Something's Knot Kosher (4 page)

C
HAPTER
6

Birdie sent me home with the rest of the pan of double chocolate brownies and a generous serving of lasagna wrapped in foil. I pulled off a tiny piece of the mozzarella for Bumper and warmed the pasta in the microwave.

The phone rang. “How'd you like a visit from Arthur tonight?”

Arlo Beavers never announced himself when he called. He had an annoying habit of plunging right into the conversation without so much as a preamble.

“Good evening to you, too, Arlo.”

“Well? We could be there around eight. I promise we won't stay long. Unless you want us to. . . .”

Oh my God. He's flirting again
. “I'd love to see Arthur. You, I'm not so sure about.”

He chuckled. “How's Mrs. Watson? Is she feeling any better?”

“She's had a rough day. I'll tell you about it when I see you.”

“So that's a yes? About tonight?”

“Only because it's Arthur.”

The microwave dinged, and I removed a steaming plate of lasagna and poured a glass of Ruffino Chianti Classico into my favorite red Moroccan tea glass with gold curlicues. Thanks to the generosity of quilters, Birdie was going to eat well for the next few days, and she wanted to make sure I did too.

After dinner, I changed from the blue linen dress I'd worn earlier into my comfortable jeans, T-shirt, and fuzzy pink slippers. I purposely didn't dress up for Arlo Beavers. No sense in sending him the wrong message.

At eight, a smiling, tail-wagging, German shepherd greeted me as I opened the door.

I bent down and hugged the dog who had twice saved my life. “How's my Arthur? How's my boy?”

He barked once and licked my face.

With a pang of sadness, I noticed his black muzzle had turned gray in the last year, a sign of aging. I ran my fingers over the scar in his shoulder where he had been knifed while protecting me from a very bad guy; a visible reminder of the reason Beavers broke up with me.

I buried my face in his fur and whispered, “I've missed you, boy.”

I stood and Arthur immediately turned his attention to my orange cat, Bumper, who had been waiting patiently to say hello. After some nose touching and butt sniffing, the two of them headed through the kitchen toward the laundry room, wanting to go outside and play.

Beavers stood tall and lean with dark Native American eyes and a raptor's profile. He had changed into casual clothes—cowboy boots, a white western shirt with pearl snaps, and a pair of snug jeans that should have been illegal. Only his white mustache and gray hair suggested he was over fifty.

I opened the back door to let the animals out and joined Beavers in the kitchen. We sat at the table where I placed the brownies.

He reached for the plate. “So, tell me about Mrs. Watson.” He took a huge bite and chocolate crumbs fell on his white shirt.

I told him about the visit to the mortuary and our plans to drive Birdie to McMinnville, Oregon, as soon as the coroner released the body. “Have you spoken to Agent Lancet? Do you know how the investigation is going?” I fully expected him not to share. In the past, he had done everything in his power to stop me from poking my nose in police business. But this time he surprised me.

Beavers pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and swiped the screen. “As a courtesy, Kay Lancet sent me a copy of the bank surveillance video. She plans to release part of it to the press. Even though the shooter wore a ski mask, we still got some details. White male. Around five feet ten, one hundred eighty pounds.”

“I've always been puzzled about how you can be so sure of the height and weight of someone from just a picture.”

“I'll show you.”

He angled the screen of his iPhone toward me and pressed
play
. The camera, located up high, showed a panoramic view of the inside of First Encino Bank. Terrazzo tiles paved the floor, and two female tellers sat behind the dark wooden counter. Two male customers and an elderly couple stood in line. A man with an automatic weapon stormed through the front doors, covered from head to toe in black, including the ski mask.

Beavers paused the video at the point where the gunman first entered the lobby. He zoomed in for a close-up of the door. “See there?” He pointed to a strip on the side of the door.

“What am I looking at?”

“A height scale.” Taped unobtrusively to the door frame was a vertical strip labeled with horizontal lines and numbers. The robber stood just under the six-foot mark. “We can estimate the weight by knowing the height.”

