Forget Me Knot: A Quilting Mystery Part 16

This was beginning to sound like a typical adolescent's diary-lots of complaints about Mom. I glanced at my watch. One-thirty in the morning. I was hyped up on caffeine and not at all sleepy, so I continued to read.

M pa.s.s out every night 9 pm.

I looked up from the quilt and rubbed my eyes. What was it like for Claire to have a mother who wasn't there for her? Must have been pretty lonely. My mother had been so traumatized by my father's death, she was incapable of taking care of herself, let alone a daughter. I'd had my bubbie and Uncle Isaac. Who'd been there for Claire?

I stepped back and looked at the quilt again. A nude woman slept on clouds with teardrop-shaped beads dripping down. Of course. This quilt wasn't about rainmaking, as I'd first thought, but absent mothers and sadness, lots of sadness.

After two in the morning, I freshened the coffee in my cup and started again to slowly read the encrypted words.

Daddy's night visits The hair on the back of my neck bristled. Uh-oh. What was I reading here? What did she mean, night visits? I hoped this wasn't leading anywhere bad. began when I 10yo.

Okay, okay. So maybe he came in to read her a story or tuck her in, things her mother would have done if she hadn't been pa.s.sed out.

He say I love of his life.

Okay. Love is a good thing, right? Wasn't he just making up for the love and attention she didn't get from her alcoholic mother?

I was hooked. The time was now after three, but I couldn't stop reading.

He only wore bathro . . .

Oh my G.o.d. I stopped reading. Something acid crept up from my stomach, and I felt as if I'd just taken a dirt bath. Was this real? If so, Will Terry was a child molester! I fingered the teardrop-shaped beads Claire had sewn so extensively on this quilt.

These messages must be why Terry tried to talk me out of examining the quilts and gave me so little time with them. He said if I came up with nothing, he was afraid of what the disappointment might do to Siobhan, but he didn't give a c.r.a.p about Siobhan. He just wanted to keep the truth hidden-a terrible, d.a.m.ning truth.

If Claire was a victim of incest, that would be a huge motive for Will Terry not wanting the information in the quilts to get out. He could have been behind the theft of the quilts, the attempted theft at Claire's house, and the break-in at my house. Still, was he capable of murdering his daughter, the "love of his life"?

What about Siobhan? If she knew about the incest, would she really have wanted me to discover the secrets in Claire's quilts? Most families wanted to keep such awful secrets hidden from the outside world.

I looked back down at Mother's Asleep. There was much more to decode, but I was so done. I'd become an unwitting voyeur to an appalling tragedy and wished I'd never agreed to help.

I looked at my watch. Four. A wave of revulsion and emotional exhaustion washed over me. I folded the quilt and put it back in the pillowcase. There was still enough time to grab a couple hours of sleep.

I walked back to Lucy's office, but before I turned off the computer, I opened Claire's digital photo alb.u.m and briefly examined the pictures of her quilts. Fortunately, she'd taken extensive close-ups clearly showing the knots on all the quilts, except those with a dark background. Good. Even though I had to give the quilts back tomorrow, I might still be able to study the Braille from the photos if I needed to.

Claire's secrets were compelling. She was robbed of her innocence and endured the unspeakable, and now she was dead. Her molester walked around a free man. I vowed to find some justice for Claire if it was the last thing I did.

THURSDAY.

CHAPTER 22.

At six that morning, I heard Lucy and Ray starting their day, so I got dressed in my uniform of blue jeans and a white V-neck T-s.h.i.+rt, ruffled my curls with wet hands to get rid of the bed hair, and joined them in the kitchen. I poured myself a steaming mug of dark French roast while Lucy set the table for three. She still wore a baby blue chenille bathrobe, but her short orange hair was brushed, her eyebrows were freshly drawn, and her mascara was expertly applied. Dame Judi Dench never looked so good.

"How'd you do last night?"

I told her about the divorce settlement, but I was reluctant to talk about the incest with Ray in the room. "I went on Google and downloaded a copy of the Braille alphabet. I've been studying it."

She put plates of scrambled eggs, hash browns, and toasted English m.u.f.fins on the table. "Did Dixie Barcelona ever call you back?"

