Gone But Knot Forgotten (6 page)

C
HAPTER
9

Since Farkas had barred us from returning to Harriet's, Lucy and Birdie went home.

When we were alone again, Crusher said, “I like your idea this morning about becoming better acquainted.” He put his hand up the back of my T-shirt and fiddled with the snaps on my 36 DD bra. “Let's spend the rest of the day getting to know each other a lot better.”

My body vibrated like a violin string, but duty called. Now that I knew Harriet had been murdered, I wanted to examine her personal papers. I pointed to the cartons of mail on my living-room floor and the stack of papers Birdie had gathered from Harriet's desk yesterday. “I have to sort through all this.”

Crusher grunted and withdrew his hand. “Okay, I'll be back later.” He put on his boots (at least a size sixteen) and a flannel shirt against the cold (a lot of plaid for a man his size).

I frowned. “How do you know I'll even be here later? Are you trying to move yourself in? Call me conservative, Yossi, but aren't we jumping into this relationship a little too fast?”

“Too fast for who? I told you four months ago I wanted you to be my woman.”

“Yeah, but we'd only known each other for two weeks.”

“Look, Jacob loved Rachel the moment he set eyes on her. Then he worked for fourteen years before he could have her. As far as I'm concerned, I'm ready. If you're not, then I'll wait. I'm your Jacob.” He pulled me onto his lap and kissed the crease in my neck, sending chills through my body. “Just please don't make me wait fourteen years. I'll be an old man by then.”

I knew the biblical story well. Even as a little girl I'd hoped for a Jacob of my own, someone who'd love me forever. However, starting with my divorce from Aaron Rose, through a couple of failed relationships, to my breakup with Beavers, I scored 0 for 4 in the lifetime commitment department. I was so over the notion of undying love.

I kissed him and then stood. “I guess I'll see you later.” I smiled.

After Crusher left, I went in the bedroom to straighten up. I noticed, with some irritation, he'd hung his good clothes in my closet and left his grooming kit on my bathroom counter. I picked up his double-edged razor and studied the little red hairs sticking to the blades. I squirted some of his shaving foam on my fingertips and breathed in the lemony masculine scent so different from my oils and sweet perfumes. Could I make room for him in my closet? In my life? By leaving his stuff here, Crusher, aka Yossi Levy, invited me to consider the answer.

Back in the kitchen, I emptied the first cardboard box of mail on the table and sorted through the pieces one by one. Catalogs, ads, and obvious junk went back into the carton for recycling. Only five pieces of mail looked important. I put those in a keep pile. The next two cartons yielded a similar result. When I finished sorting through the mail and the papers from her desk, the keep pile contained seventeen letters.

I used my white plastic UCLA letter opener on the first envelope. Correspondence from Abernathy, Porter & Salinger dated November 3, about a month ago, advised Harriet her signature was due on some investment transactions. This must have been the letter Abernathy first told me about. He'd become concerned when Harriet didn't respond. He drove to her house and discovered her body.

Ten large manila envelopes dating from February through November were sent by Abernathy et al. They contained monthly financial summaries, including income and expense statements. Who was to say those statements were accurate? Harriet's isolated lifestyle made her an easy target for fraud and embezzlement. I'd hire a forensic accountant to go over all her financials.

In June, Harriet received two birthday cards. One from a dentist in Beverly Hills and another from Isabel Casco, her college roommate. My eyes stung as I realized how small Harriet's world had become. Only one friend cared enough to wish her a happy birthday, and it hadn't been me.

I came across three pieces of mail dated around the time of Harriet's death. Although they were in the boxes with the unopened mail, they'd already been opened. The first envelope came from the International Quilt Study Center in Lincoln, Nebraska. Lucy, Birdie, and I once visited the museum there. We'd flown to Paducah, Kentucky, to attend the American Quilters Society annual show. Afterward we rented a car and drove in a big circle through Missouri, Kansas, Nebraska, and Iowa, looking to buy vintage quilts. We made a special trip to the IQSC in Lincoln. Why did the IQSC send Harriet a letter?

Birdie had observed an avid collector of Early Americana should have owned some quilts. According to this letter, Harriet did have at least one and had sought an expert appraisal. A quilt made so long ago would be quite valuable.

Friendship quilts had been made in some form or another since Colonial times. Occasionally, when a new bride left home or when a friend or relative moved away from their community, loved ones gave them a quilt as both a remembrance and a practical gift. Each friend contributed a block for the top. Sometimes the blocks were signed, like a going-away card, only in fabric. When the industrial revolution and the westward expansion created a mobile population, friendship quilts were assembled for those preparing to travel far from their roots.

