by Mary Marks
He didn’t scare me.
In the 1970s, in my antiwar protest days, I used to call the police “fuzz” and “pigs.” They were much scarier back then, before sensitivity training and dash cams. “Just who the heck do you think you are, talking to me that way? I’m not afraid of you. My friends and I are going to find the messages in Claire’s quilts. When we do, we’ll likely find her killer.”
Beavers spoke slowly, in a barely controlled voice. “There is someone out there who is after something you have. He may be the same person who killed Claire Terry. If he’s killed once, he could easily kill again. Do you think you and a couple of senior ladies are any match for such a person?”
“That does it!” I jumped off the stool, shaking my finger. “The truth finally comes out. Just because we’re older, you think we’re stupid and incompetent. Any woman with gray hair is written off by society. We become invisible. A lifetime of achievement and wisdom is erased with a roll of the eyes and a patronizing smile.”
Bumper must have sensed I was upset because he jumped up on the island, pinned his ears back, and stared at Beavers.
“I’m not a social worker or a shrink. If you feel you’re invisible, call the AARP.”
“Very funny.”
My problem was that at one time, I had been very visible. As the only child raised in an extended family household, I was the center of everyone’s world. Marriage to Aaron Rose changed all that. I felt invisible after years of his emotional abuse. Then, when the arrogant little jerk finally left me for another woman, he took what was left of my self-esteem. It took years of hard work to find myself again. I wasn’t about to let another man treat me badly. Even if he was really, really hunky.
Beavers got up to leave. “Get off your high horse, Ms. Rose, and take my advice. Give the quilts back and stop playing Jessica Fletcher.” He opened the front door and turned to me. “Make sure to keep your doors locked.”
Bumper hissed at him from across the room.
Beavers’s sarcasm raised my hackles, but at the same time my heart skipped a little at the look he gave me—almost as if he really cared.
My God, Martha, stop being so pathetic! The attraction is probably only in your mind.
TUESDAY
CHAPTER 13
The next morning was Quilty Tuesday, one week after we discovered Claire Terry’s body. Bumper perched on the back of the sofa and looked out the window to survey his new home. He didn’t run away when Lucy and Birdie arrived at ten. A good sign.
“Where’d you get the cat?” Lucy put her tote bag down beside her favorite easy chair. She was dressed in grass green pants, a green and yellow print silk blouse, apple jade earrings and bangle bracelet, and yellow sandals. She smelled like Jungle Gardenia and with her bright orange hair reminded me of the tropical plant section at Home Depot.
“He was Claire’s. Siobhan asked me to take him, so Bumper and I are an official couple now.”
Birdie handed me a plate covered in foil. The cinnamon and cardamom of the applesauce cake underneath wafted into the room. Then she stepped over to the sofa and caressed the soft ginger fur ball. Bumper burst into an ecstatic purr.
I served coffee with the cake as we all sat. Birdie made it with lots of plump, sweet raisins—just the way I liked it.
Lucy took a sip of coffee. “So, did you find the list?”
“No, unfortunately. The thief got there first.” Between bites of cake I told them all about the empty folder and what Claire’s other files revealed.
Birdie was an avid fan of crime dramas and spoke forensics as a second language. “Looks like you may have uncovered some possible perps, dear. Jerry Bell, who is either her lover or blackmailer, and a nonprofit organization headed by her psychiatrist, no less, which stands to gain by her death.”
“It appears so.”
Lucy reached for another piece of cake. “Let’s not forget Carlotta Hudson. Who else but another quilter would know to look for a journal or a list?”
“Did you find out who stands to inherit Claire’s money besides the Blind Children’s Association?” asked Birdie.
“I didn’t see a will anywhere in her files. Oh, there’s one other thing.” I told them about taking the computer home and fibbing to Detective Beavers.
Birdie grabbed the end of her braid. “Oh my goodness, Martha. Won’t you get in big trouble?”
