by Mary Marks
SOMETHING’S KNOT KOSHER
Lucy wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “What is that smell?”
I put up my hand. “You and Jazz better stay here, Birdie. Come on, Lucy.”
I took my tall friend’s arm and walked with her toward the back of the hearse. The rear door had popped open, allowing the coffin to fly out the back. The big casket now lay gaping open on the ground.
The good news was, that despite my worst fears, Towsley had not cheated Birdie. Russell’s body had been perfectly preserved by the embalming fluids.
The bad news was, I now understood what Arthur tried to tell me when he jumped on the side of the hearse and barked.
Russell wasn’t alone.
On top of his body lay the source of the awful smell—the decomposing body of a strange man with dark hair . . .
Books by Mary Marks
FORGET ME KNOT
KNOT IN MY BACKYARD
GONE BUT KNOT FORGOTTEN
SOMETHING’S KNOT KOSHER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
SOMETHING’S KNOT KOSHER
MARY MARKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
SOMETHING’S KNOT KOSHER
Books by Mary Marks
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CARING FOR YOUR QUILTS
KNOT WHAT YOU THINK
Teaser chapter
Copyright Page
For John William Marks, Ruth Helen Marks,
and Lee Anthony Marks.
Why was I the only one who didn’t get a middle name?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks go first to my mentor Jerrilyn Farmer, my critique partner Cyndra Gernet, and my reader Nancy Jane Isenhart Holmes. I couldn’t write a decent book without your help, insight, and encouragement. Also, many thanks to Betty Brown for the story inspiration.
As always, I have some experts to thank for keeping me accurate. My gratitude goes to Yeghishe “Jerry” Ayvazyan for his insight into the world of high finance. Thanks go next to Linda Greenberg Loper, Deputy DA (retired) LA County, and Malcolm Taw, MD, for their professional expertise.
I also want to credit my awesome agent, Dawn Dowdle, at Blue Ridge Literary Agency for her help and guidance. And finally, I offer slavish gratitude to my editor, John Scognamiglio, and all the talented folks at Kensington.
CHAPTER 1
I looked at the caller ID and smiled. My best friend, Lucy, often rang in the middle of the afternoon to chat. I fully expected to hear that her youngest grandchild had made the honor roll at Encino Elementary. I certainly wasn’t prepared for the shocking news.
“Turn on your TV, Martha. Channel seven.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“It’s bad. I’ll stay on the line.”
Her voice held an urgent tone I didn’t like. I dashed to the living room and grabbed the remote. A local newscaster stood on the sidewalk on Ventura Boulevard next to yellow police tape. “This brazen robbery occurred two hours ago in front of a half dozen customers and employees of First Encino Bank. Witnesses said a single masked gunman forced everyone to lie on the floor in a back room and then pushed a hostage to the vault.
“A minute later, witnesses reported hearing four gunshots. The robber escaped carrying a duffel bag. When the police arrived, they discovered the body of the hostage inside the vault. His name is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.”
My pulse hammered in my throat. “Oh my God, Lucy. Does Birdie know? That’s Russell’s bank.” Birdie’s husband, Russell Watson, was the vice president and manager of First Encino, Louise Avenue branch. “Who got shot?”
“I’m here with Birdie. We were visiting in her kitchen when the FBI came to notify her.”
“Notify?” My stomach turned a flip. “Russell?”
“Yes. He’s dead, Martha.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Russell Watson hadn’t been one of my favorite people. I never saw him treat Birdie with anything but indifference. Still, his shortcomings didn’t justify murder. I couldn’t predict how long I’d be gone, so I made sure my orange cat, Bumper, had enough food and water to last for a while. Then I grabbed my keys and jumped in my new Honda Civic. Less than five minutes later, I pulled up in front of Birdie’s house behind two other cars, one a familiar silver Camry.
Lucy Mondello and Birdie Watson lived right across the street from one another in a more upscale part of Encino. My name is Martha Rose, and the three of us had been quilting together every Tuesday for sixteen years. We were so comfortable with each other, we didn’t bother to knock before entering. I rushed up the stairs of Birdie’s front porch and pushed the door open.
A pair of cozy, overstuffed green chenille chairs faced a slip-covered sofa in the living room of the California bungalow. Dressed in matching yellow blouse and trousers, Lucy sat next to Birdie on the sofa, hugging the older woman’s shoulders with a comforting arm. Birdie wore her signature blue denim overalls and white T-shirt.
Across from them, a woman in a blue FBI jacket with yellow letters sat in one of the easy chairs. LAPD homicide detective Arlo Beavers sat in the other. My ex-boyfriend. In his mid-fifties, with a shock of gray hair and a white mustache, he appeared fit and as handsome as ever. Just the sight of him made my toes tingle. We exchanged a brief glance and then I rushed to sit next to Birdie and grabbed her hand.
“I’m so sorry, Birdie. I can’t believe Russell’s gone. You know you’re not alone, right? You’ve got Lucy and me.”
