1 Forget Me Knot

by Mary Marks

  Godwin checked his watch and moved forward to the edge of his seat. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  I stood. “Well, before I leave, could you tell me where to find the baby quilt Claire donated to your silent auction next week? I’d like to take a photograph before it’s sold.”

  He looked puzzled. “Did Claire donate a quilt to the auction?”

  “Her records indicate she did.”

  “Well, you’d have to go to the BCA office. I think all the items are being stored there. Just go down to the third floor. I’ll let them know you’re coming.” He walked me to the door and offered his hand and a look that oozed sincerity. “Good luck, Ms. Rose.”

  I stepped into the hallway and his door closed softly behind me. Godwin was very skilled at avoiding my questions and slick enough to make me feel I got something when, in reality, he gave me nothing.

  The elevator stopped at every floor on the way down. On the third floor a woman led a little boy by the hand into the lift. He walked jerkily, and I wondered if he suffered from cerebral palsy. Then he turned his face up toward his mother and I saw the milky film covering his eyes. My heart wrenched when I realized this little boy walked funny because he couldn’t see where he was going. He was blind.

  As the stainless steel doors started to close, I put my arm out to stop them. “Excuse me.” I stepped around the boy and out into the hallway. Directly in front of me were the offices of the Blind Children’s Association. I pulled the door open and entered.

  The floor was covered with light brown speckled linoleum. Carpet samples of various textures were glued to the lower half of the walls for the sightless children to feel and explore.

  “May I help you?” The young receptionist smiled with brilliant white teeth. Her straight brown hair lay in a silky sheet over her shoulders. Thirty years ago I would have been jealous. Now I was grateful for my wash and wear curls. Less to fuss over.

  “Yes. My name’s Martha Rose. Dr. Godwin sent me here to photograph the baby quilt Claire Terry donated to your silent auction.”

  “If you’ll take a seat, I’ll let our director, Miss Barcelona, know you’re here.” Another flash of white.

  I sat down and looked over at a small girl with thick glasses sitting at a miniature table painted a minty green. A woman sat in an adult-sized chair and handed her a red plastic cube to put in a shape sorter box. I was fascinated when the girl felt the shape of the holes with her tiny fingers, found a square one, and pushed the cube inside the box. She smiled triumphantly. “More.”

  The woman handed her a triangular block. “Good job.”

  A minute later a large-boned, horsey woman in her forties came striding out of a doorway extending her arm like a backhoe. She pumped my hand vigorously. “Ms. Rose? My name is Dixie Barcelona. Won’t you step into my office?”

  We walked into a small room filled with mismatched furniture and bulging file cabinets. A Dell laptop sat open on the desk. I dodged stacks of folders to find an uncovered chair to sit on.

  I immediately liked the earnest Dixie Barcelona. She squinted behind thick glasses that made her eyes appear very small. Her navy blue jacket was straight out of the L.L. Bean catalogue, conservative, somewhat shapeless, and wrinkle proof.

  Dixie was clearly overworked, so I got right to the point. “I’d like to examine and photograph Claire Terry’s quilt before it gets sold.”

  “Yes. I just got a call from Dr. Godwin. He asked me to make it available to you. All the donated items are in a room down the hall.”

  Dixie rummaged through the mess on top of her desk until she found a manila folder. Then she led me out of her office and down a hallway with classrooms on both sides.

  “Claire’s death must have come as quite a shock to you.”

  Dixie’s words came out in a tumble as she pushed open a door at the end of the hall. “It’s just awful. Claire was more than just a fund-raiser. We were personal friends. Claire was also a longtime volunteer. Worked with the children for years. She loved these kids as much as I did. She even taught some of them how to do a little sewing. Can you imagine? Teaching blind kids how to sew? She was a talented teacher with a great deal of compassion. We will really miss her.”

  We stepped into a small room with about fifty large gift baskets sitting on tables and the floor. Each basket was tagged with a number and filled with donated items. Dixie opened the folder and pulled out several pieces of paper with a list typed in large print. She brought the paper close to her face and ran her finger down the list. “Here. The quilt is in basket number twenty-three.”

