by Mary Marks
He looked around, surprised to meet so many other people.
I introduced him to the odd assortment of people.
“So, where’s Arlo?” my uncle asked.
Crusher looked down. My uncle liked Arlo Beavers. He had high hopes I’d found a permanent relationship with a good man. It didn’t bother him that Arlo wasn’t Jewish. Uncle Isaac liked the fact Beavers was Native American and grew up on the Rez. “They’re spiritual people. We have a lot in common,” he’d said.
My heart sank. “Arlo couldn’t make it.”
He studied my face. “The life of a lawman is hard work, I guess.” He always knew when I was hiding something. For sure I’d be hearing from him later and he’d make me tell him every humiliating detail, starting with the fact that I’d discovered a dead body and was now looking for witnesses to the murder. I’d rather stick a fork in my eye.
He sat. “It’s a good thing Morty dropped me off and didn’t have to park his car. There’s no space. The streets around here are full of expensive cars. I even saw a boy speeding by in a black BMW convertible. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen.”
“Yeah. The Beaumont School is having a baseball game this evening.”
“So that’s what all the noise is about. What a shande. It used to be so peaceful around here.” He shifted in his seat and faced Crusher. “So. It’s Yossi, is it? Yossi Levy?”
Crusher sat up a little straighter and played with his wineglass. He was three times larger than my uncle, but he was clearly a little nervous. “Yes, Mr. Harris.”
Uncle Isaac adjusted his glasses, squinted, and looked at the red do-rag. “What is that covering your head? Some kind of new kippah?”
“It’s a bandana, sir.”
“Like the cowboys wear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oy va voy! What will they think of next?”
My good plain white Rosenthal china sat on the white tablecloth and my bubbie’s twin silver candle-holders sat in the middle, in the place of honor. A silver kiddush cup, which was filled with wine, sat ready at the head of the table for Uncle Isaac, and a cloth embroidered with colorful fruits and flowers covered the challah.
I draped a sequined blue scarf over my head, lit the candles, circled my hands over the flame and covered my eyes as I recited the Hebrew blessing. I always felt a deep connection at this moment knowing Jewish women all over the world were doing exactly the same thing.
When I looked up, Sonia had maneuvered a seat at the table next to Crusher. My uncle lifted the silver cup of wine and recited the kiddush, a Hebrew blessing for the Sabbath. Crusher joined in. Hilda sat in respectful silence, listening to the four of us sing blessings over the wine and challah.
As we passed the food around the table, Hilda looked at Uncle Isaac. “I’ve never been in a Jewish home before. Is this some special kind of holiday?”
“Special, but not unique. This we should do every week when the Sabbath begins.”
“It’s beautiful. Why do you wear your hat at the table?”
“Covering my head keeps me humble, sweetheart. It reminds me God is the boss. Even at the table.”
The talk turned to our plans for the distribution of goods to the homeless on Sunday. I’d warned everyone ahead of time not to mention Javier and Graciela. I wasn’t ready to tell my uncle I discovered a murdered corpse, and I especially didn’t want him to know about my close call with Switch.
Uncle Isaac said, “What you’re doing for those homeless people is a mitzvah.”
“What’s that mean?” Hilda asked.
“A good deed, sweetheart. One of the foundations of our religion is to care for the less fortunate. Nowadays people give money. In Bible times, most people were farmers. The Torah taught them how to help others. ‘When you reap the harvest of your land, do not reap to the very edges of your field or gather the gleanings of your harvest. Leave them for the poor and the alien.’”
“It’s from Sefer Vayikra, the Book of Leviticus,” added Crusher.
I put down my fork and stared at him.
He blushed and put his hand on top of his bandana. “Hidden depths, babe. This ain’t just a do-rag.”
Crusher uses a bandana as a religious head covering? He knows Torah? Who is this man, outlaw or scholar?
Uncle Isaac asked Hilda, “So, what do you do, sweetheart?”
I was mortified, worried that his innocent question might embarrass Hilda.