Was this the “old quilt” Estella said she wanted? As soon as the police permitted us to return to Harriet's, I'd search the upstairs thoroughly. The quilt might be stashed in some drawer or closet. Or maybe it lay on one of the beds underneath the duvet, especially if Harriet knew the best way to store a fragile old quilt was unfolded and out of the light. If the quilt hid anywhere in her house, I'd find it.

Dr. Anne Smith sent another letter a week later.

Judging from the date of this letter, Harriet was still alive on January 27 when she spoke to Dr. Smith. Another letter arrived two weeks later from the Smithsonian.

The letter from the Smithsonian indicated Harriet failed to respond to Anne Smith's second letter, so Harriet must have been murdered sometime between January 28 and before February 13. If she lay dead in her closet, who opened the letter from Dr. Hunter? Who else had hunted for this “priceless American treasure”?

I'd never heard of the Declaration Quilt, but I'd call Dr. Hunter on Monday to find out more. How long had the Oliver family owned the quilt? How did they acquire it? Did Estella know the true value?

The rest of the papers from Harriet's desk yielded only one interesting item, a checkbook she kept for personal use. The register indicated she wrote weekly checks for five hundred dollars to Paulina Polinskaya, a name I recognized from the blue address book. The woman never returned my call.

The checks began two years ago and continued on a regular basis until January 5, about three weeks before Harriet's death. Who was Paulina, and why did Harriet pay her with a personal check, rather than having Abernathy take care of it? Wouldn't Paulina have been concerned about Harriet when the checks stopped coming? If so, why didn't she call the police? I needed to pay the woman a visit.

I got up to stretch and filled the tea kettle with water. A few minutes later the phone rang.

“Mrs. Rose? This is Emmet Wish returning your call.” Emmet Wish was another name from Harriet's blue address book.

“Mr. Wish, thanks for calling me back.”

“I was shocked and saddened to hear about her death. I'll be at her funeral, of course. You're Mrs. Oliver's executor?”

The knob on the stove
clicked
and the flame jumped to life under the kettle. “Yes. Are you a friend of hers?”

“I'm her insurance agent, but I'd also like to think I was her friend. I worked very hard to protect her property. She owned several extremely rare and valuable items, which she insured separately at great expense. Are you aware of the pieces I'm talking about?”

I put a bag of Scottish breakfast tea in a cup while I waited for the water to boil. “Yes, I've been making an inventory using the insurance rider and photos from a flash drive. I'm afraid some of the items are missing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I haven't done a complete search of her house yet, but I'm pretty sure.”

Wish moaned a little. “This is very bad news. I mean, we insured everything. Art, baskets, books, a quilt, antique toys, and a pair of candelabras that had been in the family for generations. You'll be filing a claim, of course.”

The tea kettle whistled. I turned off the stove and poured the water in my cup. “Yes, after I'm through taking inventory of the things still remaining.”

“Damn disturbing news. Please call me right away if you do find them.”

I stirred some milk in the cup. “Of course.”

Later in the afternoon I sat on the sofa with Crusher, eating apple fritters he brought back from Western Donuts. I pulled my feet up onto the sofa and reached for a paper napkin. “I think we're looking for a killer with specific tastes. Rare books, possibly a priceless quilt, and good jewelry are missing, but valuable pieces of art are still sitting on shelves and hanging on the walls.”

He brushed away some sugary flakes of glaze from his beard. “What do you mean
we
are looking for a killer with specific tastes? Let the cops handle this. Remember what happened four months ago? You almost got whacked.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Trust the cops to handle the investigation? Like the coroner handled Harriet's remains? I don't think so.”

“Babe, you live in the wrong country.”

“What do you mean?”

“
Shin Bet
could use someone like you.”

The Israeli Secret Service? Why would he mention them?

We sat in companionable silence for a few more minutes. Then he said, “I want to be with you again tonight.”

“You're moving too fast for me, Yossi. I need some time to sort things out in my head.”

“Let's talk, then.”

“We will. I promise. But not tonight. Tonight I just need space.”

After a lingering kiss, I almost asked him to stay. I reluctantly closed the door behind him and settled back on the sofa with my unfinished Jacob's Ladder quilt and my sewing kit. The slow, steady rhythm of pushing the needle in and out of the fabric always calmed me. A lump formed in my throat when I remembered the birthday card Harriet received from Isabel Casco. Didn't she deserve to know about Harriet's murder? I put down my sewing and called her.

Isabel picked up on the second ring. She must have been well into happy hour because ice tinkled in a glass as she slurred her greeting. “'Lo?”