“Well, Siobhan said I could take the computer and I didn’t exactly lie. I just kind of asked him if he thought the intruder might have taken it.”
“I don’t know,” said Lucy. “What you did was pretty risky. Not telling him you took home Claire’s computer was an important detail. What do you think he’ll do when he finds out?”
“He won’t. I’ll give the computer back to Siobhan as soon as we’re through with it.”
I retrieved the laptop from the closet. “Well, we’ve got to find her password in order to get into this thing.”
Lucy reached out her hands. “Let me.” Of the three of us, Lucy was the most computer literate, thanks to the patient tutoring of her son Richie, who’d earned a degree in computer science. We crowded around Lucy’s chair and stared at the black screen while Lucy pressed the power button.
A familiar four-note melody sounded as the screen turned blue and asked for a password. Lucy typed in Claire, Claire Terry, Claire’s Laptop, Quilter, Quilts, Quilting, but nothing worked. “This could take forever.”
“Does Richie have some software that could get us in?”
“Probably. He’s in San Francisco this week, though.” That was Lucy’s code for something she rarely talked about: her middle son was gay and regularly visited Silicon Valley to be with his boyfriend.
I’d known Richie since he was in Little League. He was like every other boy. Loved to play sports and excelled at baseball. Richie was also the brightest of Lucy’s five boys, majoring in the hot new science of computers when he went to college. Lucy thought his reluctance to start dating girls was just due to shyness.
So, when Richie “came out” in college, Lucy and Ray were caught completely off guard. Ray had the hardest time accepting his son’s sexual orientation, but he eventually reconciled himself to Richie. Lucy supported her son from the time she found out but still seemed to feel a little embarrassed. I once reminded her there is little stigma anymore, at least in the liberal community.
“Yeah,” she’d replied, “but we’re Republicans, Martha. It’s still a big deal in our world.”
“Well, if you’re so Republican, why didn’t you vote for George W. Bush?”
“There are limits to everything.”
So, here we were, trying to get into Claire’s computer on our own. “We’ll just have to figure this thing out. Try her address, ninety-three hundred Rosario Road.”
“Nothing.”
“What do you normally use for a password?” asked Birdie.
Lucy paused for a moment. “Usually something that you won’t forget easily. I use the names of quilt blocks for my passwords, like Monkey Wrench or Log Cabin.”
“What name did Claire give to her latest quilt?” asked Birdie.
“Ascending, I think. Right, Martha?”
I nodded. “Try it.”
Nothing happened.
“We’ll try the names of her other quilts, just in case.” Lucy typed in variations of Mother’s Asleep, Midnight Garden, Secret Garden, Wandering Lover, and Jamey I Hardly Knew Ye, but the screen stayed stubbornly blue.
Birdie persisted. “Wait. What’s the cat’s name again?”
“Bumper. Passwords are never that obvious, Birdie. You need to make it really hard for someone to hack into your computer.”
“Why not just try it anyway?”
Lucy typed in Bumper. Nothing happened. She looked up. “Sorry, hon’. Good guess, though.”
I put my hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Wait a minute. Maybe it’s case sensitive. Try all uppercase or all lowercase.”
When she typed in BUMPER all caps, Lu
cy got a hit. Yes! At last we were in, and Birdie, who knew nothing about computers, beamed.
Claire kept hundreds of documents and e-mails. We carefully scrolled down until we spotted a folder titled Quilts.
We found only one document in the folder—three pages recording in chronological order the names of all her quilts and dates of completion. When Claire sold a quilt, she listed the selling price and the buyer’s name and contact information.
“Martha, what is your wireless password? I want to use your printer.”
I thought I was pretty creative with my password. I used something easy to remember—my daughter’s name. “Quincy.”
Lucy snorted. “Talk about the obvious.”
I smiled. “Not when you change the spelling to kwinsee, all lowercase letters.”
