Gone But Knot Forgotten (13 page)

C
HAPTER
17

On the drive to the valley, Lucy sped up her windshield wipers against the heavy drizzle. Thunder clapped somewhere to the northeast over the San Gabriel Mountains. When we got to Encino, the storm hit in earnest. Arthur and I bolted for the house. While he and the cat ate their kibble, I checked my e-mail. Out of forty-four unopened messages, one was from Abernathy with contact information for Harriet's employees.

I called Delia Pitcher, the housekeeper, first.

“Yeah, I heard Miss Harriet died.”

“Since you worked for her, Delia, I thought you might help me.”

“Don't see how. I worked for Miss Oliver, but she let me go almost a year ago.” Children argued in the background. Something made a loud pop and they exploded into gales of laughter. Delia muffled the phone. “Hush!”

“Maybe so, but Harriet left so many unanswered questions behind, I hoped you could fill in some of the blanks. She was murdered shortly after she let you go, but her body wasn't discovered until a few weeks ago.”

Delia's voice rose two notches. “I heard, but I didn't kill nobody!”

“No one thinks you killed her. I just need to talk about the way she lived, who came to her house, things like that.”

“I'm busy. Work all day for a family on the West Side; then I ride the bus back to Hargis Street to take care a my own. Don't have time for no chitchat.”

“Are you home on the weekends? I could drive to your house. This is important.”

“Yeah, I suppose, but I can't talk about it right now.” She lowered her voice. “My kids will hear. But Miss Oliver, she had some strange ways.”

“How?”

Delia whispered, “Ghosts.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on Saturday.” She hung up the phone.
That was weird.
Delia Pitcher seemed like a hardworking woman who was willing to talk. She didn't sound like the kind of person who had something to hide, but you never knew. Did she ever return the key to Harriet's house? Did the housekeeper take the missing items? Did she kill Harriet?

A pleasant baritone voice answered my call to the gardener. “Rudy.”

I introduced myself. “I know you must be aware of what's been happening at Mrs. Oliver's house.”

“Yes, ma'am. They found a body buried in back today,” he said with a slight Spanish accent. “We showed up like always, but they wouldn't let us in. The police, they questioned me and my guys. We come here two times every week, but we didn't see nothing.”

“Did you ever see the ground dug up before?”

“No. We work for Mrs. Harriet for over ten years and never saw nothing.”

Rudy made sense. The killer dug the grave in 1997. Anyone hired after wouldn't have known the ground had been disturbed. What about the gardeners working at the time of the crime? Would Farkas bother to locate and question them?

I remembered how the flower bed looked unkempt and weedy compared to the rest of the well-groomed backyard. “The weeds in the flower bed seem so out of place in such a nice yard. Why didn't you take better care of that area?”

“Mrs. Harriet didn't like us to touch the flowers. When the weeds got too high, we used the weed whacker or sometimes Mrs. Delia pulled weeds by hand. But Mrs. Harriet told us not to dig. She said her dog is buried there.”

Oh crap!
For sure Harriet knew about Nathan's grave. Farkas must have already been aware of this when he questioned me today. But that didn't mean Harriet killed her husband. And because of her scoliosis, she certainly couldn't be the one who dug the grave.

“Did you ever notice anything disturbed around the house, like a window or door left open? Possibly someone wandering around you didn't recognize?”

“No.”

I shifted the phone to my other ear. “How about visitors? An unfamiliar car in her driveway during the last ten months?”

“You mean after they said she died? A black Cadillac, a red SUV, and a yellow Corvette.” He hummed. “Nice car.”

I wished he'd tell me something new. Those cars belonged to Lucy and the two guys guarding the house. “Didn't you wonder why you didn't see Mrs. Oliver for ten months?”

“Like I told the police, Mrs. Harriet didn't come outside. If she wanted something, she send Mrs. Delia to talk to me.”

How did someone not worry when they didn't encounter their employer for almost a year? “Who did you talk to after Delia left? Didn't you need approval to buy supplies or make repairs?”

“Uh-uh. I got checks every month from the lawyer. For extra charges, like fertilizer or sprinklers, I send the bill and they pay.”

This inquiry seemed to be leading to a dead end. I tried once more. “Okay, I understand why you might not have suspected something was wrong if you never saw Mrs. Oliver, but after you stopped seeing Delia around, weren't you curious?”

“Not really. Mrs. Harriet, she hired many housekeepers. I figure Mrs. Delia leave like the others.”