Birdie sniffed and reached a shaking, blue-veined hand toward the tissue box on the coffee table. She nodded and blew her nose. My heart broke to see how the shock and grief transformed her normally cheerful face. Her mouth hung slack and her eyes brimmed. She looked all of her seventy-six years.
“I know, Martha dear. I’m glad you’re here.” Silent tears spilled down her cheeks as she twisted the end of her long, white braid. She introduced the woman sitting in the chair as Agent Kay Lancet.
I nodded at the agent but looked at Beavers. “Do you know who did this? Why did they have to kill Russell? Why couldn’t they simply take the money and run?”
Beavers pursed his lips under his mustache and shook his head once.
Agent Lancet wore her brown hair pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense bun. “We don’t have much information at this point. It’s still early.” She stood slowly and handed her business card to Birdie. KAY B. LANCET, SPECIAL AGENT FBI. “We’ll do everything in our power to catch the people who killed your husband, Mrs. Watson. Meanwhile, if you can think of anything to help our
investigation, please call that number. I’m very sorry for your loss.” The heavy rubber soles of her boots squeaked on her way to the front door.
Beavers also rose and turned to me. “Can I speak to you outside?”
I followed him out the front door, curious. Agent Lancet drove away in an unmarked black SUV. Beavers and I hadn’t spoken since December, almost seven months ago. I babysat his dog while he took his new girlfriend to Hawaii.
He turned his face toward me and his eyes softened. “How have you been, Martha?”
Those dark eyes. Why did I still find them irresistible? “Fine, until now. I’m still in shock.”
He nodded. “Yeah. Nobody’s ever prepared for a thing like this. Listen. Since this is a federal crime, the LAPD is officially off the case. But I know Agent Lancet. We go way back. She allowed me to come here as a courtesy when I told her I knew the wife of the vic. Can you think of anyone who might’ve wanted Russell dead? Did he have financial problems?”
“I haven’t a clue. Why do you ask?”
“Just trying to help out.”
“Well, Russell wasn’t the warmest human being on the planet. He probably managed to piss off a few people in his time, but don’t we all? Shouldn’t you be asking Birdie this?”
Beavers ran his fingers through his thick gray hair and blew a puff of air out of his mouth. “Kay did ask her, but Mrs. Watson couldn’t think of anyone. Maybe when the shock wears off she’ll remember more. I figured she might’ve mentioned something to you and Mrs. Mondello in passing.”
I shook my head. “Sorry.” I turned to go inside.
He put up a restraining hand and cleared his throat. “Are you still seeing Levy?” Beavers referred to Yossi Levy, aka Crusher. Crusher and I had gotten together—sort of—after my breakup with Beavers. Seven months ago, Crusher, who led an interesting double life, caught a bullet in a shootout and almost died. He spent two months recuperating at my house. After I turned down his latest offer of marriage, he left LA for a new adventure in parts unknown. I hadn’t heard from him since, and I missed him. But I didn’t want to admit that to Beavers.
I answered with a question of my own. “Are you still dating what’s-her-name? Kerry? The veterinarian?” I loved Beavers’s German shepherd, Arthur, and hated the man-stealing vet.
“No. I broke up with her a while back. She was too . . . possessive.”
I jerked my head up and snorted right in his face. “Look who’s talking!” When I dated Beavers a year ago, he’d become jealous and demanding. When I refused to be manipulated, he broke up with me.
Beavers had the grace to stare at the ground and said, “I’d like to take you out to dinner sometime. Just to catch up. Maybe start over . . .”
Did I hear him right? He wants to pick up where we left off ? “I can’t think about that, Arlo. The only thing I want to do right now is go back inside and help my friend.”
He nodded and backed away as I turned around and pushed through the front door.
Lucy studied my face as I closed the door noisily behind me. Her perfectly penciled red eyebrows raised in question marks. I kept walking and bit my lip. I’d discuss my love life at a more appropriate time. Like when pigs came to Passover.
I headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll make us a pot of coffee.”
The items Birdie used every day were conveniently displayed on open shelves or behind glass doors in her old-fashioned kitchen. The glass-and-steel coffee press occupied a permanent spot on a counter paved with colorful Mexican tiles. I started a fire under a kettle of water on her large cast-iron stove.
The aroma of cinnamon and molasses led me to a freshly baked ginger cake cooling in a square jadeite dish. Birdie loved to bake in the mornings. Surely the present crisis justified my indulging in a slice. I’d think about Weight Watchers later.
I returned to the living room with a tray of steaming mugs and plates of cake. Birdie gratefully accepted coffee but declined the food. “I couldn’t possibly eat anything, Martha dear. But you girls help yourself.”
Lucy stretched, arching her back like a tall, orange-headed cat. “What did Arlo talk to you about?” she asked, forking a piece of cake into her mouth.
“He asked if anyone would want Russell dead.” I avoided looking at Birdie. “He also asked if you were having financial problems.”
