Knot My Sister's Keeper

by Mary Marks

  I immediately called the number he gave me. “This is Martha Rose. I believe your son just told you about me?”

  The voice on the other end was gravelly but strong. “Southwest has four flights daily from LAX to Tucson. Call me back when you’ve made your reservations, and I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  “Okay. I’m bringing my half sister, Giselle. She was twelve when our father went missing.”

  “I remember her. Smart little girl. Redhead.”

  “That’s the one.”

  I hung up and immediately called Giselle. “If I can book a flight on Southwest, do you want to fly to Tucson with me tomorrow?”

  “Southwest? That Greyhound bus with wings? I’d rather wear retail. We’ll use the company jet. It’s hangered in Van Nuys, not too far from you. I’ll swing by your place at nine. Be ready.”

  “What company is that?”

  “Eagan Oil. My grandfather’s company, which is now my company. And pack an overnight bag just in case.”

  “Just in case what, G?”

  “Just in case we decide to do something fun, silly. Like rocking a night in Vegas or spending a couple days in New York.”

  Sin City wasn’t my idea of fun. On the other hand, if we flew to New York, maybe we could locate Quinn’s East Coast mistress, the potter Jayda Constable. “What time should I tell Farkas to pick us up?”

  “Never mind that. I’ll have a limo waiting for us when we arrive. Just get his address and tell him we should be at his house between eleven and noon. We’ll even treat him to lunch.”

  I reeled with surprise in the face of Giselle’s efficiency and command. She actually sounded like a CEO. Had I been misjudging her? I called Captain Farkas back and told him our plans.

  “Private jet, eh? So, the granddaughter managed to hang on to Eagan Oil . . .” It was more a statement than a question. “I’m surprised.”

  You’re not the only one.

  * * *

  The following morning I packed a small bag with a change of outfits, a linen dress, pajamas, and extra underwear. My orange cat tried several times to climb inside and curl up on top of my clothes. Ever since Crusher moved in, Bumper had become extra needy and clingy.

  “I might not be back tonight.” I gently pushed the cat away for the fourth time. “Do I look okay?” I brushed some errant cat hair off the sleeve of my white linen jacket.

  Crusher handed me a new toothbrush still in the package and a travel-sized toothpaste and grinned. “You look way too sexy to be on your own. You sure you two don’t want a bodyguard? My duffel is always packed and ready.”

  I tossed the last-minute items in the bag, zipped it up, set it on its rollers, and popped out the telescoping handle. “As appealing as that sounds, I think we’ll be okay. It’s not like we’re flying to Afghanistan.”

  “No, but you may be going to New York. Same thing.”

  At eight forty-five, Giselle knocked on my door. She wore a mint green casual trouser suit with wide legs and a flowing jacket over a tank top. Gold hoops flashed in her ears and hammered gold bangles circled her wrist. “I’m a little early. I forgot traffic is much lighter on a Sunday morning. Are you ready?”

  Crusher grabbed the handle of my bag and lifted it into the back of Giselle’s car. He turned and kissed me gently. “Be careful, babe. Don’t take any chances.”

  Then he looked at Giselle. “Try not to piss anyone off.”

  At first she frowned and plopped her fists on her hips. Then she threw back her head and laughed. “Why should I quit now?”

  We took the 405 north to Sherman Way and headed west to the Van Nuys Airport. The morning sky was still overcast with the marine layer that sometimes cooled the summer mornings. Giselle parked the red Escalade next to the hangar and left her keys in the car. A pilot in a crisp blue uniform carried our bags to a small white aircraft with the words EAGAN OIL painted in blue letters on the side. The backward-slanting wings looked as if they would slice through the air like a pair of fast-moving sickles. “We’re cleared for takeoff in a half hour, Mrs. Cole.”

  “Great. Thanks, Sam.” She smiled at me and gestured with her head toward the jet’s stairway. “Let’s get on board.”

  We climbed the short distance to the door and stepped inside to a world of beige leather and thick, tan carpeting. A dozen generously upholstered easy chairs faced each other in small groupings around inlaid wooden tables. Individual television screens and USB ports dotted the interior. Giselle commandeered one of the chairs and gestured for me to sit across from her.