She smiled sweetly. “I collect trash for recycling and do casual janitorial services when I can get work.”
Uncle Isaac looked confused. “‘Collect trash’? Like with a truck?”
“No, Mr. Harris. I collect cans and bottles from trash cans and Dumpsters and walk them to a recycling center in Ralphs parking lot.”
He still didn’t get it. “Like the homeless people do?”
“That’s me.”
Now he was completely distressed. “Vey iz mir! You’re homeless? How could a nice lady like you be homeless?”
I jumped in. “Maybe Hilda doesn’t want to talk about it, Uncle Isaac.”
Although we’re all dying to know.
He reached over and patted her hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t mean to be nosy.”
“I’m homeless because I can’t find steady work. People don’t like to hire ex-cons.”
Crusher swallowed his food. “I know what you mean. I spent some time in prison too. After I got out, I couldn’t get a job. Luckily, some friends loaned me enough money to open my own shop. Everything’s cool now.”
Uncle Isaac turned to Hilda. “So if someone loaned you money, could you do the same thing?”
“Not really. I used to be a licensed vocational nurse. I lost my license when they convicted me of grand theft.”
Sonia could keep quiet no longer. She asked the question we all wanted to hear. “What happened?”
Hilda took a dainty bite of her kugel and looked at me. “This sure is good.” Then she put her hands in her lap, sat back in her chair, and looked around the table.
“I worked in a nursing home with wealthy patients. We all rotated in and out of the Alzheimer’s ward on a regular basis. They said permanent assignments to the ward were too stressful on the staff. Well, it turns out a man in senior management arranged the schedule that way so none of the staff would notice when expensive jewelry went missing.”
Uncle Isaac asked, “The man stole things from the patients, who trusted him?”
“Once, when he thought nobody was looking, I saw him pocket something, but I didn’t know what really went down until it was too late.”
Sonia leaned toward Hilda. “So then what happened?”
“The family of that patient discovered a three-carat diamond ring missing from her room. I put two and two together and went to the manager’s office. I told him to return the ring or I’d tell the police what I saw. The next thing I knew, the police were searching staff lockers. They found the ring in my locker. I tried to tell them the manager planted it there, but no one believed me. I spent the next five years in prison.” Hilda looked around the table defiantly. “I was innocent!”
Uncle Isaac balled his fists. “A great evil was done to you, sweetheart. Feh!”
Then he spat out a curse in Yiddish. May God bestow on the man everything his heart desires, and may he become a quadriplegic and not even be able to use his tongue!
Sonia asked, “Aren’t there organizations helping women who get out of prison?”
Hilda shook her head slowly. “Only for a short time. Then you’re on your own. You can’t help people find jobs when there’re no jobs to begin with. Anyway, I’m used to street life now. The people call me ‘doc.’ They get hurt or sick, and then they find me. They know I’ll help ’em as much as I can. I even helped birth a baby down in the wash a couple of years ago. Someone called the parameds, but they took twenty minutes to find us. By the time they showed up, it was all over.”
Uncle Isaac’s eyes brimmed with tea
rs. “A gesind auf deine keppele.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s heaping blessings on your head,” said Crusher.
Uncle Isaac looked at each person sitting around the table: Hilda, Sonia, Crusher, and me. “You’re all in this blanket mitzvah together?”
The four of us nodded.
“Well, I’m so relieved. I don’t feel so guilty now.”
What did my uncle mean? “Guilty about what?”
He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “Well, faigele. I know my Martha pretty well. You were acting pretty shifty tonight, so I thought maybe you were up to something crazy again. You know, like the murder you were involved in four months ago. Thank goodness I was wrong.”
Crusher cleared his throat and looked at his plate. Sonia took a sip of water, and Hilda found something interesting to stare at across the room.
Uncle Isaac narrowed his eyes. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
“Don’t be silly, Uncle. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
CHAPTER 21
Morty came by after his date to pick up Uncle Isaac. With her bedroll still in the dryer, Hilda spent the night in the guest room.
