understood and accepted where this night would lead.

C
HAPTER
8

Saturday I woke to Crusher's beard tickling my face as he kissed me. I rolled into his arms.

“Babe, I want to wake up like this every morning. Marry me.”

I wanted to wake up every morning like this too. I mean, who wouldn't? But what did I really know about this man? “We should get to know each other better.”

“What's to tell? I'm forty-eight years old, never been married, and have no kids. I was born in Brooklyn and went to yeshiva until I turned eighteen. Then I left home, traded my black hat for red boots, and joined the Israeli Army Special Forces. I left the army and traveled around the world, working security for El Al. I came back to the States when I hit forty.”

I stared at him with my mouth slightly ajar.

“What? You want more? I'm not a heavy drinker and I don't do drugs anymore. Five years ago I opened the bike shop. Sometimes the cops come around and hassle me. I've even been busted a couple of times, but they've never proved anything. Why do you think that putz Beavers has such a hard-on for me? Trust me, babe, I'm a nice guy.”

I propped myself on my elbow and looked at him wide-eyed. “You're seven years younger than me?”

His laughter rose from deep inside his barrel chest and shook the bed. “If age is the only thing you're worried about, we should call the rabbi tomorrow.”

He pulled my body closer when the phone rang. I reluctantly picked it up.

“Hey, girlfriend,” said Lucy. “You ready for another day at work? Birdie and I will be over in five minutes.”

Holy crap!
I'd completely forgotten about going to Harriet's. The clock on the dresser read nine. “Uh, Lucy? Can you come in half an hour instead?” I flapped my hands frantically, motioning for Crusher to get out of bed. ”I just woke up and it'll take me awhile to get ready.”

“Babe.” Crusher reluctantly moved his six-foot-six body to an upright and vertical position.

“Who's there?” Lucy said. “Did I hear a man's voice in the background?”

Darn
.

“No, no one's here. I just cleared my throat.”

“I don't believe you. Birdie and I are on the way.”

Before I could tell her to wait, she hung up the

phone.

“My friends said they'll be here in five minutes, which means ten, fifteen if I'm lucky. If I take a really fast shower and get ready, maybe you can hide in the bedroom until we leave. I don't want them to know you were here. I could give you an extra key and the alarm code to lock up. Would you help me out here?”

The skin tightened around Crusher's mouth. “You ashamed of something?”

I hurried out of bed. “No, I'm just not ready to face questions I don't have answers for.”

He thought for a moment and then looked at me. “No.”

“No
what,
for God's sake?”

“No, I'm not that guy. I've already met your friends, remember?”

Time was slipping by. “Fine.” I grabbed my bathrobe and huffed my way into the shower.

Three minutes later I toweled off while Crusher showered. The doorbell rang. “Just a minute,” I shouted, even though I knew they couldn't hear me.

I jumped into my jeans and a T-shirt and ran to open the front door with wet hair. Two men wearing suits and serious expressions stood there. The older one was obese and the younger one seemed bored.

The fat one pulled out a badge. “Mrs. Rose? I'm Detective Gabe Farkas and this is Detective Frank Avila from the West LA Division of the LAPD. May we come in?”

I opened the door wider and stepped aside. “What's this about?”

“You're the executor of Mrs. Harriet Oliver's estate?”

I nodded. “You said West LA. Did something happen at Harriet's house?”

“No. The house is fine.”

What, then?
I led them to the kitchen. “I'm making a pot of coffee. My friends will be here shortly.”

“Go ahead. This will only take a minute.”

I filled the carafe with water.

“We received a call this morning from the mortician at Gan Shalom Memorial Park. He used to work as a coroner's assistant and noticed something suspicious about Mrs. Oliver's remains.”

I put down the carafe so abruptly water spilled over the edge. “What did he find?”

Farkas glanced quickly toward Avila and then back at me. “As he laid out the bones in the coffin, he noticed a crack in the hyoid. The bone split apart when he tugged the ends. He got curious and looked at the fracture under a magnifying glass. He believes the break occurred before death, so he notified us.”

I knew it. Something bad happened to Harriet. I shuddered at the vision of her body reduced to bones. Although I knew the answer to my next question from watching a hundred cop shows on television, I needed Farkas to confirm it. “What exactly is the significance of a broken hyoid bone?”

“The bone in the throat breaks when someone is strangled.” Crusher had walked into the kitchen in time to hear the last part of the conversation. He wore clean clothes from an overnight bag: jeans, a black T-shirt, a red bandana on his head, and his feet were bare.

I looked at Farkas. “Is he right?”

He measured Crusher with a surprised glance and nodded.

“Are you telling me Harriet Oliver was strangled?” I felt woozy and wobbled a little.