I immediately flashed back to a similar doorway in my own home growing up. Every six months my bubbie and Uncle Isaac would stand me up against the wall and mark where the top of my head landed. Then they'd write my new height next to the line. “Look how tall you're growing,
faigela
. Mazel Tov!” We always celebrated with a cookie.

Beavers restarted the video. There was no sound, but you didn't need audio to understand what was going on. The robber swept his weapon in menacing arcs and shouted. The two tellers came out from behind the counters and the gunman herded everyone into a back room.

A door opened in the background and Russell emerged. I gasped and put my hand over my mouth in an involuntary gesture.

Beavers pressed
pause
. “You don't have to watch this. But you can't see any gory details. Another camera in the vault recorded the actual shooting.”

Arthur barked once, and I got up to let the animals back inside.

I sat back down at the table. “I'm okay. Keep going, I want to see the rest.”

Beavers tapped the
play
arrow. At first Russell looked confused, then angry. He waved his arms and shouted something.

“How odd. What did Russell think he could do against a heavily armed man? Why didn't he just give him what they wanted?”

Beavers paused the video. “I wondered the same thing. Under the Bank Protection Act, all bank employees are required to be periodically trained in how to respond during an armed robbery. Mr. Watson knew the drill backward and forward. No confrontation. Full compliance with the robber's demands. No heroics. Why did he deviate from the protocol?”

Beavers hit
play
again. The gunman turned his head toward Russell, and the video stopped. The next frame showed a close-up of the robber's neck.

“This is where we got lucky.”

Several dark lines wrapped around the man's neck in a spiderweb tattoo.

The video continued. The robber approached Russell, and the two of them argued.

I pointed to the screen. “The conversation seems personal. Almost like they know each other.”

“You're right. This is the part where the witness heard the shooter say something about
payback
.”

The gunman forced Russell to carry the bag, grabbed his arm, and shoved him toward the back of the lobby and out of camera range.

A minute later the robber emerged from the back of the bank carrying the duffel bag sagging with weight. He disappeared through the front door, and the video ended.

Then the truth hit me. “Arlo! I think the same man might have come around Birdie's place yesterday when all the reporters were there. I saw a guy with a spiderweb tattoo on his neck. He hung in back of the crowd, taking pictures with his cell phone. I just assumed he was a reporter. When Ray Mondello showed up to disperse the crowd, he left.”

“So, how could you see the tattoo?”

“When he turned to go, I saw the side of the guy's neck.”

“Lancet needs to hear this. Could you work with a sketch artist?”

“I don't think so. All I remember is he was white, average height, and wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. He held his cell phone in front of his face, so I didn't make out any features.”

“Can you remember anything else? Clothes? Age? What kind of car did he drive? Did you get plate numbers?”

I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to picture the figure standing on the edge of the crowd. Only the vaguest impression came through. “Dark clothes. That's all I remember. What if he's the same guy? What if he scoped out the house so he can come back later? Birdie could be in danger.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions. Ten million people live in LA. Spiderweb tattoos aren't as rare as you might think. They're popular in the Goth community and among certain gangs.”

“Just the same, I think Birdie needs protection.”

“Okay, let's look at the time line. The robbery and shooting happened around one. When did you have your confrontation with the media?”

“Gosh, it must have been around three-thirty.”

Beavers frowned. “About two and a half hours from the time of the robbery to the time you spotted the guy with the tattoo. I suppose it's possible he could have stashed the money, changed clothes, and driven to the Watson residence, but that would have been pretty risky behavior.”

He reached for a third brownie. Some people had all the luck. Beavers could pack in the calories and still stay trim and fit. If I ate three brownies tonight, I'd have to buy larger jeans in the morning.

“She's probably okay,” he said. “But it wouldn't hurt to get her out of town as soon as possible.” He pulled out his cell phone. “I'm calling Kay.”