I sighed. “Thank you for your time, Rudy.”

“You still want us to take care of the property?”

“Absolutely. Please come back next week. There'll be a lot of cleanup in the yard after the police leave. Of course you'll be paid extra. You can call me directly with any questions.” I gave him my phone number and hung up.

A little later at six, Crusher knocked on the door. Arthur stood at attention.

Oh God. I'm going to have to explain why the dog's here.
My stomach flipped.

I opened the door and Arthur barked once, tail wagging. He probably remembered Crusher as one of the good guys in the fight where he was severely wounded.

The rain came down in torrents.

Crusher dripped puddles on my oak floor. He stepped inside and immediately took the dripping bandana off his head and shed his wet boots and jacket. “If you bring me a towel, I'll clean this up.”

I hurried to the laundry room and returned with a towel and several old cleaning rags. “Here, use these.”

Crusher wiped the top of his head and studied Arthur through hooded eyes. “Is this Beavers's dog?” he frowned.

I nodded cautiously.

Arthur trotted over and sniffed the boots.

Crusher tossed the towel in the puddle. “Why?”

I took a deep breath. “Arlo called me at the last minute yesterday asking for a favor. His dog sitter backed out and he needed to catch a plane.”

Crusher pushed the towel around with his stockinged foot, mopping up the water. “Why you?”

Reaching down, I stroked Arthur's head. “Because I love this dog and he saved my life.”

“What about Beavers?”

My cheeks started to warm. I didn't like having to justify myself. After all, I didn't do anything wrong. “He's in Hawaii with his
girlfriend.
”

Crusher hastily wiped off his boots and set them on the floor. He picked up another cloth and slowly wiped the drips from his leather jacket. Then he stopped moving and focused on my face. “So last night, were you upset because of the funeral or because you still have the hots for Beavers?”

I crossed my arms. What right did he have to question me? I hadn't made any commitments. “Think what you want, Yossi. Those are all the questions you get to ask. I'm done explaining myself to you or anyone else.”

Crusher put the wet rags in the laundry room, then walked over to me, bent down, and kissed me hard. When he finally pulled away, I gasped for breath.

He took my hand and led me to the sofa, where we both sat. “Babe, you know how I feel about you.”

My irritation softened. “So you say.”

“I told you I talked to Isaac at the funeral.” He held on to my hand, his face deadly serious.

“Now you're on a first-name basis with my uncle?”

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Yeah. We're friends.”

A biker and an eighty-year-old retired tailor?
“You mentioned last night you asked for his advice?”

He combed his short beard with the fingertips of his left hand. “Actually, several of us spent a long time on Monday discussing certain things having to do with me and you.”

“Several of you?”

“Isaac, Morty, and the rest of the old guys from the
minyan.
”

So now I understood what those smiles and winks were about. Crusher pleaded his case to the gang of
alte kakers.
“I'm on to you, Mr. Levy. You're trying to soften me up by going through my uncle. It's sweet and old-fashioned, but it won't work.”

Suddenly he slid off the sofa and onto his knees in front of me. “I asked Isaac for permission to marry you. We talked mostly about my duties and responsibilities. When they were satisfied I would make a good husband, your uncle and those great old dudes gave me their blessing. So marry me already.”

I smiled and wagged my head. “Just so you know? We're not in the second century where women are
given away
in marriage anymore. You can run to my uncle as much as you want, my friend, but I'll make up my mind when
I'm
good and ready.”

Crusher nodded slowly and smirked as if making up his mind about something.

Oh, oh. Something's up.
I stood. “What? What's so funny?”

“Babe. That's not the only advice they gave me.”

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around my legs. Then in one fluid motion, he stood and flopped me over his shoulder.

“Yossi! Put me down!”

He headed for the bedroom. “Those guys are old school. They said I should show you who's boss.”

With my butt in the air and my head dangling, I battered his back with my fists. “Put. Me. Down!”

He dumped me on the bed and stood over me. “Me Ogg,” he bellowed, slapping his chest with the palm of his hand and grinning like a meshugena giant caveman.

In spite of myself, giggles rose in my throat. My shoulders shook with silent laughter as I pressed my lips together. Why encourage him?

Arthur trotted in the bedroom, tilted his head, and perked his ears toward Crusher.

Crusher glared at Arlo Beavers's dog and pointed to me. “Mine!”

Arthur turned in submission and left the room.

For the rest of the evening, I let Ogg believe he was in charge.

