by Mary Marks
“I can hardly bear this.” Her perfect makeup melted under copious tears. She hugged me and wept a little, shoulders shaking. A faint whiff of vodka tickled my nose. Finally, she pulled away, took a tissue from her jacket pocket, and blew her nose.
I patted her on the back. “I don’t want to be the only one speaking today, Isabel. Will you say something when the time comes?”
She nodded and sat down in the front row next to Birdie.
Next, a short, middle-aged man in an expensive-looking pinstripe suit came up to me. A large gold class ring with a red stone sat on his right hand. “I’m Emmet Wish. Are you Mrs. Rose?”
I nodded at the insurance agent. “Thank you for coming today.”
“Very sad. She was so young.” He handed me his card. “I’ve written down my private number. Let’s touch base soon.”
Paulina Polinskaya materialized in the doorway wearing a long black dress and a purple velvet cape, with a printed scarf tied around her head like a turban. She took a lot of care with her appearance today. Diamonds sparkled in her ears and on her fingers. Her Egyptian-painted eyes scanned the room until they found me. She floated up to the front, every eye following her. Then she laid her right hand on Harriet’s coffin and briefly closed her eyes. A stunning diamond bracelet peeked out from under her sleeve.
She spoke softly. “The killer’s not in this room.”
“How do you know?” I whispered.
“Harriet just told me.”
“Right.”
She ignored me. “Your aura’s blue today. That’s the color of sadness. But there’s something else in there. Some purple.” She looked around the room and stopped when she saw Crusher. She looked at me again and smiled. “Good choice.” Then she sat down.
Hello?
As far as I could tell, Harriet’s in-laws, Estella Oliver and her brother, Henry, didn’t bother to show up.
Detectives Farkas and Avila slipped into the back of the room and stood on either side of the door, watching. Farkas gave me an almost imperceptible nod right before I sat. Then the rabbi came in.
The urbane and middle-aged Rabbi Adler recited psalms and read from the Torah. “‘Earth you are and to earth you will return.’” Today Harriet would finally be returned to the earth, and the first part of my job as her executor and friend would be over.
When the time came for eulogies, I spoke about my childhood friend and how we made late-night brownies in my bubbie’s kitchen. Isabel spoke about her college roommate and how Harriet used to cover for Isabel when she cut classes. Abernathy spoke about the generous philanthropy of Harriet Oliver. Then we proceeded to the graveside and buried her.
The rabbi led us in the kaddish, the mourner’s prayer. Everyone formed a quiet line behind me. I dropped a shovel full of dirt on her coffin, near her son’s grave.
My Catholic friend Lucy pointed to the shovel. “Am I supposed to do that too?”
I could barely speak through the lump in my throat. “You’re not required to, but it’s an act of kindness to make sure a person is buried properly.”
Without another word, Lucy took the shovel, then Birdie. We were the first to leave the cemetery and drove to Uncle Isaac’s house ten minutes away.
Lucy pointed to the basin with a pitcher of water Uncle Isaac left on the porch. “What’s that for?” I showed them how to wash their hands in a symbolic gesture of washing away death before entering the house.
At five minutes to twelve, the catering truck arrived with deli platters and a case of chilled Dr. Brown’s cream soda. Lucy unwrapped packages of paper goods and plastic forks. Birdie opened the plates of food and spread them on the table. “Oh my, these cold cuts smell delicious. And look at those nice nutty pastries.”
I plugged in a twenty-cup coffee urn and opened one of the bottles of Baron Herzog kosher cabernet Uncle Isaac had put on the kitchen counter. Soon the house filled with mourners.
After blessing the wine and a loaf of fresh sesame challah, Uncle Isaac bustled around making sure everyone received something to eat and drink. Crusher stayed with the old men, earnestly discussing something. Every once in a while, one of them would look at me and smile or wink.
What is that all about?
Paulina swept around the room, discreetly handing out her business card. Uncle Isaac’s pal Morty stood when she got to him. In his eighties, Morty still drove a gold Buick and had an eye for the ladies. He slicked back his sparse gray hair with his hand. “Hiya, doll.”