Crusher reached me in two steps and put an arm around my shoulders, supporting me like a huge bear, smelling faintly of lemon verbena soap. In real life I stood five feet two inches and wore a size sixteen, but standing next to him, I became a petite size four.

Farkas cleared his throat. “The coroner picked up her remains an hour ago. He wants to examine this new evidence.”

“It's not new evidence,” I said. “It's evidence he missed in the first place. And anyway, her funeral is scheduled in two days. Monday. You can't make her miss her own funeral.”

Farkas scratched the side of his head with his finger. “Well, yeah, the coroner can do pretty much whatever he wants.”

I jammed my fists on my hips and thrust my head forward, preparing for a fight. He raised a calming hand. “But the exam won't take long. He just wants to confirm the mortician's findings. He assured us Mrs. Oliver will be returned by Monday.”

“Well, what about the stupid coroner? With three whole weeks to examine her body, how could he miss such an obvious clue?”

Farkas took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Now, far be it from me to criticize the overweight. They are my people, but this poor man needed to lose some serious pounds.

Detective Avila opened a file and looked inside. “The autopsy report shows an unknown cause of death. The coroner wrote cardiac failure as a probable cause.”

“I know what the report says, Detective. I have a copy. Just so you know, your heart
always
stops beating when you die. Cardiac failure occurs in one hundred percent of deaths. What the report doesn't say is why everyone assumes she died of a heart attack. The coroner didn't have an organ to examine. Were there medical reports in the file indicating she suffered heart problems?”

The detectives looked at each other but didn't respond.

I put my hands on my hips and leaned forward. “Exactly. Someone at the county coroner's, who should have known better, got lazy and screwed up. At least the mortician paid attention, thank God. Otherwise, evidence of Harriet's murder would have been buried along with her body.”

Farkas closed his eyes briefly. “Look, I can understand your frustration. The shooting at the LA airport happened around the time Mrs. Oliver's remains were discovered. The coroner processed an unusual number of bodies that week. Stuff happens. Things sometimes get overlooked.”

I opened my mouth to complain, but he kept on talking.

“Right now we consider Mrs. Oliver's house to be a crime scene. Nobody can go inside until we're through investigating. I'm asking you to please give me the key to the house.”

“How long will your people be there?”

“Probably a couple of days.”

“Some very valuable items are sitting in her house. I hired private security guards to watch the premises twenty-four/seven. I don't want to leave the house unprotected.”

Avila took a wide stance and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “We've already talked to Hector Fuentes. He can stay, but he can't enter the house.”

I blinked. “Who the heck is Hector Fuentes?”

“Malo,” Crusher said.

“Oh.”

I pulled Harriet's house key out of my purse and held it up. “I want you to call the minute you're finished with the house.”

“Yes, ma'am, I will.”

I wasn't through with him yet. “And good luck with your crime scene, Detective. You're ten months too late. We've been all over the house and our fingerprints are everywhere. But I did save you the job of vacuuming. Your forensics people will find a million dead flies to process in the vacuum cleaner.”

He handed me his business card. “Can you give me the key now?”

As Farkas and Avila walked toward their car, Lucy and Birdie arrived at my front door. Lucy pointed to the detectives. “Is one of them the man's voice I heard over the phone?”

“No,” said Crusher from the kitchen.

Lucy and Birdie stepped inside. He stood in his bare feet, chopping potatoes.

Lucy raised her eyebrows and looked at me. “Okaaaay, then.”

While Crusher cooked, we drank our coffee and talked at the kitchen table.

Lucy said, “I've been thinking. You know the three of us took one whole day to search the downstairs. We'll probably spend another day going through the upstairs. If the killer came alone, how many days do you suppose he spent rummaging through Harriet's house?”

I put my cup down. “I see where you're going, Lucy. While the killer searched the house, Harriet's body lay in her closet. He could've hunted for several months after he killed her, returning multiple times.”

Birdie grabbed her braid. “Mercy. While the body decomposed?”

Crusher put a large plate of scrambled eggs, cottage fried potatoes, and half a loaf of challah, dotted with little black raisins, in the middle of the table. He took one look at our faces. “Come on, ladies. Forget the gory details for now and have something to eat.”

My grandmother always used to offer food as comfort. “You remind me of my bubbie.” I smiled. “Thanks for going to all this trouble, Yossi.”

He bent and kissed me. Right in front of my friends. So much for keeping our relationship on the down low. Crusher had just marked his territory.

I blushed, Lucy raised her eyebrow, Birdie tittered, and Crusher sat and ate. A lot. So did I, in spite of the disturbing new information that my old friend, Harriet Oliver, had been strangled to death.