C
HAPTER
18

Early Thursday morning after Crusher had left for the bike shop, I discovered he'd hung three pairs of jeans in my closet and put a stack of clothes on top of my dresser. Did he expect me to make a space for them in a drawer? We had never talked about his moving in, yet there sat a mound of clean white tube socks, underwear, and T-shirts. Wings of panic fluttered in my chest. Too much, too fast. I must slow him down.

I thought about the men in my life. Aaron, my withholding and manipulative ex-husband, left our marriage for the wife of a colleague. My romance with Beavers, a man basically rigid and set in his ways, started out well. But in the end, he, too, cheated on me.

Now I must decide what to do with Crusher. He embraced life with exuberance and humor. But he could also be fierce, like when he stabbed the lowlife who attacked me four months ago. Could I trust him? I buried my face in one of his fresh shirts and took a deep breath. The truth irritated. I was falling for Crusher—aka Yossi Levy, aka Ogg the caveman.

Gornisht helfen.
It's hopeless.

I smoothed out the Grandmother's Fan quilt on my bed, changed into my loose yoga pants and a T-shirt, and carried my laundry into the utility room. Were those Crusher's wet socks and dirty shirt staring up at me from inside my clothes hamper? At least he picked up after himself. But a huge disappointment waited for him if expected me to wash his things.

I turned on the television to catch the morning news while I ate a bowl of oatmeal. A veteran white-haired reporter stood in a street lined with big houses. I dropped my spoon when I recognized Harriet's place. Malo and several bikers wearing their Valley Eagles leathers protected the perimeter of the property. Malo must have called in reinforcements.

“. . . body discovered yesterday buried in the backyard has been positively identified as Nathan Oliver, the homeowner reported missing over thirteen years ago.”

The media attention didn't surprise me. A body buried in the backyard of a Brentwood home became headline news on any day.

“A suicide note found in the residence at the time of his disappearance indicated the victim intended to drown himself in the ocean. The police now believe the note was faked to cover up the murder.”

Where do they find these genius reporters?
Of course the note was faked, unless Nathan managed to kill and bury himself in his own grave.

“Just one month ago the police also found the victim's wife, Harriet Oliver, murdered in this same house. She'd been dead for ten months.”

The reporter stopped and adjusted her earpiece. “The police are about to give a statement.”

The picture flashed to an exterior shot of the police station on Butler Avenue in West LA, then switched to an interior scene. Detective Gabe Farkas stepped up to a podium with several microphones attached and an LAPD seal on the front. He blinked several times as dozens of cameras clicked and flashed. Thanks to HDTV, every dot of sweat showed on his upper lip. He cleared his throat.

“The grave of missing person Nathan Oliver was discovered yesterday in the backyard of his home in Brentwood. The coroner estimates the time of death is consistent with Mr. Oliver's disappearance in 1997. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head. We have strong evidence pointing to the victim's wife, Mrs. Harriet Oliver, as his killer. Since Mrs. Oliver is now deceased, we consider the Nathan Oliver case closed.”

Farkas removed a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “One month ago, the police entered the residence and found the body of Mrs. Harriet Oliver. The coroner estimated her death to be approximately ten months before the discovery of her remains. We have evidence Mrs. Oliver may have been surprised by a home invader who stole several valuable items. That investigation is still open.”

Reporters shouted questions and the sound faded out. Farkas's mouth still moved, but his fifteen seconds of fame ended with a commercial.

Of all the weasels in the world, Detective Farkas rose to the top of my list with his indictment of a poor woman not alive to defend herself. I'd prove Harriet innocent if it was the last thing I ever did.

Maybe a gentle workout would calm my agitation. I grabbed my keys and drove to my nine o'clock yoga class. The streets were still wet after last night's rain, and the cold air smelled like damp leaves. After checking into Sublime Yoga at eight forty-five, I rolled out my pink rubber mat on the bamboo floor of room two. A gray-haired man with a paunch leaned against the wall, listening to a group of women chatting. Dasha, the instructor, marched into the room like a dancer, curls bouncing around her face. She struck two small bells together. The room became silent as the notes faded in the air.

“Good morning, class. Today we're going to learn how to do
Uddiyana Bandha,
a position for massaging internal organs.”

I didn't know a person could do that, even if she wanted to.

“Expel breath, put hands on thighs, and bend over at waist. Don't breathe. Pull belly toward spine and hold.”