  We went through the baskets one by one checking the numbered tags on each one. Basket number twenty-three was under a table in the far corner.

  Dixie bent over with a grunt. “Wouldn’t you know it, the one you’re looking for is always the last one you find.” She pulled out the basket and set it up on the table.

  It was empty.

  We looked at each other for a long moment. Dixie’s lips were opening and closing like the koi in the pond downstairs, but no words came out. Beads of sweat began to collect on her upper lip. “There must be some mistake. Probably got into one of the other baskets.”

  Her arms flailed as she started randomly going through donations.

  I put my hand on her shoulder. “Let’s do this methodically. Let’s use the list and go through these one by one.”

  A half hour later, Dixie’s jacket was rumpled, her hair was plastered against her forehead, and beads of sweat ran down the sides of her reddened face. We’d searched all the baskets, but the quilt was gone. “I don’t know what to say, Ms. Rose.”

  “Call me Martha. In a way, I’m not surprised. The thief stole a list of Claire’s quilts from her house, so he must have known about this one. You need to call the police.”

  Dixie took a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face. She looked at me with pleading eyes. “Do we have to? The publicity will be awful. If our donors think we’re careless with our resources, we might lose their support. I can’t help but think of the blind children who will be affected if we’re forced to close our doors.”

  “We can ask the police to be discreet, Dixie, but this is probably connected to Claire’s murder. They need to know. I have the number of the detective handling the investigation. I’ll give him a call.”

  She slumped into a folding metal chair and put her hands on her knees. “I hope you’re right, Martha. I hope to God you’re right.”

  I took out my cell phone and dialed Beavers’s number. Voice mail. “Detective Beavers, this is Martha Rose. I’m calling from the offices of the Blind Children’s Association. The quilt Claire Terry donated for their silent auction next week is missing. Looks like the thief has struck again.”

  As we headed back to Dixie’s office, she turned to me. “What should I do now?”

  “Well, you’ll probably be contacted by Detective Arlo Beavers as soon as he gets my message. Just tell him what you know. Of course, you’ll also need to inform Dr. Godwin. Apparently he didn’t know Claire donated that quilt in the first place.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. He leaves all the details up to me.” She smiled and gestured toward the rest of the offices in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I’m the brains of this outfit and he’s the pretty face. His job is to get the large donors that keep us going.”

  I chuckled. “You’re right about the pretty face. Dr. Godwin is quite a hunk. I imagine he’s pretty good at pulling in the donations.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. Still, it’s bad enough Claire’s quilt is missing. We could have raised a lot of money from the sale. Frankly, I’m worried we won’t be able to pull this auction off without Claire’s help. We count on these fund-raisers to keep us going.”

  I was moved by Dixie’s distress, so I sat down and pulled my checkbook out of my purse. “I know what a blow this must be. I can’t attend the auction, but I’d like to give you a donation in Claire’s memory.”

  I
n Hebrew, the letters spelling the word chai, or “life,” also stood for the number eighteen. Giving eighteen or multiples of eighteen to charity is considered to be a compound blessing in Jewish tradition. Thinking about the little boy with the milky eyes and the little girl feeling the shapes with her fingers, I wrote a check for ten times chai.

  Dixie gushed and pumped my hand. “Oh, Martha, thank you.”

  Outside in the hallway again, I pushed the call button for the elevator and ran my finger over the Braille embossed beneath. Things became much easier for the visually impaired once elevators, restrooms, and other public facilities were required to post signs in Braille.

  At the first floor, I stepped out of the elevator and bumped into a tall man waiting to get in. “Oops. Sorry.” I glanced up.

  Arlo Beavers took my elbow and steered me over to the koi pond. He strode with grim purpose, and I took two steps to his every one.

  “You certainly showed up fast.”

  “I was on my way over here anyway when I got your message. Talk.”

  I told him about my visits to Godwin and Dixie Barcelona and the missing baby quilt. The more I told him, the darker his eyes became.

