by Mary Marks
Lucy sat up a little straighter and stopped stitching. “Well, I for one believe there are things we can’t explain by science or the rational mind. Many of my premonitions have come true, and you know it. Remember Claire Terry’s murder last spring?”
Lucy referred to the time we discovered the body of a dead quilter. She warned me bad things were about to happen and they did. But did she really have ESP, or was she just expressing her own fears and apprehensions?
Lucy picked up her needle again and resumed stitching two triangles together. She didn’t like to use the sewing machine to piece the tops of her quilts. Instead, she preferred to take her time and make the seams the old-fashioned way. “You’ve got to keep an open mind, Martha.” Without dropping her needle, she curled her fingers in an air quote. “Nathan Oliver certainly was a mean ess oh bee. How can you be so sure he didn’t possess the power to come back from the dead?”
Is she kidding? “Because Harriet struggled with someone strong enough to break her wrist and strangle her. No ghost could do that.”
Birdie handed us thick slices of spicy, warm applesauce cake with plenty of plump, sweet raisins. “Martha dear, to find poor Harriet’s killer, you should examine his motive. What’s your best guess?”
“Theft is at the top of my list. Someone wanted Harriet’s priceless items of Early Americana.”
Birdie nodded. “Okay, who in her life knew what she owned?”
“Her attorney, Abernathy; Emmet Wish, her insurance agent; her friend Isabel; Paulina; Estella Oliver and her brother, Henry; people at the International Quilt Study Center; and people at the Smithsonian—even the philanthropist who’s willing to pay two million dollars for the quilt. Maybe the fund-raiser from Children’s Hospital and whoever else came into her house. Harriet didn’t exactly hide her things.”
Lucy ended her thread with a knot and cut a new strand from the spool. “So, what you’re saying is there’s no shortage of people who could’ve stolen the books, the quilt, and the jewelry.”
“Pretty much.” I took a stitch, pulled the thread through the top layer of my quilt, and hid the knot in the batting. Then I started a new line of stitches. “I’ve seen some of Harriet’s missing jewelry, though.”
Lucy spoke through a mouthful of cake. “Where, for heaven’s sake?”
I told them about Harriet’s ring sitting on Isabel’s finger and possibly Harriet’s bracelet on Paulina’s wrist at the funeral.
“Oh dear,” said Birdie. “Do you think one of them is the murderer?”
I shrugged. “Who knows?”
“This doesn’t get us any closer to identifying the killer.” Lucy began a new seam.
“Not yet, but I have an appointment this afternoon with a forensic accountant. I’m going to ask him to examine all of the financial records prepared by Abernathy’s office. Bunny Friedman, the fund-raiser he brought to the funeral, seemed awfully anxious to get her hands on Harriet’s money.”
Birdie brushed a wisp of white hair from her face. “Do you suspect something?”
“I want the accountant to look closely at the financial activity during the ten months Harriet lay dead in her house. Did Abernathy authorize transfers of money, gifts, or donations? If we uncover any fraud or embezzlement, we might find the motive for Harriet’s murder.”
Birdie said, “At which point you’ll hand the information over to the police and let them go after the murderer. Right?”
“Right.”
Lucy put down her sewing and narrowed her eyes. “Why do I only half believe you?” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Be careful, girlfriend. I’m getting one of my strong feelings.”
With every unanswered question about Harriet, I also developed some strong feelings.
On the drive back to my house I realized I’d completely forgotten about another person who’d been familiar with every item in Harriet’s place—a person who might have carried a grudge for being fired. Abernathy said he’d e-mail me her contact information, but I hadn’t checked my computer in days. Maybe Harriet’s housekeeper could shed some light on the mystery.
CHAPTER 14
I arrived home from Birdie’s house at two and rushed inside because my phone was ringing.
“Martha?”
Oh my God. Arlo Beavers, my ex-boyfriend. I hadn’t heard from him since he dumped me four months ago and had a fling with his dog Arthur’s pretty blond veterinarian. A little later Beavers wanted to get back together again, but I could no longer trust him. Then he got angry when he found out that during his fling with the vet I had my own amazing encounter with Crusher. It was complicated.