  A slightly plump, uniformed hostess emerged from a small room toward the front end of the plane, carrying a silver tray with a silver coffeepot and two china cups. “Good morning, Mrs. Cole.” She set the coffee service and plates with fresh almond croissants on the table between us and handed us each a white linen napkin with Eagan Oil embroidered in blue on the corner. “Would you like me to prepare breakfast?”

  While the hostess poured fresh coffee, Giselle turned to me. “What about it, Martha. Are you hungry? Earline fixes a wonderful mushroom omelet.”

  My watch read nine-fifteen. I hadn’t eaten breakfast, and it might be hours before we’d have a chance to eat lunch. “Sure.”

  “Make that two, Earline. And hold the bacon. My sister’s Jewish.”

  I caught a flicker of surprise before Earline averted her eyes and replied, “Yes, ma’am. It’ll be ready before we’re airborne.”

  We were already halfway through our omelet by the time the jet taxied down the runway. It gathered speed and lifted effortlessly into the air, without disturbing the coffee in the cups.

  I said, “I could get used to this kind of luxury, G. I’ve never flown first class, let alone in a private jet with such personal service.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it? I mean, you Jews have always been the rich ones. Yet here we are, fortunes reversed.”

  I glared at her. “You’re such a piece of work! Do you even realize how offensive you are?”

  She looked puzzled. “Really?”

  I crossed my arms tightly. “The image of rich, greedy Jews has been the battle cry of anti-Semites throughout the centuries and it’s simply not true! There have always been rich and poor among Jews, the same way there are rich and poor among Gentiles. No religion has a corner on wealth or poverty. As for the notion of Jews being greedy, that’s another ugly slander. Generosity and charity are requirements in the practice of Judaism.”

  “Well, what about that guy David Shapira? He got rich off of a Ponzi scheme.”

  “And who do you suppose invented that scheme? Charles Ponzi. Not Jewish!”

  Giselle raised her hands in surrender. “Sorry! I only said what I’ve heard all my life. How was I supposed to know you’d take it personally?”

  I shook my head. “Well, now you do. I don’t ever want to hear that crap come out of your mouth again.”

  I looked up just then to see Earline’s eyes bug out and jaw drop. Apparently, she wasn’t used to hearing anyone speak to Giselle in that way. I picked up a People magazine, buried my anger in an article about Kim Kardashian’s ass, and spent the rest of the trip in silence.

  We reached Tucson before eleven-thirty. As soon as we stepped off the plane, a blanket of heat slapped us in the face. We hurried toward the air-conditioned limo and headed toward Green Valley, within ten minutes of landing. Giselle pulled a chilled bottle of Perrier out of a small refrigerator. She poured two glasses with slices of fresh lemon and spoke in a little voice. “Are you still mad, Sissy?”

  I sighed. “You managed to push one of my hot buttons, G, but I’m over it.”

  “Thank God!” She reached over and crushed me in a hug, causing me to spill some of my Perrier on the gray carpet. “We’re almost there. What kind of name is Farkas, anyway?”

  “Hungarian. So do me a favor and don’t make any snide comments about Budapest!”

  CHAPTER 10

  I gazed at the parched landscape of Southern Arizona
as it slipped past the window of our limo. Gradually the cactus and paloverde gave way to green leafy trees—acacia, mountain laurel, and Texas umbrella. Mexican bird-of-paradise bushes with bright orange flowers, salvia with deep purple flowers, and lush Florida bluebells grew alongside barrel cactus and ancient saguaros.

  “This is so different from what I expected,” Giselle said. “Now I know why they call this place Green Valley.”

  We drew up in front of a small adobe-style house with a red-tiled roof. The front yard was carefully landscaped with gravel, a meandering path of river rock, and two lacy pepper trees. Succulents in bizarre shapes were artfully interspersed between yellow lantana and white rock roses. Obviously, Captain Farkas liked to tend his garden.

  Our driver opened the door and helped us out of the backseat. Another blast of scorching air hit our faces.

  I whispered to Giselle, “Is he going to have to sit in a hot car while he waits for us?”