Paulina smiled. “Hi, yourself.”
He gave her his widest smile, treating her to a view of all twenty-eight perfectly matched ceramic teeth. A diamond stick pin glittered on his wide blue silk tie. “I couldn’t help noticing you earlier.” He sidled up to her and put his hand underneath her elbow. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the spittin’ image of Liz Taylor?”
She frowned and tilted her head. “Isn’t she dead?”
“Yeah. But when she was your age, she was bee-you-tee-ful.” Morty’s dentures clacked a little. “Exotic, like.”
Paulina chuckled and patted his chest right over the diamond. “And you look just like my grampa Leo.”
Morty steered her by the elbow to the empty love seat. “Oh, yeah? Tell me about your grampa Leo. I’ll bet he’s quite a guy.”
They sat down.
“Give me your hand and I’ll read your palm.”
He lifted his right hand.
She touched his gold and diamond pinkie ring. “You have a nice ring. I just love diamonds, don’t you?”
“What’s not to love? Liz went in for the really big rocks, you know.”
Paulina rubbed her fingers lightly down his palm. “Your lifeline is very, very long.”
Oh brother, I hope he’s not falling for this.
Morty leaned closer and winked. “I feel like a young man, if you know what I mean.”
Paulina continued to stroke his hand. “I see diamonds, maybe a Russian cut. Pearls. And a dark stone, maybe emeralds? Sapphires?”
“Oy! Sounds just like my Esther’s jewelry, may she rest in peace. The family brought some nice pieces from the old country. I gave her a string of pearls for our tenth anniversary. She liked rubies.”
Paulina held his hand and leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Would you like to talk to her some time? I could arrange it.” Apparently she drummed up business by hitting on grieving people at funerals and hooking them with promises to contact their dead loved ones. Unfortunately for Paulina, Morty had moved on from Esther’s death years ago.
He leaned in close. “Maybe I’m more interested in the living, if you know what I mean. Say, why don’t you let me take you out to dinner tonight?”
I caught Paulina’s eye and shook my head rapidly.
She ignored me. “Sure. Why not? We can go back to my place until dinnertime and I’ll read your tea leaves.”
Morty straightened his tie and wiggled his eyebrows. “Hot cha cha.”
Before I could intervene, the two of them left. What did the much younger psychic plan for the eighty-eight-year-old Morty?
Paulina wore some very expensive-looking jewelry, including a diamond bracelet half-hidden by her sleeve. I needed to figure out a way to get a closer look. Could it be Harriet’s $100,000 bracelet? Did Paulina take the missing jewelry? Did she kill Harriet?
CHAPTER 13
When I got home from the funeral, I traded my suit for a comfortable pair of jeans and slippers, made a cup of apple cinnamon tea, and unwrapped some cookies. Then I phoned Dr. Naomi Hunter at the Smithsonian and introduced myself as the executor of Harriet’s estate.
“Mrs. Oliver’s dead? I wondered why she never contacted me about the quilt, especially since she seemed so keen on getting an appraisal.”
I swallowed some tea. “Your letter to Harriet really fascinated me. I’m an avid quilter myself and have studied quilt lore and history. But I’ve never heard of the Declaration Quilt. Can you tell me more about it?”
“Oh, the
story of this quilt is fascinating. In June of 1776, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson met in Philadelphia to draft the Declaration of Independence. What most people don’t realize is Abigail Adams and Martha Jefferson also traveled to Philadelphia with their husbands.”
The little devil on my left shoulder persuaded me to pick up a cookie. “Yeah, history often overlooks the women.”
“Exactly!” Dr. Hunter’s voice became animated. “And these women did something extraordinary during the weeks their husbands worked on the document. Benjamin Franklin’s daughter, Sarah Franklin Bache, also lived in Philadelphia. So, she played hostess to Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Jefferson. In the long hours of waiting, they created a quilt to commemorate the historic event.”
I dunked the cookie in my tea. “They were quilters?” In those days, women in the upper classes often turned to fine needlework as a creative and social outlet. Unlike their poorer sisters, however, women like Abigail Adams and Sarah Jefferson might have left the utilitarian sewing and quilting to their servants and slaves. “How did you find out about the quilt?”
