Knot in My Backyard

by Mary Marks

  Aiken nodded. “Davis has two reasons for wanting Martin dead—jealousy and money. Of course, at this juncture, this is all speculation, but it’s substantial enough to cause reasonable doubt if the case ever goes to a jury.”

  Maybe Beavers might be less angry with me if I could give him this useful information we were uncovering. Maybe he’d see I was right all along about Ed’s innocence. Maybe he’d even forgive me.

  “Shouldn’t we give what we have to the police? They might decide to pursue these other leads right now and leave Ed alone,” I suggested.

  Aiken shook his head. “Not yet. The police are building their case against Ed, and the DA isn’t in a mood to listen. We’ve got to present them with more than conjecture. We need additional hard evidence. The information against Davis is our ace in the hole, and we’re not going to play that card until it’ll do the most good.”

  I was disappointed over losing the opportunity to contact Beavers, but I knew Aiken spoke the truth. Ed’s freedom might depend on a surprise defense.

  I asked, “Simon, what happened with your contact in the US Attorney’s Office? Were they able to get the Beaumont documents from the Army Corps of Engineers?”

  “So far, the district commander has failed to return his calls. It’s the weekend now, so nothing more is going to get done until Monday. We’ll just have to exercise some patience and wait.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s review where we stand.”

  I said I’d search for Javier and Graciela in the wildlife reserve the next day, and Aiken said he’d pursue the Army Corps of Engineers/Beaumont/ Hardisty connections with his contacts on Monday.

  Aiken stretched and stood. “Good work, everyone. And good luck tomorrow. Let’s touch base again here at Ed’s on Monday evening. Hopefully, we’ll have more answers by then.”

  Crusher also stood, towering above me by a good fourteen inches. Hebrew letters and a familiar red logo spread across the expansive chest of his XXX-Large T-shirt. “I’ll walk you home.”

  Walking next to Crusher, I felt as light as a feather and completely forgot about Dana’s size-four jeans.

  “Thanks again for dinner last night.”

  I jumped at the chance to find out more about this enigmatic giant. “How do you know so much Torah? Do you really keep your head covered for religious reasons? And how did you land in prison?”

  A curtain twitched in Sonia’s window across the street. Before Crusher could open his mouth to answer, Sonia stood in front of us. Her gaze never left his face. She wore green eye shadow and batted lashes coated in black mascara. She reminded me of an eager lizard.

  “Martha, Yossi, how nice to see you again so soon after such a lovely dinner.”

  Crusher put his arm around my shoulders and hung on for dear life. “Huh? Yeah. Martha here’s a real balabusta.” He used the Yiddish expression for “domestic goddess/kitchen maven” and squeezed me like toothpaste for emphasis.

  She tilted her head. “I’m also a pretty good cook. . . .”

  I SO did not want to be in the vicinity of this conversation, and I didn’t want Crusher hiding behind me—as if he could hide behind anybody. I wriggled out of his grasp.

  “Uh, Sonia, are we expecting any more donations today?”

  “Lots, and I’ve got a few pickups I promised to make.” She looked hopefully at Crusher. “I may need a little help.”

  Crusher smiled apologetically and touched his forehead as if he’d just remembered something. “You know, I’d like to help, but I’ve got to get back to my shop. I’ll call Martha this evening after I close to see how things are going.”

  He rapidly walked back to his Harley and strapped on his helmet. The very large black-and-chrome bike rumbled past us like a Brahma bull, and Crusher briefly flashed the palm of his hand in salute.

  Sonia sighed. “There goes one gorgeous hunk of man. I was surprised last night to learn he’s so religious. Do you know what was written in Hebrew on the front of his T-shirt?”

  Yes, I did, although it had taken me a while to figure it out.

  “Budweiser.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Sonia returned home, and I was just about to walk in my front door, when an army jeep drove down the street and turned toward the baseball field. A late-model black Jaguar wasn’t far behind. The jeep must have been from the Army Corps of Engineers. Ed said Specialist Lawanda Price managed the Sepulveda Basin. That could be her.