Five minutes later we each held a hard copy in our hands. I put my copy in my fax machine, typed in Siobhan’s number, and pressed the button. Then I looked over the list. “Look on page three. Claire donated her last quilt to the Blind Children’s Association for a silent auction this month.”
Lucy turned the pages. “Curiouser and curiouser. Which quilt?”
“Lullaby. A baby quilt.”
Birdie leaned toward the computer screen. “Oh, I wish we could see what it looked like.”
Lucy started typing on the keyboard. “Maybe we can. I’ll look for her photo album.” A minute passed. “Bingo!”
My glasses slipped farther down my nose as I also leaned in to get a closer look at the laptop screen. Each of Claire’s quilts was extensively photographed both full size and up close. The baby quilt was pieced with a simple basket design in yellow and white. Claire used dark gold embroidery thread to make her French knots.
We studied the list, trying to find a pattern or clue in the quilt names, and scrutinized the photos. “Does anything jump out at you?” I asked.
Birdie sighed. “Not so far, but maybe these titles are anagrams or cryptograms. I’m pretty good with word puzzles. I’ll work on them tonight.” Birdie was being modest. She was an avid reader and true wordsmith, easily solving the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in ink!
Lucy sounded frustrated. “If she stitched her life’s stories into these quilts, I sure don’t see how. We probably should make a backup copy of everything before we have to give back the laptop. Those pictures may prove to be invaluable.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“In case of a disaster, Richie told me it was important to keep backup files off-site. So I carry a ten-gig flash drive with me.” Lucy dug around in her purse and pulled out her key ring. She waved her hand. “All our personal and business files.”
I poured another round of coffee while she plugged the flash drive into the USB port and copied Claire’s files.
“I’ve got an idea. I’m going to call Claire’s psychiatrist. If there is a pattern or a code, she might have told him.”
Lucy and Birdie exchanged a look.
I stared at them. “What?”
“Well, we just know how much you love shrinks.”
Lucy was alluding to my ex-husband, Aaron Rose, the psychiatrist. We weren’t exactly bitter enemies, but I didn’t like the man. He was an arrogant know-it-all who could never be wrong. I helped put him through medical school and in return he transformed me into a cliché. After our daughter was born, he cheated on me and eventually dumped me for the gorgeous wife of one of his colleagues. “I’ve outgrown our relationship,” he told me. If anyone could push my button, it was Aaron.
“I’ll be fine.”
Birdie didn’t seem so sure. “Martha, what about confidentiality? Do you really think he’ll tell you anything?”
“What’ve I got to lose? Time is running out. I’ve got to give those quilts back tomorrow.” I opened my notepad and found the page with his phone number. I expected to get his answering service. He must have been between patients because he picked up the phone. I turned on the speaker so everyone could hear.
“This is Dr. Godwin.” Strong voice. Authoritative but pleasant.
“Dr. Godwin, my name is Martha Rose and I’m a friend of the Terry family. We know Claire Terry was very committed to the Blind Children’s Association, and that you knew her. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on a delicate matter.”
I glanced over just in time to see Lucy roll her eyes.
“Yes, I knew Claire Terry. She was a wonderful friend to BCA. So dedicated to the children. Her death is a great loss.”
“Yes, we are devastated.”
I let a few beats pass. “I know you must be terribly busy, Doctor, but Mrs. Terry is quite fragile and I’m running out of time. Is there any possibility I could see you today?” I knew this was a long shot because shrinks rarely made room for the walk-in trade.
“Can you tell me what the delicate matter is?”
“I’d prefer to discuss this in person.” I lowered my voice to a near whisper. “I’m not alone right now and I don’t want to be overheard.”
Lucy smirked.
“Ah, I see.” Godwin’s voice was reassuring, and I hoped he’d prove to be a sympathetic ally in my search for Claire’s story.
“I just so happen to have a cancellation this afternoon. I can see you at one.”
Birdie gave me the thumbs-up.
“Thank you so much, Doctor. I’ll be there at one.”