“Hello, Arlo.” I could barely keep my voice even.
“How are you?”
“Fine. And you?” This is awkward. “How’s Arthur?”
He let out a breath. “Actually, Artie’s my reason for calling.”
“Oh my God, he’s okay, isn’t he?” Four months ago the dog ended up in the hospital because of me. I never got over the guilt.
“Yeah. He’s fine, but I’m leaving town for ten days and my dog sitter bailed out at the last minute. I hate to leave him in a kennel. He’d be more comfortable with someone he knows and likes. Do you think you could you take him?”
First he dumps me, now he’s dumping his dog on me?
My gut wanted me to tell him to go take a flying leap, but I opted to say yes for a couple of reasons. First, I loved the dog and owed him a huge favor for saving my life. Second, I’d show Beavers I no longer cared about him. I could take care of Arthur and not think twice about his owner. “Sure. When are you leaving?”
“Tonight. I’ll bring him over around five if that’s okay with you.”
“No problem. Looking forward to it.” Not!
“Good. See you then. And thanks for the favor.”
“Where Arthur’s concerned? Anytime.”
I traded my jeans for black wool trousers and added a soft aqua turtleneck sweater that was nicely filled out by my ample bosom. A square turquoise pendant hung from a long silver chain and nestled between the girls. I grabbed the accordion file with all of Harriet’s papers and headed toward Westwood and the forensic accountant’s office. Leaving at two-fifteen left little room for error. If the traffic slowed me down, I’d be late. Kessler had said he hated when people were late.
Fortunately, the traffic fairy smiled on me and I arrived at Kessler’s building with fifteen minutes to spare. Julian Kessler Associates was on the twelfth floor, two floors above Abernathy, Porter & Salinger. I made a mental note to ask for a validation for the twenty-dollar-an-hour parking at the end of our appointment.
The small gray reception area offered Spartan seating for four people at most. Black and white photos of LA City Hall, the Capitol Building in DC, and the Eiffel Tower decorated the walls. A sliding window closed off a reception desk on the wall opposite the main door. Unlike the luxurious ambiance in Abernathy’s office, the message here implied “all business.” If someone was hiding something, Julian Kessler would find it.
I pushed the buzzer and the window at the end of the room slid open to reveal the friendly face of a young woman with dyed black hair cut in asymmetrical spikes with multiple piercings in her ears and another in her nose.
“May I help you?” She smiled. A small silver knob twinkled on her tongue.
What’s the deal with tongue balls? “Martha Rose to see Julian Kessler.”
“Awesome. You’re a bit early. He’ll like that.”
She handed me an iPad in a blue cover. “Please fill out our New Client form.”
I swiped pages, typed with one finger, and filled out the electronic form in under five minutes.
I handed the iPad back to her.
“Finished already?”
I nodded.
“Awesome. Please come through.”
A buzzing sounded at the door next to her window, and I walked into a large, well-lit interior space painted butter yellow in startling contrast to the gray waiting
room. Not so many years ago, employees of an accounting firm wore suits and sat in austere cubicles. Today, however, a dozen young techies in T-shirts and jeans sat at desks in an open area with computers and thirty-two-inch monitors. Two of the guys played catch with a ball of wadded paper. One of them wore a black T-shirt that said, “ATOMS MAKE STUFF UP.” In the far corner a young woman ran on a treadmill.
We walked toward a glass-walled office in the back, passing a pristine room filled with electronics stacked on shelves and connected to each other by yards of cable.
“Here you go.” Pierced Girl walked away, leaving me standing in the open doorway of the office.
A gawky thirty-something guy stood behind his desk. His eyes dropped below my chin. He must’ve really liked my turquoise pendant. He finally tore his eyes away and hastily gestured toward a chair. “Nice. Take a seat. You’re early.”
I looked at my watch. Two minutes before three counts as early?