After what seemed like an eternity, she said, “Come back to a standing position and breathe.”

I gasped for air while my head floated slightly away from my body. I hoped my organs were happy.

Next we did something nobody should do in front of another human being. “Now we will add
agni sara
to pose. This time when bend over, pump belly fast. Pull in, flop down. Pull, release. Pull, release.”

An hour later we finished on the floor with
Shavasana,
the corpse pose. I drove back home with a contented liver and joyful kidneys. But a fire still burned in my belly over Harriet being falsely accused. I hoped a little quilting would help me gather my thoughts.

When I was just a little girl, my bubbie taught me how to sew. Uncle Isaac brought home scraps of couture fabric from his tailor shop so I could make doll clothes. I complained about the needle poking my fingers as I pushed it through the cloth, so Bubbie showed me how to protect my hand by wearing a metal thimble on my middle finger. The dimples in the metal cradled the top of the needle and allowed me to quickly maneuver several stitches at once. Back then, the thimble felt bulky and awkward. Now I couldn't sew without one.

The needle bit through a red and yellow calico in a steady rhythm as I loaded the steel shaft with stitches and pushed it through the fabric. I tried to direct my thoughts in the same straight lines as my sewing. Who killed Nathan and buried him? According to Rudy, the gardener, Harriet must have known about the grave in the flower bed because she refused to let him dig there. I believed with all my heart she didn't kill her husband, but she did protect someone all those years. Who, and why?

I cut another length of red quilting thread from the spool and started a new row. Then there was the cocktail ring.
How did Isabel get it? She knows a lot more than she's saying. I've got to figure out a way to get her to open up.

I paused to adjust my quilt in the hoop. Delia Pitcher, Harriet's housekeeper, mentioned ghosts. Was Delia referring to Paulina the ghost whisperer or the grave in the backyard?

Arthur barked around noon. I stood to let him outside for a break, but the dog stared at the front door. Did I have a visitor? I looked out the window. Detective Farkas heaved his girth from behind the steering wheel of his car. I opened the door and waited with my fists on my hips.

The short walk from the curb left him slightly winded. He reached in the pocket of his blue suit jacket and held out Harriet's keys. “You're free to go inside the Oliver house again.”

I snatched them from his hand. “How could you say such a terrible thing about Harriet?”

“I have to follow the facts.”

“What facts? You're only guessing.”

Farkas rubbed his forehead. “Actually, after interviewing Isabel Casco, we're certain Mrs. Oliver had sufficient motive to kill her husband.”

“Nathan abused Harriet, not the other way around. Blaming the victim is the lazy way out.”

He puffed his breath through his lips. “You were supposed to e-mail me photos and a list of the items missing from the Oliver house.”

“I got sidetracked last night before I could send them.”
Ogg the caveman.

“Since I'm already here . . .”

I stepped to the side and pointed to the living room. “Fine. Sit there.”

The detective entered the house and lowered himself in an easy chair while I sent copies of the photos from my computer to his iPhone. I photocopied my working version of the insurance rider. “The items I circled on this list are the missing ones.”

“Thanks.” He rifled briefly through the pages and stood to leave.

“Wait. You said on the news Nathan died of blunt force trauma and you're convinced Harriet did it. Did you ever consider self-defense?”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but if he was coming after Mrs. Oliver, the wound would have been on the front of his head. The death blow was administered to the back of Mr. Oliver's skull. That's murder, not self-defense.”

I crossed my arms. “Well, who buried him, then?”

“I know you think she couldn't have done it. But I asked a doctor. Her autopsy photos show only a mild S-curve in her spine. Just because she had scoliosis doesn't mean she couldn't have dug the hole, dragged his body outside, and buried him. Adrenaline can give people more strength than they ordinarily have.”

“Not that much strength, Detective. Why don't you find the gardeners who worked for the Olivers at the time Nathan disappeared? Ask them about the hole in the flower bed. Find the housekeeper and ask her what she knew.”

He moved toward the door and grabbed the knob. “Thanks to the information supplied by Ms. Casco, the Nathan Oliver case is closed, Ms. Rose.”

I thrust my head forward in disbelief. “Isabel? She told you Harriet killed Nathan?”

“Listen, I'm still investigating Mrs. Oliver's murder. Do you have any new information to share?”

“Yeah. As soon as I prove Harriet's innocence, I'm going to sue you for defaming her character.”

He turned and walked toward his car, raising a parting hand. “Good luck with that.”