  “It’s the darnedest thing—you showing up at another crime scene.”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know there was going to be another crime scene? I was just following a new lead to another of Claire’s quilts.”

  “Where did you get this lead?”

  Oh no. I couldn’t let him find out Claire’s computer was at my house. “Birdie remembered something Claire told her from before.”

  “How can I convince you how dangerous your snooping is, Ms. Rose?” He pointed his finger. “You need to stay away from this investigation because if you don’t, you could end up in jail or worse.”

  “What could be worse than jail?”

  “The back of a coroner’s van.”

  I pictured Claire’s body again, and for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut. I left the building and walked toward my car, parked on the street. Parking spaces were hard to find, and I’d been lucky to get one half a block away from Godwin’s office. The building was on a stretch of Ventura Boulevard where other new, tall office buildings hovered like bullies next to aging strip malls. Several Middle Eastern restaurants populated the area, sending the spicy aromas of cumin and chili into the air.

  Near my car a bag lady with tangled hair sat on an overturned bucket outside a sixties era strip mall. Her shopping cart was laden with bulging black trash bags. “’Scuse me.” She rattled a Styrofoam cup filled with coins. “Can you spare some change?”

  I usually tried to avoid the homeless. Several shelters had sprung up in the city in the last decade, and help was available for the truly desperate. I also knew many of the homeless preferred to live on the streets or to camp out inside the bushes under freeway bridges or along the overgrown banks of the Los Angeles River.

  Still, the woman clutching the white cup in her grimy fingers could have been one of those newly displaced Americans, a victim of the bad economy. I reached in my purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill. Today was turning out to me my tzedaka day—my day to be charitable.

  She took the money from my hand. “God bless you.”

  She watched me curiously as I glanced at her cart. Hanging from the handle was a black Hefty bag stuffed with aluminum cans. “Takes me a whole day to fill up one of those bags.” She smiled affably.

  “What do you do with them?”

  “I go over to the recycle in Ralph’s parking lot and turn ’em in for cash money.”

  “Do you get much?”

  She shrugged. “It’s a living.”

  “Where do you find them?”

  “Trash, Dumpsters, streets, alleys. I have my reg’lar places.” She pointed to Solomon’s, a deli down the street. “The owner of the deli over there, Sol, he saves ’em for me.”

  I was about to walk away when a piece of yellow and white cloth sticking out from a greasy looking bedroll attracted my attention. “What’s that?” I pointed to the cloth.

  “Oh, it’s something I found in the Dumpster behind that building last week.” She pointed a dirty finger toward Godwin’s building.

  “You’d be surprised what you can find in a Dumpster. Once I found a brand new sweater with the tags still on. See?” She smiled proudly and opened her coat to reveal a hideous purple and yellow Fair Isle sweater with snowflakes and reindeer encircling her torso in horizontal stripes. Some places were dark with old grease spots.

  “Great find.” I pointed to the cloth. “How about that thing?”

  She eyed me warily. “It’s my towel.”

  “Could I see it?”

  She frowned. “I didn’t steal it. I found it fair and square.”

  I smiled and took a twenty out of my purse. “Please show me the towel.”

  She grabbed the twenty and with her other fist pulled Claire’s baby quilt out from the bedroll.

  I tried to control the excitement in my voice. “What’s your name? Mine’s Martha.”

  “Hilda.”

  “Well, Hilda, I’d like to buy the towel from you.”

  She eyed me shrewdly. “It’ll cost you.”

  I gave her another twenty. She took it and just looked at me, not moving. I reached in my wallet and took out my last twenty. “This is all I have.”

  She smiled and handed over the missing quilt. “God bless you.”

  I briefly thought about going back to the BCA office to find Detective Beavers, but I knew once Beavers got hold of this quilt, he’d seize it as evidence. As I walked toward my car, I wondered why the thief would go to the trouble of stealing the quilt only to throw it in the Dumpster.

