C
HAPTER
2
The next hour Lucy and I helped Birdie focus on funeral arrangementsâa 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 projectâa 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?”
“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?”
Birdie buried her face in her hands. “IâI don't want to talk to anybody. Can't you make them go away?”
Lucy stoodâall five feet eleven inchesâand put her hands on her hips. “I'll call Ray right now.” She reached for her cell phone. “He'll get rid of them
toot sweet
.” She made an air quote with the fingers of her free hand.
Lucy's husband, Ray Mondello, was usually a gentle, good-natured man. But he'd been an MP in Vietnam. If anyone could disperse a crowd, he could. Fortunately, Ray's auto repair shop was close by on Ventura Boulevard.
The knocking continued off and on for another minute before I got fed up. “I can't wait for Ray. I'm going out there.”
I opened the door and a dozen microphones, cell phones, and cameras were thrust in my direction. I stepped outside and closed the door behind me, waiting silently for the barrage of questions to stop.
Once I had the reporters' full attention, I spoke. “Mrs. Watson is in mourning right now. She will not make a statement no matter how long you pound on her door or how many times you call her phone. Right now, you're trespassing. Do the decent thing. Turn around. Leave quietly. Respect her privacy.”
Across the street, Ray barely squeezed his green Range Rover around the vehicle blocking his driveway and jumped out of his car. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his mouth drew a grim line across his face. In addition, two of his biggest car mechanics, still dressed in greasy blue overalls, jumped out of the car. The three of them waded like Schwarzenegger toward the back of the crowd.
The reporters were unaware of the angry posse coming their way at first and began shouting questions again. Journalists in LA generally respected private property, but an armed robbery and the murder of a bank official had become a major story.
I took a deep breath. “Step away immediately, or I'll have you thrown out.”
Ray and his guys pushed their way through the media hounds. A bearded man holding an expensive camera stumbled sideways. A man in a baseball cap stopped taking pictures with his cell phone and turned to leave, briefly revealing a tattoo on the side of his neck. The other journalists had to be pushed back to the street. A blonde in tan makeup from a major network shrieked in protest as a burly mechanic pushed her backward toward the sidewalk. Tisha Goodall.
Ray's voice boomed, “LA Cable News has two seconds to remove your vehicle from in front of the driveway across the street.”
The media got the message and began to disperse. Ray turned to me over his shoulder and nodded once. I went back inside.
The phone rang again, and I answered it. “Watson residence.”
The female voice on the other end dripped with concern. “This is Sandra Prescott. I'd like to speak to Birdie.”
“What is this regarding?”
Her voice took on a commanding edge. “Just tell her it's Rainbow.”
I placed my hand over the mouthpiece so the caller couldn't hear me. “Birdie, do you know someone named Sandra Prescott? She said to tell you it's Rainbow.”
Birdie immediately stretched her hand toward the phone. “Oh! Give it to me.”
Lucy looked at me and silently mouthed,
Rainbow?
Birdie eagerly grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear. “You heard? All the way in New York? No, I haven't been watching TV. My quilting friends Martha and Lucy are with me. He'll be buried in McMinnville. Of course I'll let you know when. It'll be a comfort to see you again, dear. I love you too.”
Birdie handed back the phone. “She's an old friend from when we lived in Oregon. Rainbow has a business that keeps her pretty busy, but she'll be at the funeral.”
The next few calls were from the media, so for the rest of the afternoon we let the phone go to voice mail. The ringing finally stopped around five. Lucy volunteered to cook dinner and spend the night in Birdie's guest room, so I got up to leave. “I'll see you in the morning, and we'll drive to the mortuary together.”
The moment I walked into my house, Bumper headed straight for my ankles and began rubbing his head and purring. I stopped to scratch him behind his ear. “How's my favorite guy?” He purred louder and trotted after me into the kitchen. I filled his bowl with his favorite star-shaped kibble. Then I took a deep breath and dialed Beavers's number.
“Hi, Arlo. This is Martha.”
He sounded surprised. “Oh! I guess I didn't expect you to call.”
“Well, I got to thinking about your offer and decided I'd been a little hasty with my reaction. Sorry. Catching up sounds like a good idea. For one thing, I really miss Arthur.”
Beavers chuckled. “Well, one out of two isn't so bad. When are you free?”
“Tonight, actually.”
“Okay. I'm still tied up for a while, but I can pick you up at seven.”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
I hoped I hadn't just made a big mistake.
C
HAPTER
3
Choosing an outfit to wear on a date with Beavers required some serious thought. I wanted to look my best but didn't want to give him the wrong idea. As far as I was concerned, we were just friends. I settled on my size sixteen black linen trousers and a pink short-sleeved blouse loose enough to button over my bosom, without gaping apart. My hair had grown long enough in the last year for me to sweep my salt and pepper curls up on the top of my head. A spritz of Marc Jacobs on my bare neck and arms, and I was ready.