“Hello, Isabel, this is Martha Rose. I have some bad news and I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

“'Smatter?”

I told her about the mortician discovering Harriet's murder. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted her dead?”

“Nathan.”

“Her husband? He died in ninety-seven.”

Isabel snorted. “I can't talk right now. I'm watching a marathon of
The Mentalist
on cable. Come over tomorrow an' I'll tell you all about it.”

Click.
Dial tone.

Oh Lord. Did she believe Nathan Oliver was still alive or was the booze talking? That was weird. Isabel Casco just accused a dead man of murdering Harriet.

C
HAPTER
10

A tickling on my cheeks woke me Sunday morning. I opened my eyes. My cat Bumper's face sat about three inches away from mine. We stared at each other and I blinked first. “You hungry or what?”

He jumped off the bed, ran to the kitchen, and sat by his food bowl. The clock read seven-fifteen.

I made a cup of tea with milk, sat at the table, and opened Harriet's blue address book. Isabel Casco lived in an apartment in Santa Monica on Eleventh Street. Paulina Polinskaya, the woman who received five hundred dollars a week from Harriet's personal account, lived not too far away on Venice Boulevard in Culver City. I needed to talk to both of them. Paulina never returned my call, so I planned a sneak attack. I figured everyone would still be at home on a gloomy Sunday morning in December.

The southbound 405 Freeway was wide open at seven forty-five, and I reached Culver City in thirteen minutes. I drove west toward the ocean on Venice Boulevard, looking for Paulina's address, while a light drizzle sprinkled my windshield. A mixture of one-story commercial structures and gray office buildings lined both sides of the street.

Paulina's place, wedged between a strip mall and an auto body shop, turned out to be a small, pre–World War II yellow bungalow, the last domestic holdout on a street transformed into commercial buildings. A black BMW sat in the driveway next to a miniscule front yard that looked like the last blade of grass died when Nixon occupied the White House. A sign, with huge purple letters, stood on the cracked concrete:

Well, this explained the books about contacting the dead on Harriet's library floor. Harriet must have paid Paulina to talk to her dead family. What else would account for the weekly checks for five hundred dollars? I began to understand why Paulina the Psychic didn't return my calls. She milked nearly $25,000 from Harriet over the period of a year.

A spindly hibiscus bush barely clung to life in a painted Mexican pot on the front porch. White paint peeled off the front door where a sign announced business hours and displayed an emergency number. I knocked, but nobody answered. Someone must be at home because of the car in the driveway. I dialed the emergency number on my cell phone.

A sleepy voice answered. “Nnnhullo?”

“Is this the Psychic?”

“Who's this?”

“Someone who needs help.”

She yawned. “What time's it, anyway?”

“Eight. Can I see you? It's really important.”

“You woke me.”

“I'm sorry, but I really need your help. I'm right outside, but I guess you didn't hear me knocking.”

A hard East Coast accent emerged. “I charge extra for emergencies.”

“Okay. I'll pay whatever you want.”

“Gimme five minutes.” She hung up.

Ten minutes later the door opened. I expected a wily old con artist. Instead, a plump young woman stood no taller than five feet. She had pulled her long black hair back into a hasty bun and wore a silk tunic with purple flowers. Her eyes, heavy with kohl, resembled the portraits painted on the walls of Egyptian tombs. The skin on her face padded high cheekbones and she smiled with lips painted fuchsia.

“I'm Paulina. Enter.” Her eyes darted toward my purse.

I walked into a room painted a deep terra-cotta with one small lamp shining in the corner.

Paulina gestured for me to sit at a round table covered with a purple satin cloth and walked around the room lighting sandalwood-scented joss sticks and twelve white candles. Then she perched atop a burgundy velvet pillow she'd placed on the seat of the chair facing me. “Your aura's off.”

“Off?”

She nodded solemnly. “Something bad's happened recently.”

Before I could respond, she shifted in her seat and stuck out her hand. “I charge a hundred dollars an hour, hundred fifty for an emergency session. You pay up front. Any questions?”

I leaned forward with my elbows on the table. “Yeah. What did Harriet Oliver get for five hundred dollars a week?”

The reflection from the lamp glittered in her black eyes, but she didn't flinch. “You're the woman who called the other night, aren't you? About Harriet's death.”

The fragrant smoke from the joss sticks curled through the air. “I'm Martha Rose, the executor of Harriet's will.”

She crossed her arms. “Whaddaya want with me?”

“I want to talk about Harriet. She was murdered.”

Paulina raised her eyebrows. “Murdered? So that's . . .”

Just then the tea kettle whistled. Paulina turned toward another room. “Wait here.”