  If there was any forensic evidence on the quilt, it had long been obliterated by Hilda’s rough treatment. I didn’t see how the police could find any meaningful clues on it. So I decided to clean it up at home and take a closer look. Who knew what I might find?

  CHAPTER 15

  All the drama made my head hurt. A flare-up was coming on. On the way home I stopped at Yum Yum and got ten ounces of frozen vanilla yogurt with only eight calories per ounce. Then I loaded the top with crushed Heath bars for a dollar extra. I deserved it.

  When I got home, I took a Soma and one of my migraine pills. Bumper followed me into the laundry room for a pit stop. I checked to make sure the other quilts were still in their hiding place. Then I put the foul-smelling baby quilt in the washing machine to soak and added some Orvis soap.

  Washing quilts with ordinary detergent faded the colors and weakened the cotton fibers. Serious quilt owners tried to use a pH neutral soap if they had to wash their quilts. Orvis, a gentle liquid soap, was originally developed for shampooing horses. Used to be you had to go to the feed store to get Orvis soap, but now it was also available in quilt stores.

  Back in the living room, I took the yogurt and a plastic spoon out of the bag and plopped on the sofa. Bumper jumped up and settled into my lap purring. I closed my eyes against the throbbing in the right side of my head and only opened them to scoop up the next sweet mouthful.

  The thief had the same list we did and knew where to find this quilt. So, how did he get into the offices of BCA? Could he have come in during the daytime disguised as a workman? He could have pretended to be repairing something while he searched the rooms.

  I’d seen that scenario on television hundreds of times. Nobody paid attention to a guy in overalls with a tool belt. He could have stuffed the little quilt inside his shirt and nobody would have known. So why did he go to so much trouble just to throw it in the Dumpster?

  By the time the spoon scraped the bottom of the Styrofoam container, the meds were kicking in. I felt deliciously detached and floating out of my body a little, the way I always did after taking my medicine. I looked at my watch. Two-thirty.

  I took out my notepad and flipped through the pages. The name Jerry Bell jumped out at me. This was the guy who received monthly checks of a thousand
dollars or more from Claire for as far back as her check registers went. Why? Was he blackmailing her? Was he a lover who was being subsidized? Claire hardly seemed the type to go for a boy toy, but you never knew.

  I decided to find out, and dialed his phone number. He answered on the fourth ring, “Mr. Bell, my name is Martha Rose and I’m a friend of Claire Terry’s. I hate to bother you under the circumstances, but I’d really like to talk to you about her death.”

  “Claire’s dead?” The shock was unmistakable.

  “Oh dear. You didn’t know? Her death has been all over the news for the last week.” The media loved to report on tragedies involving celebrities and the very wealthy. It was hard to imagine anyone could miss all the publicity.

  His voice choked. “I’ve been out of touch with just about everything these last two weeks. When did she . . . What happened?”

  He sounded genuinely upset. Would a blackmailer sound that way?

  “She died last week. Mr. Bell, I really need to talk to you. Could you possibly meet with me this afternoon? I’ll be happy to drive to where you are.”

  “Yeah, I guess so, although it has to be soon. I’m working the night shift, and I start at five. We can meet at Dinah’s on Sepulveda near the airport. Do you know it?”

  I knew the LA landmark well. Dinah’s was famous for crispy fried chicken and apple pancakes the size of hubcaps. “I can’t get there for another hour, so let’s plan on three-thirty. How will I recognize you?”

  “I’ll be wearing green scrubs.”

  Three minutes later I was on my way to Culver City to meet either Claire’s blackmailer, her lover, or both.

  Traffic on the 405 south was heinous as usual. For once, traveling cautiously at fifteen miles per hour was a good thing. I was still feeling the effects of the pill. I pulled into the parking lot of Dinah’s at three twenty-nine. Low-flying jets roared overhead, coming into their final approach at LAX and fouling the air with the acrid smell of jet exhaust.

  Dinah’s was decorated in typical 1950s coffee shop style with red vinyl booths and brown laminate tables. In the mornings the place smelled like coffee and maple syrup. In the afternoon it smelled like hamburgers and fried chicken.