Beavers knocked on my door at 7:05. I didn't know how he managed, but he always looked fresh, even after a long day's work. His white shirt was smooth and his tie hung perfectly straight. I think it must be easier for thin people not to wrinkle their clothes.
“I'm glad you changed your mind about dinner.” The skin around his dark eyes crinkled with his smile. “Are you as hungry as I am?”
I grabbed my purse and locked the door behind us. “Starved.”
In his typical courtly style, Beavers put his hand under my elbow and guided me to the car. “How about Jethro's?” When we first met, he had introduced me to a great barbeque joint on Sepulveda Boulevard. We ate there many times while we were dating.
Fifteen minutes later we sat at a small wooden table covered with a fresh cut of white butcher paper and two frosty glasses of beer. I wondered, as I studied the menu, if Beavers had ever taken his newest ex-girlfriend here. I pushed the thought out of my mind.
What do I care? This isn't a real date, and he's no longer my boyfriend
. I closed the menu and leaned back in the sturdy oak chair. “I'll have the tri-tip with coleslaw.”
Beavers smiled. “That's what you always order.”
“Well, if you remember, I don't eat pork, and I don't like getting strings of rib beef stuck in my teeth. Therefore, I'm left with only one other optionâthe tri-tip.”
The smile left his face, and he looked at me intently. “I remember everything about you.”
I swallowed some cold Heineken.
Uh-oh
.
About midway through dinner, I managed to steer the conversation toward Russell. “You know, Arlo, after you left this afternoon I asked Birdie whether she could think of anyone who wanted to harm Russell. She did recall he received a telephone call a week ago that seemed to upset him. She didn't remember anything else. As for financial problems, she had no clue because Russell always handled their money. I always thought he was pretty tight-fisted, because they seemed to live well below their means.”
“Hmm.” He rubbed his mustache. “Interesting. About the phone call, I mean.”
Here's my opening. Might as well plunge right in
. “Arlo, it seems odd you'd be asking about someone targeting Russell in a bank robbery. Do you have a reason to suspect his shooting was deliberate?” I held my breath, fully expecting Beavers to tell me to mind my own business.
He drained his second beer and ran a paper napkin over his wet mustache. “One of the witnesses claimed the shooter said something about a âpayback.'”
“Payback? Do you think Russell knew the masked man?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you think someone wanted to settle an old score?”
“Something like that.”
A dagger of fear pierced my heart. “Oh my God. If this was personal, could Birdie be in danger?”
He bit his cheek and frowned. “Too soon to tell.”
Poor Birdie! She seemed so vulnerable and frail right now. What if someone wanted to harm her too? “Don't you think she should have police protection until you know for sure?”
He shook his head. “This is an FBI matter. You'd have to ask them. But if you're concerned, maybe you could persuade her to leave LA for a while.”
Beavers had a point. Lucy and I would have to come up with a plan to get her out of town. But even if Russell had been a target, why would anyone be after Birdie too? “I really appreciate your frankness. Meanwhile, do you know when the coroner will release Russell's body?”
“The FBI is in charge of this one. I suspect the autopsy won't take more than a few days.”
Thank goodness the feds were in control. I remembered how the LA County Coroner had botched the investigation last year into the death of my friend.
We finished our meal with slices of sweet potato pie. I settled my fork neatly across the empty plate. “How's Arthur? I miss him.” Arthur, a retired police canine adopted by Beavers, had saved my life twice. I loved the dog, and so did my cat, Bumper.
“He's doing great. He misses you too. I can tell. Want to come over tonight and say hello?”
I looked at my watch. “It's almost nine. I've got a long day ahead of me tomorrow. Can I have a rain check?”
“Anytime.”
Ten minutes later we pulled into my driveway. He turned off the engine and insisted on walking me to my front door.
The fragrance of night-blooming jasmine filled the air on that warm July night. Beavers reached over and held my shoulders. He pulled me gently toward him and said in a low voice, “I've missed you, Martha.”
My body began to relax in his embrace, and all the old feelings of love and desire rippled through me. I stiffened and pulled back. A year ago, when I first dated Crusher, aka Yossi Levy, I felt disloyal to Beavers, even though he had just dumped me. Now the reverse was true. Even though I hadn't heard from Crusher in the last five months, and five months was a long time, kissing Beavers would be cheating. I put a hand on his chest to stop him. “I'm sorry, Arlo. I don't think this is a good idea.”
“Why? Are you still seeing Levy?”
“I simply think you and I are better as friends.” I turned the key into the lock and opened the door. “Good night. Thank you for dinner, and thanks again for the information.”
“Can I call you again?”
What should I say? I wanted to protect Birdie, and Beavers seemed willing to give me the help I needed. On the other hand, I didn't want to send him the wrong message. I finally said, “Of course. Let's keep in touch.”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “Touching is good.”