Julian Kessler started to sit back down again, hesitated, and came around his desk to sit in the chair opposite mine. His dark-rimmed glasses suggested brilliant geek, but the stray piece of brown hair tickling his forehead made him seem twelve. He dressed slightly more formal than his associates, wearing khaki Dockers and a blue plaid shirt. Kessler nervously tapped his fingers together as he talked.
“Farkas referred you. What do you need?” His eyes slid down to my pendant again and his finger dance sped up.
“I need someone to examine my friend’s financial records to make sure she hasn’t been ripped off.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Why doesn’t she come in herself?”
I told him all about Harriet and the missing items from her house. “Right now I don’t trust anyone. Her attorney has been handling her financial affairs. He’ll have all her records.”
“Who’s the attorney?” Now he jiggled his right knee.
“Deacon Abernathy.”
The tapping and bouncing stopped. “The guy in this building?”
“Yes. Will that be a problem?”
He sat back, frowned, and tapped his fingers again. “Nope. When I worked with the DA, we took a look at his firm.”
Crap. This didn’t bode well. “For what reason?”
“No charges were ever filed. I can’t tell you any more.”
My heart sank. If Abernathy’s office stole from Harriet, settling the rest of her estate would be an endless nightmare. “We need to look closely at the financial activity, especially during the months Harriet lay dead in her house. Will you help me?”
His eyes darted southward again. “Sure. First, you need to sign this. It gives me the power to access all your friend’s records. Did you bring any papers with you?”
I signed the release and handed him the accordion file. “You can make copies of these.”
He picked up his phone and sent a quick text. Two minutes later Pierced Girl showed up in the doorway.
Kessler handed her the accordion file and pointed to me. “Isis, I need you to make some copies before she goes.”
When Isis disappeared, he turned to me. “Phone Abernathy’s office right now. Tell him we’ll pick up all the paperwork tomorrow morning at ten.”
I fished my cell phone out of my purse. Abernathy wasn’t in, so I spoke to his assistant, Nina, and put her on speaker.
“All the paper work?”
“Yes. Going back to the beginning.”
“We’ll need some time, Mrs. Rose.”
“Then I’ll fax you a release form right now so you can get started. Kessler Associates will be in your office at ten sharp tomorrow morning. Please have everything ready by then.”
I ended the call and Kessler grinned at me.
“What?”
“Can I call you Martha? Call me Julian. I’d like that.”
“Okay.”
He spoke briskly. “You handled her great. You’re smart. You get things done. I like that.”
“Well, thanks, Julian.” I took a pen and notepad from my purse and changed the subject. “I’m going to need a high-end estate manager to help me dispose of Harriet’s possessions. A lot of stuff needs to be appraised before it’s sold, but there’s too much for me to handle alone. I need a professional. Can you recommend anyone?”
“Yeah. There’s this woman, Susan something. I’ve never met her, but she’s done work for my clients. I’ll have Isis look it up for you.” He picked up the phone and sent another text. I placed the pen and notepad back in my purse.
Kessler’s knee jiggled again and he cleared his throat. “So, are you married or what?”
This kid’s social graces could use some polishing. “No.”
“Boyfriend?”
He’s flirting with me? Thankfully, Isis walked in with my accordion file and a slip of paper with the name Susan Daniels and a phone number. I thanked her as she left the office, and gathered my things.
“Wait,” said Kessler. “Will you go out with me?”
My jaw dropped open. “You mean like on a date?”
He nodded, his Adam’s apple bouncing this time.
“How old are you, Julian?”
He sat up straighter. “I know I look young, but I’m thirty-six.”
I stood to leave. “I’ve got slippers older than you.”
Kessler stood also. “I like mature women.”
So it wasn’t the turquoise pendant that fascinated him.
His Adam’s apple bobbed faster. “You’re hot.”
Dear God.
I hugged the accordion file to my chest. “Well, I’m flattered, Julian, but dating is strictly off the table. I understand you’re the best forensic accountant in the country, and I’m glad you’re going to help me. I have a rule. I never date the people I do business with.”