  I moved quietly around my house to the back, hiding under the drooping branches of the pepper trees, hoping to blend in with the foliage. The jeep parked next to the field and a woman with a red ponytail, wearing army fatigues, got out. The Jag pulled up next to the jeep and a brunette in a green linen pantsuit got out. Was that a Beaumont parent driving the expensive car?

  The two of them walked toward the shade of the trees in the nearby parkland. “Ponytail” started talking and “Pantsuit” crossed her arms over her chest.

  I moved as quickly as I could in my pink rubber Crocs, darting from behind one bush to another, skulking like the Pink Panther. Luckily, the women were hotly engaged and didn’t notice my approach. They made no effort to keep their voices down.

  “I know all about Beaumont,” said Ponytail. “I could ruin you, Barbara.”

  Oh, my God. The woman in the green pantsuit must be Barbara Hardisty, Lawanda Price’s boss and the one who approved the building of the baseball stadium!

  “You’d better keep your mouth shut,” said Hardisty.

  “It’ll cost you.”

  “I’m warning you. You’re in way over your head.” She gestured toward Ed’s house. “People who get in their way—”

  The pollen from a nearby acacia made me sneeze. They stopped talking and looked in my direction. I quickly stepped back onto the path and pretended to be walking toward the park. As I approached, they both glanced at my distinctive pink shoes.

  Note to self: get dark-colored Crocs to wear in public.

  I smiled and waved my hand in greeting. “Hi, ladies. Looks like we’re in for another scorcher today.” I got close enough to read the name tag sewn onto the pocket of Ponytail’s uniform: Spc Price. I was so right about who they were.

  Price nodded politely. “Yes, ma’am. Looks like it.”

  Hardisty said, “Well, I think we’re done here. Tell maintenance to trim those bushes. They’re growing too close to the path.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  They turned and walked ahead of me back to their cars.

  Price snarled, “Don’t underestimate me, Barbara.”

  “I’ll talk to them.”

  Price jumped into the jeep and drove away.

  Barbara Hardisty pulled out her cell phone and climbed into her black Jaguar XJ. What was a civilian employee of the Army Corps of Engineers doing with an expensive luxury car? The jaguar would have cost her more than a year’s salary.

  Hardisty was getting money from somewhere and, apparently, Price wanted a piece of the action. Hardisty had pointed to Ed’s house and warned something about “Anyone who gets in their way.” So, who were “they,” and who is it that she just called?

  The sun was straight up overhead and the spindly buckwheat—a plant acclimated to drought conditions—gasped, nonetheless, for water in the merciless sun. Still mulling over what I’d just overheard, I headed back home toward the air-conditioning.

  I poured myself a glass of ice water and called Simon Aiken. The phone went to voice mail. “Simon, this is Martha. Please call me as soon as you can. I just stumbled on some important information that’ll help Ed’s case.”

  Then I called Lucy’s cell phone. I knew she’d be at St. Winifred’s with Birdie, tying quilts for tomorrow. “How’s it going today?”

  “Coming right along. Word got out and fifteen women showed up today. Many of them brought packages of socks and other toiletries. We even got four more quilt tops to tie.”

  “Do you need more help?”

  “Yeah. Could you bring Birdie and me som
e lunch? We both got so busy putting things together this morning, we forgot about food.”

  “Sure. I’ll bring sandwiches and iced tea. Anyone else need to eat?”

  Lucy turned away from the phone and yelled, “Anyone here want a sandwich?” Then she said, “Two more hands raised. Bring enough for four. No, make that five, just in case.” I drove to the sub shop and got six foot-longs cut in half and three six-packs of bottled iced tea. As an afterthought, I threw in a dozen individual bags of chips. God forbid there shouldn’t be enough food.

  St. Winifred’s was located on Ventura, not too far from my house in Encino. The architecture was conceived in the 1950s, with its roof thrusting out at sharp angles and lots of clerestory windows with orange-colored glass. Broad, no-nonsense steps led straight up to a wide set of glass front doors. A steel cross with pointed ends stood on the pinnacle of the roof.