Birdie wrinkled her forehead. “Yes, Agent Lancet asked me the same questions, but I couldn’t think of anybody who’d wish Russell harm. I mean, I wouldn’t have been privy to something like that, anyway. Russell rarely talked about his work.” She sighed. “As for financial problems, I really have no idea. He never bothered me with such things.”
I understood what Birdie meant. She and Russell lived in a sterile marriage. They coexisted in separate bedrooms and didn’t share much of a life. Why she had settled for such a loveless arrangement had baffled Lucy and me. But Birdie always replied, “He has his good points.”
“Still,” I persisted, “did Russell seem worried lately? Did he act any differently? Show some signs something bothered him?”
Birdie thought for a moment. “Well, he did get a disturbing phone call a week ago. Afterward, he was more snappish than usual.” A look of alarm clouded her face. “Do you think the call’s connected to his death?”
“Who knows? I mean, when a crook kills someone in a bank robbery, it’s usually not personal. Right? So why ask if anyone wanted Russell dead? It’s almost as if he thinks Russell was a target.”
Beavers’s question suggested Russell Watson’s killing was deliberate. If so, did Russell know the masked man? Did he have money problems? Did he scheme to rob his own bank? Did something go wrong at the last minute that got him killed? I hoped not, for Birdie’s sake.
Birdie looked off into the distance, wrung her hands, and muttered something I couldn’t hear. She looked more fragile than I had ever seen her. Poor thing would be mortified if she learned Russell planned some kind of heist. I didn’t want the FBI’s suspicions to add to her distress.
I wished I knew more, but getting Beavers to part with any facts wouldn’t be easy. He’d always been superprofessional. Conscientious. He never once revealed confidential details about a case when we were dating. Could I convince him to make an exception now because of Birdie?
Persuading Beavers to reveal any information would take a lot of finesse on my part but, for Birdie’s sake, I had to try. I’d start with his invitation to dinner.
CHAPTER 2
The next hour Lucy and I helped Birdie focus on funeral arrangements—a process I had already become familiar with. Last year, right before Hanukkah, an attorney contacted me with the news I’d been named executor of a friend’s estate. I accepted the sad duty of arranging for my friend’s burial, along with untangling her very complicated life. At least I could help guide Birdie through the same procedures of dealing with the coroner’s office and the funeral home.
Lucy cleared the coffee cups while I telephoned the mortuary and made an appointment for the following morning.
Birdie disappeared into her sewing room and emerged with an appliqué project—a barnyard scene featuring roosters with fancy tail feathers in dozens of different prints. “I need something to keep my hands busy. It helps to focus on sewing while we talk.”
Lucy waved her hand. “Whatever works, hon! I know this must be an awful shock. You and Russell were married for such a long time.”
Birdie threaded her needle and sighed. “We knew each other for more than fifty years. We met in the fifties when we were students at Reed College in Portland, Oregon.”
Lucy and I had heard this story before. The older Birdie became, the more she seemed to reminisce. She loved to recount the story about how she met her husband.
“I came from Massachusetts, but Russell was local. Fourth generation. His people traveled over the Oregon Trail in a covered wagon.”
Lucy picked up a spool from Birdie’s sewing kit and untangled the thread. “Does he still have family there?”<
br />
“After Russell’s parents died, we didn’t really keep in touch. There were problems between Russell and his brother, Denver.” We had heard this before, too, but Birdie never offered any details.
“Do you want us to notify Denver?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know if he’s still alive.”
“Did he have children? Shall we notify them?”
“Denver had a son, but I wouldn’t know how to contact him. All I know for sure is Russell’s parents are buried in McMinnville. Russell said when his time came, he wanted to be buried there as well.”
“I’m certain we can make that happen, Birdie. I’ve scheduled an appointment with the mortuary in the morning. We’ll go with you and help finalize all the arrangements, including transporting Russell to McMinnville. Does he have a space in the family’s plot?”
Birdie stopped sewing and frowned. “I don’t know for sure. I assume he does.”
“Don’t worry, hon.” Lucy squeezed Birdie’s shoulder. “I’m sure they’re used to handling situations like this. Right, Martha?”
The phone rang. Birdie put down her needle. “I don’t think I can handle any calls right now.”
I jumped up and headed for the phone. “No problem.”
“Mrs. Watson? This is Tisha Goodall from LA Cable News. Can you give us an interview?”
“Mrs. Watson has no comment. Please don’t call again.”
Tisha Goodall spoke quickly. “If she could just step outside, this would only take a minute.”
I peeked out the front window. Vans from all the major stations crowded the quiet residential street. Their antennas scraped the branches of the sycamore trees on the parkway. A vehicle with LA CABLE NEWS printed in tall blue letters partially blocked Lucy’s driveway directly across the street. I stepped away from the window, closed the drapes, and spoke into the phone. “Mrs. Watson has no comment. Leave her alone.”
A number of feet shuffled on the wide front porch, and someone knocked loudly. “Mrs. Watson?” A male voice this time. “Mrs. Watson, can we please talk to you?”