Kessler put his hands in his back pockets and looked at the floor. “Is that a firm rule?”
“Hard and fast.”
Kessler’s head jerked up. By the expression on his face, I immediately regretted my choice of words.
He cleared his throat. “So, I’ll call you if I come up with anything on the case.”
“Of course.” I offered my hand, which he grasped with a sweaty palm. I felt sorry for Kessler. A genius with numbers and computers, social situations clearly baffled him. I hurried so fast to get out of there, I forgot to ask for parking validation.
By the time I drove onto the northbound 405 Freeway, I hit rush hour at four. I didn’t pull into my driveway until five, just as Beavers arrived. A ninety-pound German shepherd jumped out of Beavers’s silver Camry and bounded toward me. I crouched down and hugged the dog for the first time in four months. Beavers hadn’t allowed me to see Arthur after his injury. Arthur licked my face and wagged his tail. Obviously dogs were more forgiving than certain people.
Beavers stood on the porch with a thirty-pound bag of kibble, dog bowls, a hairy dog bed, a pooper scooper, and a leash. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a Western shirt with pearl snaps. I stood and his woodsy cologne brought back memories of happier days together. His mustache tickled as he gave me a quick peck on my cheek. “I’ll take these inside for you if you’ll open your door.”
Before I could get the key in the lock, a woman’s voice commanded, “Hurry up, honey. We don’t want to be late for our flight to Hawaii.”
I froze and looked over at his car parked on the street. A pretty woman with a perky blond ponytail sat smirking. Kerry Andreason, Arthur’s veterinarian and the woman Beavers cheated with four months ago. My hand started shaking as I shoved the key into the door. “So, you’re back together? Or were you ever apart?”
Beavers cleared his throat and looked away. “Look. I really appreciate your taking care of Artie for me.”
“I guess this means you’re no longer afraid I’ll get him hurt or killed?”
His eyes pleaded with me. “Come on, Martha. Let’s not do this.”
The muscles in my neck tightened. Beavers had moved on from our relationship. He was showing me, not the
other way around. Paulina the psychic predicted he’d want to come back into my life. But only to use me as a dog sitter. I tried to hide the tremble in my voice. “You’re right. Just dump the kibble in the kitchen and I’ll take care of the rest. You don’t want to miss your flight.”
As soon as he crossed my doorway into the house, the Camry horn started honking. He placed the bag near the washing machine and ruffled the dog’s ears. “Gotta run.”
I closed the door behind him. The pain from my neck reached across my shoulders. I unrolled my yoga mat. Maybe some stretches would help. I sat down on the floor and Arthur sat next to me. The next thing I knew, I threw my arms around the dog and wept into his fur. He sat there patiently, slowly thumping his tail against the floor.
I finally stopped crying and stroked his fur. “You’re so much better than he is, Arthur.” A meow sounded and the shepherd’s tail thumped rapidly. When Beavers and I were an item, our animals became best friends.
Bumper walked over to the dog and they touched noses, which meant “nice to see you again” in cat language. Bumper turned around and Arthur stuck his wet nose in the cat’s butt, which meant “likewise” in dog language. The cat looked over his shoulder and the dog bowed in the downward facing Arthur position. Then they both ran to the back door for outside play time. Thankfully, some relationships never changed.
The crying jag released my stress and tension, but I still felt heavyhearted and sad. I stood, rolled up my mat, and there was a knocking on the door. Crusher stood in his leather jacket and a brown bandana.
I stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”
He bent to kiss me, but I turned away. I had already rejected one man today and was rejected by another. All the drama had exhausted me.
“Babe. What’s the matter?”
I puffed out my breath and shook my head.
His voice softened. “The funeral yesterday, right?”
I nodded and avoided his eyes. I didn’t want to tell him the real reason for my mood. I had just seen Beavers with that woman. Thankfully, I didn’t have to explain Arthur’s presence since he was out of sight in the backyard.