I put down the phone and looked at my friends. “Well, today’s my lucky day.”
Lucy threw me an amused look. “What’s this ‘delicate matter’ anyway?”
“Haven’t a clue. I’ll come up with something. Meanwhile, I’m hoping to examine the quilt to see if there is anything unusual about it.” I got up to look for my digital camera, just in case.
Two hours later I parked near an upscale office building on Ventura Boulevard. Lots of windows enclosed an atrium awash in natural daylight. I walked over to a large pool in the center of the atrium to get a closer look.
A miniature waterfall splashed serenely over the lip of a stone fountain into a pool where hyacinths, ferns, and pond lilies sheltered a few golden koi swimming lazily beneath the surface. The air smelled slightly damp.
I took the elevator to the sixth floor. Godwin’s office was situated in the corner of the building. The waiting room was small and beige with steel and black leather chairs. Sole practitioner psychiatrists typically didn’t employ office staff, and Godwin was no exception. I looked at my watch: 12:55. I flipped through a copy of Los Angeles magazine I pulled from a stack on the glass coffee table.
At precisely one, the door on the far side of the reception area opened. Alexander Godwin strongly resembled that forty-something bad boy movie star who was famous for breaking his girlfriends’ hearts. He looked down at me from a height of over six feet and with just the right mixture of gravitas and charm. Under the light of his smile, I felt I’d just lost about thirty pounds. “Mrs. Rose? Please come in.”
“Actually, it’s Ms.”
I could see why Claire might have wanted to give gobs of money to BCA. Godwin’s smile was über-charismatic. He was so charming he probably could have raised donations for the Wall Street bankers’ bonus fund.
I patted my hair in place as I walked behind him, down a short hallway to his office. His stride was long and elegant. He stepped aside to allow me to enter his office first. As I passed him, the glint of his gold wedding band caught my eye.
The sunlight streamed into this equally beige room through the two walls of windows and was diffused and softened by the tinted glass.
“Please have a seat, Ms. Rose, and tell me how I can help.” He gave me another reassuring smile and directed me to a soft, cream-colored sofa as he took his place in a black leather Eames chair.
I was tempted to smile back. This was the kind of man you wanted to hold your stomach in for. Come on, focus. I’m supposed to be grieving. I swallowed hard and visualized dead puppies. Dead kittens. Another Republican in the White House.
&n
bsp; CHAPTER 14
A tissue box was strategically placed on the table next to the sofa. Psychiatrists bought them by the carload. I used to go to a big box store to purchase them in bulk for my ex-husband’s office. Aaron possessed a true gift for making people cry.
I dared to look up at Dr. Godwin. “Claire told Mrs. Terry she sewed the story of her life into her quilts. Did she ever mention anything about them to you?”
“Well, I knew she made quilts. I gather she was quite good at it, but she never mentioned anything about stories. How would someone go about it, anyway?”
“That’s exactly what Mrs. Terry wants me to find out. I was hoping maybe Claire mentioned something to you.”
Godwin shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Was that the ‘delicate matter’ you mentioned on the phone?”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. They say you can tell when someone is lying if they look up and to the right while speaking, so I focused on his perfect nose.
I thought about how I kept running into Arlo Beavers and convinced myself what I was about to say wasn’t exactly a lie. “I’ve been meeting with the police every day, helping them in their investigation.” I paused to see if he believed me.
“Interesting. Go on.”
“We know Claire was having an affair, and we think her boyfriend may know a great deal about her quilts and her stories. Do you know who he was? Did you ever meet him? Maybe she brought him to a fund-raiser?”
Godwin leaned back in his chair and tented his long fingers, twirling his wedding ring absently with the thumb of his right hand. He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“You can’t tell me because you don’t know or because you were her psychiatrist?”
Godwin opened his eyes, spread his hands, and shook his head sadly. “Since you know she was my patient, you must also be familiar with doctor-patient confidentiality. Even if I knew the answers, I couldn’t give them to you.”