  The church let our guild use the parish hall for meetings and special activities, such as the project today. I drove to the parking lot in back, near the entrance. Even with arms full of plastic sacks, I managed to push the lock button on my remote as I walked toward the building. The car gave a little chirp behind me. Luckily, someone inside saw me coming and opened the door.

  Several folding banquet tables were set up around the room. At five of the tables, quilts were smoothed out and clipped to the edges to keep them from shifting. Teams of two or three women were stitching ties into the quilts. The needles they used were long and heavy-duty, with large eyes to accommodate the heavier perle cotton thread. Perle cotton was a versatile thread used for many kinds of needlework, including decorative stitching, like embroidery, or a special kind of large-stitch quilting, sashiko. The heavier-weight single-ply yarn was a perfect choice for tying quilts.

  Once the quilts were tied, the raw edges needed to be covered. Three sewing machines sat on three other tables. Women were attaching long strips of previously folded binding to the quilts to finish them off. A special attachment on the machine allowed the sewers to fold the binding over the edge and stitch through both sides at once. It was a slow, stop-and-go process because the binding strips constantly needed to be adjusted around the edges of the quilt.

  The room pulsed with animation as the women gossiped and laughed. A frustrated “Darn it!” came from one table as a quilter struggled with a stubborn sewing machine.

  Someone hurried over to see what the problem was. “I think you’ve just got lint gumming up the works. Let’s take the throat plate off, clean it with a brush, and put in a drop of oil. Then your machine should run more smoothly.” Quilters not only engineered the design of their quilt tops, they were also required to be mechanics for their sewing machines.

  At one end of the parish hall stood a raised stage, with navy blue velvet curtains. Birdie and Lucy spread out the food and drinks, using the edge of the proscenium as an improvised buffet. “Food’s here!” shouted Lucy.

  Several women broke away and made a beeline toward us. I was glad I brought the extra sandwiches and drinks.

  After a quick bite, I washed the grease off my hands and joined my friends at a table with another Windmill quilt done in greens and unbleached muslin. Birdie had used low-loft polyester batting, so the ties could be five inches apart. We used green perle cotton thread and relied on the pattern of the block as a guide for the placement of the ties.

  “I uncovered something really important this morning.” I told them about sneaking up on Lawanda Price and listening to their conversation. “Someone is covering up something illegal between the Beaumont School and the Army Corps of Engineers. I think payoffs are involved. The thing is, if we can figure out what they’re hiding, we might divert suspicion from Ed.”

  Birdie cut the ends of a tie. “How’s that, dear?” “According to his attorney, Ed is close to being arrested and charged with murder. If we want to point the police and the DA in another direction, we need to make the case that someone else has a strong reason to kill Dax Martin.”

  “Well, what would the reason be?”

  “Bribes. Barbara Hardisty may have been paid off for something, probably for approving the stadium in the first place, and Lawanda Price wants part of the action. What if Dax Martin was also receiving hush money to keep his mouth shut about illegal deals? What if he got too greedy and was killed?”

  Lucy threaded another needle. “Who exactly would be making those payoffs?”

  I told them about SFV Associates being awarded the contract to build the baseball stadium. “Jefferson Davis could be making payoffs to hide the fact he committed fraud to obtain and profit from the contract to develop the stadium. Or maybe someone else connected to the school wasn’t about to let anything stand in the way of developing the fanciest, most expensive high-school baseball field in the nation. When it comes to prestige, some parents will do anything to make their kids look good.”

  Birdie finished tying a stitch. “Can you prove any of this?”

  “Not yet. We need to convince the DA to look at other suspects besides Ed. We’re trying to keep him from being arrested. If Ed is charged with murder, then we’ve got to establish reasonable doubt. Remember the glove and the O.J. trial?”

  By the end of the day, nine more quilts were finished. I cleaned up the remnants of the food as women folded up the banquet tables and metal chairs and placed them in the storage closet next to the stage. Someone found a push broom and swept all the cuttings and pins from the floor.

  A man walked into the room, wearing eyeglasses and a short-sleeved black cotton shirt with a clerical collar. He came over to where the three of us were gathering our things and smiled. “Nice job of cleaning up, Lucy. Thank you.”