  “He’s got plenty of AC. Besides, we probably won’t be that long.”

  As we walked toward the front porch, I patted her arm. “Remember, G. Try to be tactful. He wouldn’t have asked us to come all this way if he didn’t have some sensitive information.”

  Bela Farkas answered the door in a pair of khaki Bermuda shorts, a white golf shirt, and brown leather sandals. Unlike his overweight son, Gabe, the wrinkled and snowy-haired captain was slender and fit. He greeted us with a nod. “Come in,” he rasped in that same gravelly voice I heard over the phone.

  The floors were tiled with red adobe pavers and the inside was surprisingly cool. He led us to a living room full of woven rattan furniture cushioned in a print of red hibiscus and green leaves and motioned for the two of us to sit on the sofa. He studied Giselle’s face, and a small grin lifted the corners of his mouth. “I met you when you were just a little thing.”

  “I remember you, too. You gave me a Snickers bar.”

  He grunted an acknowledgment and sat in a brown leather recliner and nodded toward a frosty pitcher of lemonade and three glasses on a glass coffee table. “Help yourselves. I made it myself this morning. Meyer lemons from my own tree.”

  I cringed at the next words exploding out of Giselle’s mouth.

  “You really bungled Daddy’s investigation! We’ve seen the file. He was obviously having affairs, yet you didn’t think that was important enough to follow up? I mean, did you ever think he could’ve been killed by a jealous lover or her husband? And what about the money he was supposedly carrying with him? Those are two motives for foul play right there!” The more she spoke, the deeper Farkas frowned. “Daddy was famous. Another possibility is that someone could’ve kidnapped him for ransom. Yet there was nothing showing you even considered any of those things.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back, glaring at him. “I’m surprised you were smart enough to make captain.”

  I gave Giselle a sharp nudge with my elbow and quickly said, “Please forgive the emotional outburst. It’s just that she was very close to our father. To be honest, we’ve been puzzled and frustrated by the lack of information in his missing-persons file. On the surface, it seems the Beverly Hills police didn’t take his disappearance seriously. But I suspect there’s more to it. Otherwise, why would you ask us to come all this way? Am I right?”

  He nodded.

  I poured two glasses of lemonade and shoved one into Giselle’s hand. “Drink this and let’s have the courtesy to hear what Captain Farkas has to say.”

  I thought I saw a flicker of amusement pass over his face.

  He cleared his throat. “When Jacob Quinn Maguire first disappeared, we thought he was just another celebrity jackass messing up. We figured he’d surface in Fiji with some little hottie. But when the LAPD found his car abandoned at the airport, the investigation turned serious. What little evidence we had pointed to foul play. But without a ransom note, a body, or a suspect, any of that was going to be difficult to prove.”

  Giselle gasped. “You believe Daddy was murdered?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Yet you did nothing?”

  “On the contrary. As soon as I said as much, Chief of Police Rex Nelson ordered me to stop the investigation.”

  My stomach tightened. “Is that what you couldn’t tell me over the phone? What exactly did he say?”

  “Nelson said we didn’t have the luxury of spending a lot of time on a dry investigation, no matter how famous the guy was. He said we should—and I quote—‘deploy our resources for more pressing cases.’”

  “What could be more pressing than a murder?” I took a big gulp of the tangy lemonade.

  He looked at Giselle. “His friendship with your grandfather Jerome Eagan.”

  Oh my God. Is he suggesting a deliberate cover-up?

  Giselle briefly closed her eyes. “I think I remember someone named Mr. Nelson coming to parties at my grandparents’ house. Was he really tall with blond hair and a mustache? Loud voice?”

  “That’s him. I believe Chief Nelson conspired with Eagan to obstruct the investigation.”

  Bingo! Corruption at the very top.

  Giselle frowned. “Why would he do that? Granddad loved Daddy like his own son.”

  “You were only twelve. Grown-ups don’t always let little kids know what’s really going on. The fact is, your grandparents were uncooperative and”—his voice softened—“your mother changed her story and lied to us. In my experience, you don’t do that unless you have something to hide.”