I studied the blue flowers in the red Turkish carpet and the geometry of the inlaid Moroccan table across the room. Three minutes later she returned with two teacups painted with pink flowers. Without asking, she put sugar in both cups and handed one to me. “You like sugar.”

It didn't take a psychic to figure out you didn't get my kind of curves without having a few extra treats now and then.

Paulina sipped her tea, leaving a fuchsia-colored lip print on the edge of the cup. “Your aura is pink. You are honest, are determined, and thirst for truth, so I'm gonna help you.”

Should I be grateful my aura isn't green?
“What exactly did you do for Harriet?”

“I was her spiritual adviser. And her death coach.”

Did I just hear her right? “Her
what
?”

Paulina smiled and lowered her eyelids halfway. “I helped her communicate with the souls of the departed. Especially her little boy.”

“Is this what she gave you five hundred a week for?”

Her eyes flew open. “I'm a skilled and highly sought-after medium. I spent a lotta time helping that poor woman. Making house calls when she became hysterical—sometimes in the middle of the night. Not once did I ever refuse to see her. Harriet insisted on paying me a weekly retainer.”

I swirled my cup. The tea leaves eddied in the bottom. “Weren't you alarmed when the checks stopped? If you cared so much for her, if you were so helpful, why didn't you try to find out what happened to her?”

Paulina sighed. “When did you say she died?”

“I didn't say. Somewhere between January twenty-eighth and February thirteenth.”

She relaxed back. “Harriet stopped coming to see me in the beginning of January.”

“Why?”

“I worked with her to contact her son. She also talked to a twin brother who died when they were kids, and to her deceased parents. Harriet always felt calm and relieved whenever they came through with messages. Her father advised her to pay me a retainer.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course he did.”

Paulina looked at me wearily. “I'm used to skeptics. But I'm telling the truth. Do you wanna hear the rest or no?”

“Okay, go on.”

“Harriet was definite. She didn't wanna communicate with anyone else, only those specific four people. I started getting some strong signals from her dead husband. He kept trying to break through and talk to her. I told her I sensed great turmoil, but Harriet insisted. She didn't want any contact with Nathan.”

I drank the cooled tea. “Did she say why?”

“No, but during our last session I went into my usual trance, and Nathan managed to breach the barrier. When Harriet heard him speak, she screamed and broke the connection. Then she said she didn't want to see me anymore. I tried to warn her and reassure her, but she didn't wanna risk any further contact.”

The smell of sandalwood smoke almost overpowered me. I fanned my hand in front of my face. “Warn her about what?”

Paulina placed her palms on the purple tablecloth. “When a soul suffers as much turmoil as Nathan Oliver, there's a lotta unresolved issues. Anger. Frustration. Regret. Until his soul can settle those issues, he's doomed to wander in a in-between world. A soul in such a state can wreck havoc on the living, cause torment and even violence.”

“You really believe all that?”

She nodded vigorously. “Oh, yeah. I've helped many of the departed pass over. I promised Harriet if Nathan could communicate whatever he needed to tell her, he'd let go and never bother her again. But I warned her, if she refused to speak to him, well . . .” Paulina turned her palms up and shrugged.

My jaw dropped. “Are you saying Nathan Oliver could have killed Harriet?” When Paulina didn't respond, I shook my head. “Someone with human hands killed Harriet. No ghost could strangle her to death.”

Paulina reached her hand across the table. “Gimme your cup.”

I handed my empty teacup and saucer to her. She looked at the pattern the brown leaves made on the sides and bottom. “The one you thought you loved before will ask to come back into your life.”

“The one you're with now loves you deeply.”

Paulina smirked. “Believe me yet? Lemme read your cards.”

Shock and curiosity got the best of me.

Paulina shuffled the tarot deck and turned over a beautifully illustrated card picturing a queen sitting on a throne, holding a sword. “Just as your aura revealed, the queen of swords. You are honest and forthright and seek the truth.”

The second card she turned over pictured a man holding five swords with two more stuck in the ground. Paulina frowned. “The seven of swords. Beware of a deceiver and a thief. Someone's been covering his tracks.”

I hated to admit it, but Paulina was right. A clever thief did enter Harriet's house, and I wasn't even close to knowing his identity.

Darkness covered her face when she turned over the last card showing a tower being struck by lightning and people jumping or falling off the top. “This is very bad. The tower indicates chaos, an explosive crisis of some kind. Please believe me, Martha, you're in great danger. You must be very, very careful.”

Right. She probably said that to everybody. But she did kind of nail the Crusher thing. Could she be right about this too?

Paulina looked up. “If you wanna come back, we could schedule an appointment.”