  St. Winifred’s was Lucy’s home church, and she was quite friendly with the priest. “We’re grateful to be able to use the hall, Father Joe.”

  “What are you going to do with all these quilts?”

  “We’re taking them tomorrow morning to the homeless people who live in the wildlife reserve, next to the 405 Freeway.”

  “Come to early mass. We’ll say a special prayer for you and for the homeless.”

  Lucy smiled. “Thank you, Father. Ray and I’ll be there.”

  Lucy’s husband, Ray Mondello, was a man of deep faith. The two of them raised five sons in St. Winifred’s. Ray always gave credit to the church for keeping the boys on the straight and narrow. I gave major credit to the couple for creating a strong circle of love and discipline, which guided their boys into manhood.

  Father Joe helped us carry the nine finished quilts and donated toiletries to my car. I pressed the remote and the priest opened the door to the backseat. He turned to me with concern when he saw the dried blood smeared on the leather seat and on the carpet. “Should I ask?”

  My eyes filled with tears as I remembered Arthur whining in pain. “I transported an injured dog to the vet a few days ago. I just haven’t gotten around to having the blood cleaned properly.”

  Birdie came over and put an arm around my shoulder. “Why don’t we put everything in the trunk, dear.”

  I thanked my friends profusely for all their help. “Tomorrow morning at my house, around ten?”

  Lucy hugged me. “We’ll be there.”

  Back at home, I made four trips to bring all nine quilts and the other donations into my sewing room for sorting later in the evening. As soon as I put the last armload down, my phone rang.

  “So, faigele, tell me what’s going on,” said Uncle Isaac.

  “I just got home with the last of the quilts to give away tomorrow. Sonia should be coming over soon to help me put everything together.”

  “I’m talking about you and Arlo. What’s going on?”

  “What makes you think anything’s going on?”

  “Vey iz mir! I always know when you’re hiding something. Out with it. You’ll feel better.”

  My uncle Isaac might have been in his eighties, but he was the sharpest pencil in the box. I couldn’t hide anything from him, so I took a deep b
reath and plunged in, editing as I went along. I talked about discovering Dax Martin’s body and looking for evidence to exonerate my neighbor Ed Pappas. I left out the part about Switch attacking me and injuring Beavers’s dog.

  “Arlo doesn’t like you being such a kuchleffel?” My uncle used the Yiddish expression meaning “cooking spoon.” It applies to a spoon stirring a pot—a meddler.

  “Yeah, Uncle Isaac. Something like that.”

  “Why don’t you stop, already?”

  “Because an innocent man may go to jail.”

  “You don’t trust Arlo to do his job right?”

  How does he do it? How can my uncle zero in on the heart of my deepest issues in so few words?

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It doesn’t have to be, faigele. Love and trust. They should be simple.”

  CHAPTER 23

  At six, Sonia arrived with several blankets in her arms. “I’ve got lots more where these came from, and I could use some help. Has Yossi called yet? Is he going to come over?”

  Poor Sonia was besotted with Crusher. What if the two of them actually did get together? Wouldn’t my Crusher problem be solved? I just hoped she didn’t come on so strong that she drove him away. Judging from his reactions this morning, he already seemed uneasy with her keen attention.

  “I haven’t heard from him yet. I just got home. Why don’t I help you carry everything over?”

  “There’s too much. I’ll call The Eyes.”

  Sonia, referring to the neighborhood watch patrol, pulled out her cell phone. Ten minutes later, Ron Wilson, with his large belly and white crew cut, knocked on my door, followed by Tony DiArco, riding his scooter with the oxygen tank.

  The four of us managed to carry thirty blankets and several large cartons of toiletries to my house. Tony made several trips with supplies in the basket of his scooter, using driveways as ramps to cross the street from Sonia’s house to mine. His last load consisted of a giant pack of forty-eight rolls of toilet paper that was so large he had to lean over the side of his scooter to see where he was going. When the last package was transferred, I offered the guys each a glass of wine.