She helped wash the breakfast dishes while I made her a sandwich-to-go from the leftover brisket and challah. The sack carrying her clean clothes was now fatter with several pieces of Quincy’s old wardrobe. Her clean bedroll was a little brighter with a pretty red-and-yellow tied Windmill quilt; she asked to keep the rose soap.
“Thanks for everything, Wonder Woman. I enjoyed sleeping in a real bed again. That quilt reminds me of one my grandma made that I loved so much. Maybe one day you’ll show me how to make one just like it.”
“I’d love to. Seriously.” I thought about asking Lucy and Birdie to include Hilda in our weekly group. If there was anything a quilter loved, it was teaching someone new how to quilt.
“Your uncle’s such a sweet old man.” Hilda briefly touched my arm. “You’re cut from the same cloth.” She laughed. “Get it? It’s a quilter joke.”
I chuckled. “I get it. And you’re right. He’s special.”
I handed her a piece of paper with my phone number. “Keep this. Call me anytime, for any reason. If you decide you want to get off the streets, I’ll do everything I can to help.” Then I drove her back to Rafi’s place to retrieve her cart.
I arrived at Ed Pappas’s house in just enough time for the ten o’clock meeting with his attorney, Simon Aiken, and Ed’s other biker friends. Ed’s wood-and-chrome dining-room table sat to the right, loaded with refreshments. I poured myself some Starbucks coffee from the disposable carton, but I passed on the apple fritters from Western Donuts.
People were lounging in Ed’s living room to the left, sprawled on his brown leather sofa and matching easy chairs. I sat in one of the empty chrome chairs from the dining room. We had all agreed to meet this morning for a progress report, and I couldn’t wait to tell everyone what I found out from the groundskeeper.
Simon Aiken wore jeans, like everyone else, on this Saturday morning. A new diamond stud sparkled on his earlobe.
Dana Fremont sat next to him on the sofa. Her long brown hair hung in two thick braids and her size-four skinny-legged jeans hugged ankles as slender as my wrists. A big new diamond sparkled on her finger.
Aiken reached over and briefly caressed her forearm.
Ah! Dana doesn’t just work for Aiken; they’re a couple. Have they recently exchanged diamond engagement rings?
Crusher wore a brown bandana on his head this morning. His six-foot-six, three-hundred-pound frame completely filled one of the large leather easy chairs. He stood to offer me the chair. He might’ve been a golem, but he was a golem with manners and “hidden depths,” as he hinted last night. I declined his offer and stayed seated in the smaller chair, where my feet could touch the floor.
Carl, the young biker who helped save Beavers’s wounded dog, waved; a smile creased his handsome face.
Ed Pappas, whose legal defense was the topic of this meeting, sat in the other easy chair, studying his laptop. Ed wore his uniform: a blue-and-white striped tank top showing off his tattoo of the Greek flag, cargo shorts, and a three-day growth of light brown beard.
Aiken cleared his throat. “Okay, everyone’s here, so let’s get started. I’ll go first. I talked to the DA, and she’s convinced she can make a case against Ed based on his threat against Dax Martin and the bloody baseball bat found in Ed’s backyard. Although he hasn’t been arrested and formally charged with the murder yet, we need to be prepared for when she comes after him. She hinted it was only a matter of time.”
Ed’s face paled; the skin around his eyes tightened and his mouth formed a hard line. My pulse quickened at the bad news.
Aiken looked at me. “Martha, I hear you talked to the groundskeeper yesterday. Could he tell you anything about the witnesses Javier and Graciela?”
“He wants to remain anonymous. He’ll lose his job if the school ever finds out he talked to me. Anyway, he knows nothing about the homeless couple, but he did give me a juicy bit of info. He confirmed Dax Martin carried on an affair with the headmaster’s wife, Diane Davis, in the stadium office there.” I pointed through Ed’s sliding glass doors and beyond to the maroon-and-gold building looming like a permanent insult sixty feet away. Dana typed quickly on her iPad.
“He also said he heard Martin and his wife arguing a week before he was killed. Martin’s angry wife informed him she told Jefferson Davis about the affair with Diane.”
