Gone But Knot Forgotten

by Mary Marks

  CHAPTER 36

  Arthur’s barking woke me. I slept for ten hours straight. I threw on my blue chenille bathrobe and shuffled into the living room to see why Arthur had raised the alarm. Two news vans were parked in front of my house, and when a couple of reporters saw me looking out my window, they hurried toward my front door, microphones in hand.

  I ignored their knocking. I took care of my animals and put on a pot of strong Italian roast coffee. Most of the calls on my answering machine were from the local news stations looking for live Grannie Oakley interviews. Abernathy left a message advising me not to talk to the press because of my involvement in Harriet’s murder investigation.

  My daughter, Quincy, also left a message saying she’d seen the video. I called her right back.

  “Mom, what happened yesterday? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. The man on the video kidnapped me, but I managed to escape.”

  “Who was he?”

  “It’s complicated. I’ll tell you the whole story later. It’s over now.”

  “No, Mom, it’s not over,” she wailed. “That video has gone global. Naveen just got off the phone with his parents in Mumbai. They saw you on YouTube, Mom. They’re convinced our family’s involved in organized crime.”

  I laughed. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve only been involved in disorganized crime.”

  “Not funny. The Sharmas pushed up their visit and will arrive next week. You have to come to Boston and convince them you’re just an ordinary mom.”

  Unfortunately, that train left the station four murders ago. “I’ll do what I can, honey.”

  The fifth time someone knocked, I snapped and yanked open the door. “Stop disturbing me. I have nothing to say to you people.”

  A young man with perfect blond hair thrust a microphone in my face. “Come on, Mrs. Rose. How did it feel to be kidnapped?”

  I glared at him. “Go back to journalism school until you learn to ask more intelligent questions.”

  An African-American woman snickered, and then asked, “Would you mind telling us how you got involved in the Oliver murders?”

  “Since I’m a witness, I can’t talk to you. You’d be better off asking the detective on the case, Gabe Farkas. Now, you can hang around all you want, but you’ll be wasting your time.” I smiled at the young woman. “My daughter is a reporter for NPR. I know a decent journalist when I meet one. Good luck with your story.”

  The phone rang again around noon. Maybe I should get an unlisted number. “What!” I expected to hear from another television producer.

  “Mrs. Rose? This is Dr. Evelyn Wong from UCLA Hospital. I’m calling about a patient, Mr. Joseph Levy.”

  Yossi was a nickname for Joseph. She meant Yossi Levy. Crusher. My stomach dropped. Horrible scenarios sped through my mind. Motorcycle accident. Gunshot wound. Worse. “Oh my God. Is he all right?”

  “An ambulance brought him into emergency early this morning. He’s been through surgery, but he’s conscious now and asking for you. We’ve admitted him. Just ask for directions to his room at the main desk on the first floor.”

  Thank God. Crusher wasn’t dead. I smiled with tears in my eyes as I pictured him on his knees in front of me the night he proposed. He had been so funny. Why did I say no? Why didn’t I trust him? Crusher couldn’t be more different from the Oliver brothers. He was gentle. Sweet. Honest. Did I make a huge mistake turning him down?

  I grabbed a jacket and ran to my Corolla parked in the driveway. Thankfully, the reporters had given up on me. I sped three miles west on Burbank Boulevard and hopped onto the freeway. Thirty minutes later I parked my car in the visitors’ lot and rushed to the main entrance of the hospital. I got directions to Crusher’s room, knocked softly on the door and walked in. Soft daylight bathed the pale yellow walls. The air smelled pungent with antiseptic.

  Crusher lay in bed, a mountain of injuries. Angry bruises and cuts distorted his face and lips. His right leg was wrapped in sterile dressings and elevated. A white cast enclosed his left arm, and an IV pole held two bags of liquid dripping through a tube. I pulled the chair next to his bed, sat down, and gently touched his good hand.

  “Yossi?” I whispered.

  He rolled his head toward the sound of my voice. His swollen eyes opened in narrow slits.

  “Babe.” He gave my hand a small squeeze.