While Beavers gave the FBI agent the details over the phone, I began to pace. I pictured Russell's killer breaking into Birdie's house at night when she was all alone and defenseless.

Beavers closed his cell phone. “Kay's going to contact you tomorrow. She'll have some questions, I'm sure.”

“That's not good enough. I'm going back to Birdie's house and stay with her tonight.”

“Suit yourself, but you should be careful too.” His dark eyes swam with concern. “The killer may not know what Mrs. Watson looks like, Martha. The guy who showed up at her house yesterday took pictures of you. He might assume you're Birdie Watson.”

My face went numb. “But I told the reporters Mrs. Watson wouldn't make a statement. Surely no one could mistake me for Birdie.”

“You said he hung in back of the crowd?”

I nodded.

“Are you certain he could hear you?”

The shepherd's toenails clicked across the hardwood floor. He stopped at my chair, looked at me, tilted his head, and sent me a telepathic message. I knew what I had to do. I took a deep breath. “Arlo, can I borrow Arthur for the next few days?”

C
HAPTER
7

The following morning Birdie woke me up with a cup of hot coffee and cream. The aroma of cinnamon and yeast baking in the oven filled her house. She seemed to be full of surprises lately. Her husband had just been murdered, yet she stuck to her routine of baking every morning. Maybe she found comfort in sticking to a familiar schedule. “It's six, Martha dear. Arthur needs to go outside.”

She'd been surprised last night to find me on her front porch with the German shepherd in tow but agreed to let us stay—especially after I told her about the man with the spiderweb tattoo.

A half hour later, we sat at the green farm table in her kitchen eating cinnamon rolls. I dunked a piece, still warm from the oven, in my coffee. Arthur sat staring at my hand and drooled. Last night before I left my house, I arranged for my neighbor Sonia to take care of Bumper. Then I drove to Beavers's house, where he supplied me with kibble and strict instructions not to feed the dog “junk.” But these rolls were made with organic flour. I broke off a small piece, picked out the raisins, which were toxic to dogs, and fed the rest to the shepherd.

Birdie picked up the telephone when it rang. A smile creased her face as she spoke. “Good morning, Rainbow.” She walked into the other room for a private conversation.

After five minutes, she returned to the kitchen. “That was my friend Rainbow checking up on me.”

“The one from the commune?”

“Yes. We used to work together raising vegetables in the garden and preparing meals for everyone. She was young when she came to Aquarius, but very capable, and a terrific cook. Much better than me. When I left, she took over the complete management of the garden and kitchen, despite only being in her late teens. She did a terrific job.”

“And you're still in touch? I don't believe I've ever heard you mention her before.”

Birdie got a faraway look in her eyes. “We became very close at Aquarius. She's always looked to me as a kind of mother figure. Rainbow's been a devoted friend over the years. She even chose Russell to be her banker.”

I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and regarded my friend. “I'm worried about the man with the spiderweb tattoo, Birdie. The sooner we get you out of LA, the better.”

She furrowed her forehead. “If the robber was outside my house, what could he possibly want with me? Even if Russell had enemies, I've never done anything to harm anyone.”

“Maybe he's not interested in you. Maybe he's after something in this house. Something belonging to Russell. Is that possible?”

“We weren't interested in collecting valuables, like art or jewelry. And we didn't really go on elaborate vacations. I hate to travel. Russell always gave me money for whatever I wanted, but my needs have always been modest. Quilts, gardening, cooking, nothing elaborate.”

“Well, as bank manager, he must have earned a decent salary. Did he have a gambling habit? Where did the money go?”

“Russell liked to invest. I left the details up to him, but I know he did rather well, because he bragged about his success more than once.”

If Russell boasted about his net worth, he'd have no reason to rob his own bank as Beavers had suggested early on.

“Did he keep any cash in the house?”

“There may be a little in the safe. He liked to have some cash in case of emergencies—like after the Northridge earthquake in ninety-four.”

I stood. “Why don't we look and see?”