  “You may be right.” Giselle slumped back against the cushion. “I think they tried to hide what a rat Daddy turned out to be. To avoid public humiliation. Appearances meant everything to my grandfather. He ruled our family. He would never have tolerated a scandal. That’s probably why Mother lied in her last interview. He must’ve made her change her story to protect the family honor.”

  “That’s one theory,” he said.

  Or maybe someone in Giselle’s family was more deeply involved than they wanted to admit.

  “There’s something else important that’s not in your file.” I told Captain Farkas about the ongoing affair Quinn had with my mother. “Their affair, the testimony of his East Coast lover Jayda Constable, and the forensic evidence from the backseat of his car all prove he was a womanizer. Do you think that led to his death?”

  Farkas raised his eyebrows and nodded. “I wish we’d known about your mother at the time. Maybe she could’ve given us something important. But it wouldn’t have mattered. Nelson stopped us from tracking down any of your father’s lovers outside that artist woman in New York. And she had an alibi.”

  Giselle spoke in a little voice. “Do you think my mother knew the extent of Daddy’s fooling around?”

  “If she hadn’t suspected before he disappeared, she certainly knew by the time we were through.”

  “Why do you think she lied and said she was the one having sex in the back of the car with Daddy?”

  He shrugged. “You said it yourself. Probably to avoid scandal. There’s one more thing you should know. One of the detectives heard rumors that your father had gambling problems, and maybe that’s why he disappeared.”

  I remembered reading about that in one of the tabloid articles. “Are you saying he was killed because he couldn’t pay his debts?”

  “That’s not the way it works. You can’t collect money from a dead man. Your father was worth more alive because he made a lot of money off his paintings. And if the witness Jayda Constable was telling the truth, he was bringing a lot of cash to New York. That doesn’t sound like a man with money problems.”

  “Captain Farkas,” I said, “I’d like to talk to the detectives who worked the case. Do you know where we can find them?”

  “Last I heard, Meredith Gomez had to go into one of those whatchamacallits—memory care—in the San Fernando Valley. I can give you the info, but I doubt you’ll get much from her. Eric Rohrbacher divorced his third wife five years ago and moved to Vegas. I can look up their contact inf
ormation. Just give me a minute.”

  He left the room briefly and returned with the numbers written on a yellow sticky note and pasted to the front of a manila envelope. “Inside you’ll find copies of all my personal notes on your father’s case.” He handed me the envelope. “I kept them as a kind of insurance. In case my guys’ handling of the investigation was ever questioned. Aside from documenting the interference from the chief of police, it’s mostly my personal thoughts and observations of the family.” He grinned at Giselle. “I think I called you a precocious little redhead who’d be a knockout one day.”

  Giselle smiled back. “I’m sorry for earlier. How about letting us make it up to you and take you to lunch?”

  “Rain check. I have a class to teach in about forty-five minutes. Criminology at Pima Community College.”

  I stood and offered Captain Farkas my hand. “Thank you so much for your time and for these notes. Could you please do me one more favor? We want to interview Detective Rohrbacher as soon as possible. Would you phone him right now to smooth our way?”

  “Done. So tell me again how you know my son Gabe.”

  I briefly explained that we worked together on the investigation into the murder of my friend Harriet Gordon Oliver. “I think your son is not only a brilliant detective, he’s a very nice person. Now I see where he gets that from.”

  Captain Farkas puffed out his chest and laughed. “He said some of the same things about you.” He leaned toward me. “Are you single?”

  I smiled and held up my left hand with my engagement ring. “Spoken for.”

  “He’s a lucky guy. If things ever change, you know where to find me.”

  As we climbed into the limo, Giselle said, “Does that kind of thing happen to you often?”

  “What?”

  “The flirting, silly.”

  “Often enough.”

  “I would never have guessed.” After a moment, she shrugged and said, “I guess I shouldn’t worry so much about maintaining a perfect figure. You seem to do all right.”

  I wondered how she’d managed to live this long.

  On the way back to Tucson, I read the information on the sticky note. Detective Meredith Gomez lived in Thanks for the Memories Assisted Living facility on Bob Hope Drive in Burbank. Captain Farkas was right. Interviewing her would probably prove to be fruitless. Nevertheless, I’d visit her when we got back to LA.