  My heart lurched. “What happened to you?”

  “A little fight.”

  Ogg the caveman.

  The door opened. A man with a scruffy beard swaggered into the room. He wore jeans and a brown leather jacket. A blue and gold badge with the letters ATF and an eagle on top hung from a strap around his neck. He nodded once at me and walked to the other side of Crusher’s bed.

  What was Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms doing here?

  “Yo, Levy. How’s it going, man?”

  Crusher lifted his right hand and they bumped fists.

  Crusher knows this guy?

  The agent looked at me and grinned. He thrust his arm across the bed and shook my hand. “Andy Black, ATF. Levy and I go way back. This guy’s a legend.”

  Crusher looked sheepish through his cuts and bruises. He turned to Black. “This is Martha. She doesn’t know yet.”

  “Know what?”

  Crusher avoided my eyes.

  This can’t be good.

  Crusher nodded once at the ATF agent.

  Black looked at me and tugged nervously at his right earlobe. “We’ve been undercover for five years, trying to stop arms smuggling to Al Qaeda and Hamas. The big take-down happened last night in San Pedro. My man here”—he pointed at Crusher—“took on three guys at once.”

  My head seemed to briefly disconnect from my body as I tried to absorb this information. For a moment I thought I’d walked into the wrong room. Crusher finally looked at me and tried to smile.

  I pointed to the ATF agent. “Is this man saying you’ve been working for him undercover?”

  Black snorted. “It’s the other way around. I work for Levy. He ran this op.”

  If Golda Meir had risen from the dead and walked into his room to say “Well done!” in Hebrew, I couldn’t have been more shocked.

  “Yossi? Is this true?”

  “Yeah.”

  So much for gentle, honest, and sweet.

  “So the bike shop, the Valley Eagles, the last four months, you and me—that was all part of some elaborate sting?” My voice quivered and hot tears threatened to spill down my face.

  “Not all.” He reached over and took my hand.

  “Even Carl and Malo? Are they agents too?”

  “Malo yes. Carl is civilian. IT guy.”

  “And me? Was I just a convenient part of your cover?”

  Crusher’s face swam through my tears. I didn’t know this man after all.

  I’m such an idiot! How could I have allowed myself to be deceived by a man once again?

  “Uh, maybe I’ll come back later.” Black ran his hand over his cheek and left the room.

  Crusher squeezed my hand. “You and me. As real as it gets.”

  “How can I believe you now? I trusted you, and all the time you were living a lie. When were you planning to tell me you were a federal agent?” I tried to pull my hand away. He wouldn’t let it go.

  “Not how I planned to tell you. Couldn’t blow my cover. Only thing I lied about.” His grip tightened. “I love you, babe.”

  A nurse dressed in scrubs printed with tessellated cats bustled into the room. She took a syringe from a tray and injected the IV line. “Time for your pain meds,” she smiled.

  Crusher’s grip on my hand loosened and his eyes closed. I waited until he was breathing deeply and walked out of the room, head reeling.

  I left the hospital and drove home, unsure of what to believe. I didn’t know a person could be so grateful to find someone alive one second, only to want to kill him the next.

  CHAPTER 37

  That night marked the first night of Hanukkah.
I placed the special nine-branched silver candelabra on a table at the front window and lit one flame. I thought about all the past holidays and how my daughter’s innocent little face shone in the magic of the candlelight. If she married Naveen Sharma, would she ever celebrate Hanukkah again?

  I turned on the television and saw a snippet of my video on the evening news, along with my brief non-interview from the morning. I really should lose some weight. Shortly afterward, Uncle Isaac called and gave me an earful.

  “I’m perfectly fine, Uncle Isaac. Nothing to worry about. You know how the news exaggerates everything.”

  “Where was Yossi Levy during all this mishugas?”

  “Fighting terrorists.”

  “Vus?”

  “I’ll explain later. The crisis is over. Harriet’s killer is in custody and I’m safe.”

  “Were you wearing your hamsa?” He referred to the hand of God symbol of protection.

  I touched the tiny golden charm hanging from a chain around my neck. “I always do.”