I sat down and opened ajar of raspberry jam. "No, but I don't think I'll be asking her to help after all. I really think I'm getting a handle on this Braille thing."

After breakfast I gathered the dirty dishes from the table as Ray kissed Lucy good-bye. With the difference in their heights, Lucy bent her head a little. This was an endearing and graceful gesture she'd perfected over the years. Ray popped her affectionately on the behind. "See ya later, babe."

"Love you." She kissed him.

I smiled at their tender daily ritual of nearly fifty years. How was it some women were lucky enough to find the perfect mate, while the rest of us either ended up alone, like me, or in a loveless arrangement like Birdie?

Whenever we were around Ray, he always gave Lucy a touch, a hug, a kiss.

Then he smiled. "You babes stay out of trouble today." We liked being Ray's babes.

I'd never seen Russell touch Birdie, let alone kiss her. Whenever we were at Birdie's house, he nodded his head. "You girls carry on." Girls. The way he said it I always felt dismissed-the same way Birdie must have felt every day of her married life.

Birdie once confided they hadn't been intimate in years. "Do you think he has another woman?" She'd had tears in her eyes.

Lucy reached out and touched her arm. "Did you ever consider that he might be gay?" Because of Richie, Lucy was developing quite a gaydar.

Birdie's mouth dropped open. "Frankly, I don't know what is worse, the idea of Russell having an affair with a man or a woman."

"Why do you stay with him?" I asked.

"I'm too old to change now. I resigned myself a long time ago where my marriage is concerned. I try to fill my life with other things, like my gardening, my friends, and my quilting. I don't know what I'd do without the two of you." Then she cried.

Lucy and Ray smiled at each other in the secret way lovers did. Their marriage was an unlikely success. They'd been sweethearts in high school and, despite the fact they married in their teens, neither Ray nor Lucy seemed to think they'd ever missed out on anything-college, parties, dating, travel. Their life together was exactly what each of them wanted and they were happier than anyone else I knew.

Fingers of envy and self-pity squeezed my heart, and I turned toward the sink to hide my teary eyes. If I could go back and make my life's choices all over again, I'd do it their way.

Lucy's voice jolted me out of my reverie. "I can finish those, hon'."

I sc.r.a.ped off the last of the plates. "I'm almost done. Anyway, now that Ray's gone, I need to show you what I found." I dried my hands and handed my notepad to Lucy. "I started decoding Mother's Asleep. Here's what I've discovered so far."

Lucy clamped a shocked hand over her wide open mouth as she read. She looked at me with eyes the size of baseb.a.l.l.s. "Martha! Are you sure? You really read this?"

Just then her phone rang and she looked at the caller ID. "You answer it, Martha. I don't think I can talk right now."

"Hi, Birdie. What? Are you all right? Did you call the police? We'll be right over."

Lucy looked at me. "Now what?"

"Russell walked out the front door and stepped on a note for Birdie taped to a small paper bag full of dog c.r.a.p."

Lucy whooped out an incredulous "No! Dog p.o.o.p? What did the note say?"

"Just two words: You're next."

Neither one of us said another word as we rushed to get to Birdie's. Lucy opened the front door, and I yelled, "Stop! Don't move."

Lying there on the porch, just outside the threshold where her foot would have landed, was a note taped to a small paper bag.

"Dang!" Lucy never swore.

I bent down to examine the angry letters scratched in black marking pen on plain white paper. Lucy Mondello is a dead woman!

I stood up. "When Ray left this morning, I wasn't really paying attention. Did he leave by the front door? Because if he did, someone just put this here."

"No, he left through the kitchen door straight into the garage like he always does."

"Then this could have been placed here any time during the night. Oh, Lucy, I told you I didn't want to bring you trouble by staying here."

Lucy narrowed her eyes, pulled herself up to her full height, and put her hands on her hips. "This guy picked the wrong woman to mess with. I'm going to call Ray and wait for the police."

"Right. I'll go see if Birdie's okay."

As I walked across the street, my stomach clenched with a sick realization. By seeking refuge at Lucy's house, I'd put both my friends in jeopardy.

CHAPTER 23.

Birdie must have seen me walking across the street as she opened the door and pointed to the porch. "Be careful, Martha dear. Don't step in the mess."