Birdie led me down the hall to Russell's bedroom. Lucy and I knew the Watsons hadn't slept together for a long time, but in all the years we had known them, neither of us had been in their private spaces. Russell's sky blue drapes were drawn, making his room dark and gloomy. One sliding closet door sat partially open to reveal precise rows of dress shirts hanging on two horizontal poles, one above the other. Several pairs of wing tip shoes in black and brown rested in a military line on the closet floor.

A walnut bed with turned posts had been stripped down to the mattress, standing as an empty testament to the fate of the man who once slept there. Folded across the foot of the bed lay an elaborate Baltimore Album quilt in reds and greens on a cream-colored background. The quilt had earned Birdie first prize in our quilt show years ago.

Baltimore Albums became popular in the beginning of the nineteenth century and showcased the skilled needlework of the women who sewed them. The quilts consisted of individual blocks appliquéd with symmetrical designs of wreaths, flowers, birds, and animals. When several of those blocks were joined to make a quilt top, the result looked like the pages of a picture album.

She walked over to the bed and gently straightened the edges of the quilt. Her shoulders sagged as she briefly ran her fingertips over the design.

What must she be thinking? A wave of pity swept over me.

She took a deep breath and turned toward a dresser with a print of a watery Turner landscape hanging on the wall behind it. She reached up and swung the picture frame like a door away from the wall to reveal a safe. The digital lock had space for six numbers. She slowly turned to me. “The problem is, Russell never told me the combination. He only gave me a hint.”

“A hint?”

“He told me to ‘look in the fruit' if anything happened to him.”

“The
fruit?
”

She spread her hands. “When I asked what he meant, he laughed and said I'd enjoy figuring it out.”

I thought I understood what Russell intended. Birdie loved brainteasers. She worked all the daily puzzles in the newspaper and subscribed to a monthly crossword magazine. “Well, let's start with the obvious.”

We returned to the kitchen and Birdie opened one of the clear plastic refrigerator drawers. Fresh apples, oranges, and nectarines rested in the bottom. Nothing else. I wasn't surprised. She would have found a clue long ago whenever she cleaned the refrigerator.

We turned our attention toward the cupboards and spied a vintage cookie jar with two bright red apples painted on the crockery. Birdie lifted the lid and looked inside. Empty. “Look on the bottom,” I said.

She turned the jar upside down. “Nothing.”

We moved to the dining room. “There!” I pointed to four framed botanical prints hanging on the dining room wall. One featured lilies, one pomegranates, one oranges, and one lemons. We took the pictures off the wall and laid them facedown on the dining room table. The backs were covered with blank paper glued to the frames. Birdie brought a sharp knife from the kitchen and slit open the paper along the edges. The inside of the pictures were empty.

A futile walk through the rest of the house yielded nothing else having to do with fruit. We ended up back in Russell's bedroom, staring at the safe.

Birdie crossed her arms. “I'm stumped, Martha. I don't know where else to look.”

I scanned the bedroom and stopped at the bed. “Birdie! The bedposts. Look at the tops.” Crowning the walnut bedposts were finials carved in the shape of pineapples.

We rushed over to the bed and reached up. One of the pineapples wiggled and easily came off the post in my hands. I could just squeeze two of my fingers in the hole beneath. After some coaxing, I extracted a tiny slip of folded paper. Six numbers were written in a precise hand.

“Here it is!”

She reached for the paper and her eyes turned smoky. “In some ways, Russell was so predictable, but he did like his little secrets. He must have had a lot of fun devising this surprise.”

Did I detect a note of anger in her voice?

The green light flashed after she punched in the six digits, and the door to the safe clicked open. “Mercy! What is all this?” She reached inside and pulled out five stacks of currency, all neatly bundled, and placed them on top of the dresser. Underneath the bills lay a small red leather diary. Underneath that lay a manila envelope full of loose certificates. And underneath that was a key.

Birdie's jaw dropped and she looked at me. “I had no idea.”