  I had plenty of excuses to avoid Crusher for the next few days. I spent time confirming the details of Dr. Naomi Hunter’s upcoming visit and appraisal of the Declaration Quilt. Calls and e-mails to Susan Daniels kept me up to date on the success of the estate sale and auction. In the end, Harriet’s jewels and collectibles raked in nearly three million dollars.

  Quilty Tuesday arrived again, exactly three weeks after I accepted the job of becoming Harriet’s executor. I had accomplished a lot since then. I laid her to rest beside her son. I uncovered embezzlement. I caught a serial thief. I solved her murder. I helped Detective Farkas arrest her killer. I located the body of her missing husband, Nathan.

  And I’d keep Isabel’s secret.

  Once the quilt and books were safely on their way to Washington, I’d hire a contractor to fix Harriet’s house in preparation for sale. Julian Kessler had finished his audit of Harriet’s finances and found no further problems, so I felt comfortable working with Abernathy again. With his help, I hired a broker to sell off the rest of Harriet’s properties. I expected the bulk of her estate to be disbursed within six months. Then I’d truly be finished.

  By Tuesday, I’d made a decision about Crusher, aka Yossi Levy, aka Ogg the Caveman, aka Federal Agent Joseph Levy. Four months ago, he told me he had “hidden depths.” I’d thought he was talking about a spiritual life, not an undercover career catching arms smugglers. If he lied to me about who he was, he probably lied about being in love with me. I’d be a fool to think otherwise. So I decided to make a clean break.

  Before I drove to Birdie’s for our regular Tuesday morning sewing group, I made a quick visit to the hospital. When I got to Crusher’s room, the head of his bed was raised almost all the way up. His voice was deep and confident as he spoke in Hebrew to a dark-haired man in a black suit. They stopped as soon they saw me.

  “I’m sorry. Is this a bad time?” I took a step back.

  “No.” Crusher beckoned with his good hand. The swelling on his face had gone down and the bruises had begun to turn from angry purple to green with yellow edges. “Come in.”

  Crusher took my hand and tried to kissed it, but I pulled away. “Martha Rose, this is Ambassador Gideon Singer from the Israeli Embassy.”

  Singer put his hand on his heart and bowed quickly. “A pleasure. I came to congratulate our friend here and to say kol hakavod.”

  The Israeli Ambassador? On a personal visit? Okay, so Gideon Singer wasn’t Golda Meir risen from the dead. Nevertheless, a high-ranking representative had just told Crusher “Well done!” in Hebrew.

  After some small talk, Singer smiled graciously and left the room. I sat next to Crusher’s bed. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You smell like flowers. You’re beautiful. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”

  “I shouldn’t have, after all the lies you told me.”

  “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “And yet now I’ll always worry about whether you’re telling the truth. Today I find you with the Israeli Ambassador. A couple of weeks ago you joked about how I should work for the Shin Bet, the Israeli secret service. So I’ve got to ask. Are you involved with them too?”

  Crusher looked at the cast on his left hand and said nothing.

  “Okay. I get it. Secret agent, spook, spy, whatever. I’m over it. I’m over you.”

  He raised his head, eyes pleading. “I was only trying to protect you.”

  “Then why do I feel betrayed? You picked the wrong person to lie to, Yossi.”

  “As soon as I get better, I’ll make it up to you.”

  I suspected Crusher would bide his time and try to con his way back into my good graces. He was a patient man. After all, didn’t he just spend the last five years preparing a trap for the bad guys? “Not going to happen. I came by this morning to say I’ve decided to give up men for the rest of my life. Especially you. From this point forward, I’m a Jewish nun.”

  “Babe. Does this mean I can’t come and stay with you at the convent while I recuperate?”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Crusher moved slightly and winced in pain. “I’ve got two busted ribs, a broken wrist, a bruised kidney, and a bullet wound in my leg. They say I can’t go home unless I have someone to care for me.”

  “I feel badly you’re wounded, but not that bad. Maybe you could stay with your friend Ambassador Singer.”

  “You’re killin’ me.”