"Looks like someone beat me to it." I took a large step over the smelly brown smear.

Birdie twisted her braid furiously. "Russell, and he's madder'n a wet hen."

"Don't you mean rooster?"

"I said what I meant, Martha. Come on in. I just got off the phone with Detective Beavers. He's on his way."

Russell walked into the living room, his white hair perfectly groomed. I never could get over the contrast between earth mother Birdie and this fussy little man dressed in a blue business suit and silk tie. He smiled tightly at me and nodded once, slightly disturbing a strand of hair on his forehead. "h.e.l.lo, Martha."

"Hi, Russell. You okay?"

"Just fine. Just fine." He took Birdie's hands in his, looked at her over the top rim of his gold wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, and spoke to her, slowly enunciating every word as if he were addressing a child. "I wish I could stick around, but I've got an early meeting at the bank with the federal regulators. You know how critical this is." Russell looked at me with desperate appeal in his eyes. "I'm hoping Martha can stay with you until I get back." I nodded, and he turned his attention back to Birdie.

"I'll make an effort to get away the moment the auditors leave. Meanwhile, try to be brave. I'm sure the police are on their way."

Russell gave her a rare, perfunctory kiss on the cheek. "By the way, my shoes are on the back porch."

Birdie looked like a thundercloud, clenched her teeth, and lowered her voice into an uncharacteristic snarl. "I'm not touching those shoes, Russell."

He glanced nervously at me and I looked away, pretending to find some important lint that needed removing from the front of my s.h.i.+rt.

Without another word, Russell Watson walked out the front door for the second time that morning, this time stepping over the mess on the porch and leaving his wife to clean it up.

At eight a silver Camry pulled up in front of Birdie's house, followed by a squad car. Detective Beavers barked some orders to the two uniforms, who fanned out toward the neighbors' houses. Then he knocked on Birdie's door. When Beavers saw me sitting on her sofa, he shook his head a couple of times. "Where were you last night at eleven?"

"Across the street at Lucy's. Why?"

"There was a robbery in Pacoima, but when I got to the crime scene, you weren't there."

"Very funny. Listen, Birdie's not the only one who got hit. Lucy also got a threatening note taped to a bagful of dog c.r.a.p on her porch. She's waiting for you across the street at her house."

Birdie gasped. "Why didn't you tell me? What did her note say?"

"That she was a dead woman."

Birdie started to rub the middle of her chest.

Beavers's frown deepened. He dug his cell phone out of his pocket, punched some b.u.t.tons, and turned away as he spoke. "I need you to go over to Martha Rose's house and see if there's a bag of dog c.r.a.p on her porch with a note taped on it. If there is, bag it and bring it in. No, just the note. No, I'm not kidding, Kaplan. Just do it."

I sat next to Birdie and held her hand while she told Detective Beavers everything she could remember about the morning. At one point she got up and produced a plastic baggie with the note inside. The white paper was smeared brown and ripped from when Russell made contact with his shoe, but the menacing words printed with a black marker were clearly readable.

At about eight forty-five Beavers received a call. "Yeah, Kaplan. Thanks." He put his phone back in his pocket and looked at me. It wasn't good.

"What?"

"Three for three."

"You mean I got one, too?"

Beavers nodded.

"What did it say?"

He glanced at Birdie and then cleared his throat. "Uh, he called you a know-it-all in not such nice words."

Then he stood. "I'm sorry about this, Mrs. Watson, but my gut tells me this is probably an unrelated prank. Dog excrement isn't usually a killer's weapon of choice, but I'll order a patrol to swing by here for the next few days." Then he looked at me. "Ms. Rose, can I speak to you for a minute?"

We stepped outside, avoiding the brown mess, and when I glanced across the street, Ray's car was there. Then Joey drove up in his truck. He jumped out and hurried inside his mother's house. In a short time, Richie and the other boys would arrive to complete the circle of protection. If anyone wanted to harm Lucy, they were going to have to get past six Mondello men.

"Where exactly are you staying?" He looked at the activity across the street.

"I'm still at Lucy's."

"Good. That's the best place for you right now." He looked back at Birdie's house. "I don't think Mrs. Watson should be left alone to wait for her husband to come back from wherever he went."

"Yeah. I'll stay with her."