“From subsequent correspondence between Abigail Adams and Sarah Bache. They mentioned the quilt in their letters.”
“Dr. Anne Smith suggested in her messages to Harriet this might be a friendship quilt.”
“Right. The ladies made six-inch snowball blocks out of white muslin with red triangles in the corners. Then they coaxed a page at the legislature to gather autographs of the various members of the Second Continental Congress on each block.”
“No kidding. All those important men signed blocks? Exactly how did the page accomplish that?” I couldn’t imagine a modern-day legislator agreeing to sign a piece of cloth, especially if he knew someone on the other side of the aisle had signed a similar one.
“We don’t know, but in one of her letters, Abigail refers to Robert Treat Paine, congressman from Massachusetts, who spilled two drops of India ink on his block. Anyway, they collected fifty signatures. The women reserved four more blocks for their own names, which they placed in the corners of the quilt.”
“Wait. I thought you said only the three of them met. Abigail Adams, Martha Jefferson, and the Franklin daughter, Sarah Bache.”
“The fourth quilter was a friend of Sarah’s, who also lived in Philadelphia, the widow Elizabeth Griscom Ross.”
I gasped. “Do you mean Betsy Ross?”
“The same. Benjamin Franklin charged her with sewing the first American flag in secret, which she did while sitting every day with the other three ladies. Sarah convinced Betsy to reproduce the flag’s design for the central medallion of the quilt. The eighteen-inch block depicted thirteen white stars appliquéd in a circle on a blue field.”
I smiled as I pictured the quilt. Those ladies sat together, just like my friends and me, sewing and chatting and eating cake. They wore long dresses; we chose jeans and overalls. They penned letters; we used the telephone or e-mail. Otherwise, the passage of centuries had changed nothing. Our quilting connected us through time. Lucy, Birdie, and I often helped each other with projects. Did Abigail, Martha, and Sarah help Betsy sew the flag? Did they, like their husbands and father, debate among themselves what should be written in the Declaration of Independence?
“How big was this quilt?”
“About the size of a modern-day throw. Four experienced needle women would’ve easily finished all the stitching.”
I took the last bite of my cookie. “Who got the quilt?”
“The ladies sewed it specifically to raise funds for the Continental Army led by George Washington. On the twelfth of July, a week after the congress voted to adopt the Declaration, the quilt was auctioned off at a gala dinner held in Philadelphia. Stephen Hawkins, representative from Rhode Island, prevailed on a member of ‘The Hebrew congregation Yeshuat Israel of Newport’ to come up with the highest bid for the cause. Unfortunately, the trail ended there for historians. The buyer insisted on remaining anonymous.”
The Hebrew congregation she referred to worshipped at the Touro Synagogue. Did Nathan Oliver’s ancestor make the winning bid? Had the Declaration Quilt always been in the Oliver family?
Dr. Hunter lowered her voice a notch. “The Smithsonian will need to authenticate the quilt, of course, but we’ve located a private donor prepared to pay Mrs. Oliver’s estate two million dollars to hand over this American treasure to the National Archives.”
“My God, two million is a lot of money, but I can see why you’d pay so much. The Declaration Quilt is an important part of American history, ranking right up there with the signed copies of the Declaration of Independence. Only this national treasure was created in fabric by the founding mothers of this country.”
I dreaded breaking the news. “The only problem is, I haven’t found the quilt among Harriet’s things.”
She took a sharp breath. “The quilt is gone?”
“We’re still looking. Several items have disappeared after Harriet’s murder.”
Dr. Hunter paused for about five seconds. “Did you say murdered?”
“Yes. And I believe her killer came after the quilt, among other things.”
“This is devastating news. I so hoped . . . Please let me know if anything changes, Mrs. Rose.”
I promised to contact Dr. Hunter the moment I located the quilt.
I began to connect the dots. The items missing from Harriet’s house suggested the killer wasn’t interested in Native American baskets or folk crafts—no matter how valuable. He wanted certain Early Americana. The first-edition books by the Founding Fathers and the quilt with the signatures would be the crown of anyone’s collection.