  I stood. “Good-bye, Yossi, whoever you are.” I left his room and headed for my car.

  The inside of Birdie’s house smelled like freshly baked coconut ginger cookies and coffee. I sat in the green chenille chair with the wide arms.

  Lucy wore ninja chic today with black leggings and a black tunic sweater. She looked up from pinning a seam together, and the gold hoops in her ears flashed in the light. “Where’s Arthur today?”

  “Oh, Arlo picked him up on Saturday. He stayed long enough to tell me he’d broken up with his girlfriend. He had to coax Arthur into the car. The dog kept looking back at me like he wanted to stay.”

  Lucy chuckled. “Probably because you’re way more fun than Arlo is.”

  “Yeah, I kind of failed to mention his dog dug up a dead body and took down a man who was shooting at us. I figured what Arlo didn’t know . . .”

  “What’s going to happen to the Declaration Quilt?” Birdie brushed a wisp of white hair from her cheek.

  “The curators are coming this week to authenticate the quilt. If they’re satisfied it’s the real McCoy, they’ll arrange for safe transport to Washington, DC. Eventually it’ll be displayed along with the Declaration of Independence in the rotunda of the National Archives.”

  “And they’ll pay two million for the quilt?” she said.

  I shook my head. “I’ve decided to donate everything since Harriet’s estate doesn’t need the money. The name Harriet Gordon will be inscribed on a plaque right next to the quilt. She’ll be remembered by everyone who views it. The books go to the National Library, and the Oliver family papers will go to the historic Touro Synagogue in Newport, Rhode Island.”

  “What about the Benjamin Franklin watch, dear?” Birdie picked up a green fabric leaf and began ap-pliquéing with tiny, invisible green stitches onto a creamy background.

  “The DA wants to keep the watch as evidence until after Henry Oliver’s trial. Then it will go to the Smithsonian.”

  “And the other lovely heirlooms?”

  “Estella cried when I told her how much she’d have to pay to get all the things she wanted. But, in the end, she agreed to buy back the china and the silver candelabras—especially after I promised to get Susan Daniels to reappraise them at the lowest possible value.”

  Birdie raised an eyebrow. “I know you put more things in those crates than just the candelabras and china. There must be all kinds of antique silver pieces and porcelain in there.”

  “I don’t want the trouble of repacking those shipping containers. I�
��ll send them as is. The extra pieces were uninsured, so there won’t be any official record of them, anyway.”

  And I want to send the weapon that killed Nathan far away from the LAPD.

  Birdie took a sip of coffee. “I hope Estella appreciates what you’re doing for her.”

  “What did you find out about the cocktail ring?” asked Lucy.

  Isabel had been through enough. I’d never share her secret with another soul, not even my best friends. “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Harriet gave Isabel the ring as a gift.”

  “For helping to get rid of her husband?” Lucy was no fool.

  I avoided looking at her. “The police are satisfied Harriet killed Nathan.”

  “What else do you have left to do, dear?” Birdie refilled my coffee cup.

  I summarized the business arrangements Abernathy and I were working on. “There’s plenty of money for the Jonah David Oliver wing of Children’s Hospital. The rest will be disbursed among Harriet’s other charities.”

  Lucy bit into a cookie. “Did you find out why Yossi and the others suddenly dropped out of sight?”

  “Can you believe this?” I put down my needle. “Yossi headed a clandestine operation for the ATF, and most of the Valley Eagles were part of it. They used the bike shop as their cover.” I told them about the guns, Hamas, and the call from UCLA Hospital. “His whole life was a lie.”

  “I don’t believe it.” Birdie’s hands flew to her mouth. “All this time Yossi Levy headed a joint op for the ATF and the Israelis—and you never suspected a thing?”

  “Well, how would Martha know something like that?” Lucy clucked her tongue.

  “I thought all those boys got special tattoos to identify them in case they got killed. I’m sure I saw something like that on an old episode of Get Smart.” Birdie tilted her head and looked at me. “Did you ever see anything like an ID tattooed on his body, Martha dear?”

  I just stared at her.