Aiken nodded. “That would give Davis a motive to kill Martin. That’s more ammunition to help us establish reasonable doubt in court. Good work, Martha.”
“Thanks. There’s also been a new development since our last meeting.” I told them about the plan to go down in the wildlife reserve on Sunday and distribute quilts and supplies to the homeless. “While we’re down there, we’ll look for Javier and Graciela.”
Dana looked at me and smiled. “Nice idea. Will you be safe?”
Crusher sat forward in his seat. “Now that Switch is gone, I hear things have changed for the better down there. I’m going to help Martha take the stuff in my truck. We need the Valley Eagles to ride in and keep the peace.” Valley Eagles was what these motorcycle buddies called their club—hence the big purple V E on the back of their jackets and vests.
“I’m loading the truck tomorrow morning at ten, at Martha’s house. We’ll caravan from there down Burbank Boulevard at around eleven.”
“I’m in,” said Carl and Ed at the same time.
Aiken cracked his knuckles. “Yeah, Dana and I’ll be there.” He turned to Ed. “Anything new?”
“I went to the website for the Army Corps of Engineers. The chain of command is pretty short. Specialist Lawanda Price is the coordinator for the Sepulveda Basin. She’s the one who actually comes to the area and physically supervises the properties for compliance and maintenance—including the parks, wildlife reserve, and ball fields.”
Crusher took a gulp of coffee. “She’s the one who approved the building of the stadium?”
Ed scratched his neck. “No. I think that’s way above her rank and pay grade. She’s basically a low-level field grunt. A couple links up the chain is a civilian, Barbara Hardisty. She’s the real estate assets manager and the one who has broad authority over all the federal real estate in California. This Hardisty woman is likely the one who approved the stadium.”
Aiken narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”
Ed shifted in his seat. “There’s more. I went fishing around the Beaumont School website to see what I could find out about Martin, the stadium, the athletic program, anything really. I found a roster and photos posted of the students participating in each sport. Guess which sophomore is on the baseball team?”
Everyone looked at Ed.
“A boy named Jason Hardisty.”
Crusher stopped just before he bit into his second fritter. “Any connection to the lady who approved the building of the
school’s baseball stadium?”
Ed shrugged. “I don’t know. Beaumont records are confidential. In order to get a list of students and their parents, I’d have to hack into their computer system or break into their offices.”
Aiken stretched his arm out like a traffic cop. “Stop. I’m sure you’re speaking hypothetically, right? You can’t say things like that with other people in the room, even if you’re kidding. Attorney-client privilege extends only to the two of us when we’re alone. If you’re arrested and we have to convince a jury you’re innocent, we don’t want anyone here forced to testify you said anything incriminating.”
Ed looked chagrined. “Okay. Got it.”
Aiken waved his hand. “Anyway, that information is easy enough to get. Every family is listed in the school directory. All we have to do is find a parent with a directory. I know someone at Beaumont who might give me a copy, but they’re out of town until Monday.”
He turned to Dana. “Tell everyone what you discovered about the headmaster and his wife.”
She made a few swipes on her iPad. “I did some cyber sleuthing on each of them. Diane Davis appears to have her own assets. She comes from money. Jefferson Davis reports about half a mil a year from his job and another two hundred thou from a personal holding company called ‘SFV Associates. ’ Probably stands for San Fernando Valley.”
Ed looked at me and back at Dana. “Do we know what his company does?”
“Yeah. SFV Associates incorporated more than two years ago, right before the Beaumont Stadium project began. They just happened to make the winning bid to build the stadium and then subcontracted with Valley Allstar Construction to do the work.”
I spoke up. “Makes sense. As headmaster, Jefferson Davis was in a position to know what the other contractors bid on the stadium. He might even have suggested to them a number to bid on, knowing it would be high. Then his company came in at the last minute with a lower bid, undercut their prices, and got the job. Davis pocketed a percentage and, with the rest of the money, hired a contractor, Valley Allstar, to actually build the stadium.”