I still couldn’t fit the missing jewelry into the whole puzzle. I needed to find out how Isabel got Harriet’s ring and if she had any more of her things. I also needed to figure out how to examine the bracelet Paulina wore today. Was it Harriet’s? Did one of those women kill Harriet and steal her property? Could the slender Isabel or the short Paulina have overpowered Harriet and strangled her?
The phone rang while I washed out my teacup. I turned off the faucet and dried my hands on a red-and-white-striped dish towel. The voice on the other end wheezed.
“This is Detective Farkas. We’ll be through with the Oliver house by Wednesday.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. Listen, Detective, I need to check Harriet’s financials. Can you recommend a good forensic accountant?”
“If you’re thinking about investigating your friend’s murder, forget it. Don’t start going all Rizzoli & Isles on me.”
“No way, Detective.” Rizzoli carries a gun.
He exhaled noisily. “Yeah, I know someone. A young guy used to work for the DA. He opened his own offices in Westwood, and I hear he’s doing real well. He’s testified in some big cases—the corruption scandal with the City of Bell and the federal beef with Morgan Stanley. Name’s Julian Kessler. Tell him Gabe Farkas sent you.”
I wrote down Kessler’s phone number and called his office.
He spoke rapidly. “Farkas referred you? Cool. Tomorrow at three. Don’t be late. I don’t like it when people are late.”
The next morning I drove to Birdie’s house for quilty Tuesday and pushed open the front door. The aroma of cinnamon and cardamom circled in the air. “I smell applesauce cake.”
Birdie smiled and hugged me. “I figured you deserved a special treat after yesterday, so I baked your favorite.”
“How’re you doing, girlfriend?” Lucy glanced up from her sewing. She dressed all girly today in her pink denim jeans and a pink angora sweater. Little flowers carved out of rose quartz decorated her earlobes.
I sat in the green chenille easy chair. “Yesterday was rough.” I stretched my Jacob’s Ladder over my wooden hoop. I always started sewing in the middle of the quilt, working my way toward the edges and smoothing the fabric as I went. Stitching this way avoided sewing puckers into the backing and produced a perfectly square and flat quilt. I threaded a size eleven “between,”
a one-inch-long needle perfect for making tiny stitches, and took a deep breath. “Don’t know what I would’ve done without your help.”
Birdie, still in her trademark denim overalls, wore a blue hand-knit cardigan against the chill. She waved her hand in a circle. “All for one, and one for all.”
The three of us helped each other through some pretty rough times over the years, creating strong bonds of friendship. We could always count on each other.
“I spoke with Dr. Hunter at the Smithsonian yesterday.” I told them all about the Declaration Quilt.
“Heavens, how exciting!” Birdie clasped her hands. “I’ve never heard of it, have you?”
I shook my head. “No, but apparently certain historians knew about it. They assumed the quilt no longer existed—that is, until Harriet contacted the International Quilt Study Center.”
Lucy gathered two more pieces to join together. “A two-million-dollar historical quilt? Just think. We’ll be national heroes when we find it.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Lucy.”
She held up her hand. “I’ve got one of my feelings. The quilt is definitely in Harriet’s house.”
From long experience, I understood the futility of arguing with one of Lucy’s feelings. “I hope you’re right. Detective Farkas says we can go back inside tomorrow.”
“Paulina the psychic came across as quite a character in her purple cape yesterday,” Birdie chuckled. “Why did Harriet fire her?”
“Harriet stopped seeing her when Nathan showed up in the middle of their last session.”
“What do you mean ‘showed up’?” Lucy sat forward.
“Paulina channeled him during a séance. Harriet got so frightened she broke off all contact with the psychic.”
Birdie grabbed the end of her braid and frowned. “You can certainly understand her reaction, given the abuse she suffered during their marriage.”
“You’re right. I suspect if Harriet thought Nathan could talk to her from the dead, he might still be able to hurt her. Of course I don’t believe Harriet actually talked to any ghosts. I think Paulina decided to spice things up a bit by pretending to be a new so-called spirit.”