Something's Knot Kosher (14 page)

C
HAPTER
24

We left Interstate 5 near Salem and headed west on Highway 22. Lucy drove in silence. Her mood had improved since yesterday's outburst, but she still seemed more stressed than I'd ever seen her. She was a no-nonsense pragmatist, the kind of person who could step in and fix a problem while others were still debating what to do. I could only guess that waiting helplessly while her son dealt with the disappearance of his family must have been killing her.

Birdie had abandoned whatever she'd been working on earlier. The closer we got to McMinnville, the quieter she became, just staring out the window. She jumped a little when her cell phone rang. “Oh, Rainbow. Have you settled in? Good, good. We're going straight to Yoder Brothers Mortuary. Then we'll caravan to Pioneer Cemetery.” She listened and then said, “Last night Denver said he'd meet us all there. Yes, I'm very nervous. Okay. See you soon.” The call ended and she said, “That was Rainbow. I called her yesterday after the accident to let her know we'd be a day late.”

I became hyperalert. “Birdie, you never mentioned Denver called last night.”

She turned slightly in her seat. “He didn't call me. I called him. I wanted to also let him know why we were arriving a day late.”

Jazz looked up from the sketch pad, where he was drafting a design for yacht wear. “Are you talking about Denver Watson, Rusty's brother? You're in actual contact with him?”

“Yes.”

Jazz sniffed his disapproval. “It's just that they didn't get along. I don't think they've spoken since their mother died. I'm surprised he's coming, that's all.”

Birdie rubbed her fingers together. “They had a complicated relationship, dear. They may have been angry with each other, but they were brothers. We should allow Denver to pay his respects without judging him.”

That was vintage Birdie speaking; always ready to accept and forgive. But had she forgotten the potential danger awaiting her? Denver said he wanted something back from Russell. She figured out it must be the bearer bonds belonging to his parents. How far had Denver been willing to go to get them? Did he hire Levesque to kill his brother and steal the bonds from Birdie's house? Birdie had confided Denver was the only man she'd ever truly loved. Was the memory of their shared past blinding her to the dangerous realities of the present?

We continued to drive past vineyards and farms.

At the transition, north on Highway 99, Birdie said, “It won't be long now.”

Sure enough, we passed a road sign that read
MCMINNVILLE, 20 MILES.
The afternoon sun was high overhead, and a few wispy clouds swept across an impossibly blue sky. The black Caddy ate up the last bit of highway with the same effortless power as when it crested the Grapevine just north of LA.

Jazz closed his sketchbook and slipped it in an outside pocket of the yellow tote bag. “Do you know how to get there, Birdie?”

“The cemetery is actually a little farther up the road, right outside the tiny town of Lafayette. But first we have to stop at the mortuary in McMinnville.”

About five miles outside our destination, the unmarked black SUV sped up and took the lead. We followed the FBI car past gently rolling fields, some lined with neat rows of heavy grapevines, others carpeted with green. The fields eventually gave way to the manicured campus of Linfield College. White stone columns dressed the stately old red brick buildings and, for a moment, I felt we could be in Indiana or Ohio. “I had no idea it was so beautiful up here.”

Jazz sighed. “Rusty always talked about this place with mixed feelings. It has been his family's home for generations. He called it ‘bucolic.' But he wasn't comfortable here as a gay man.”

We drove slowly through the small town. I'd googled McMinnville before we left LA, and learned the streets had been laid out by the town's settlers during the great migration west before the Civil War. City parks provided generous green spaces with old-fashioned streetlights along the pathways. Turn of the twentieth century architecture preserved the quaint feeling, including a Carnegie library built in the late 1800s and old storefronts turned into restaurants with outdoor cafés.

“Look!” Lucy pointed to a wooden sign hanging above the entrance of a large store:
MILLER'S, SINCE 1943. FABRICS, NOTIONS, SEWING SUPPLIES
was painted on the windows where antique quilts and brand-new sewing machines were displayed. “Maybe I'll find more of those tiny polka dots that work so well as a background fabric.”

She didn't need to say anything else. Lucy, Birdie, and I had one cardinal rule: if we found a new quilt shop, we had to check it out. There was nothing that excited a quilter more than stumbling upon a new store, because every shop had its own personality.

Cotton cloth manufacturers typically produced several fabric collections every year, each in many different colorways. With offerings from dozens of manufacturers, quilters could choose from hundreds of different designs. However, no single fabric store could carry every possible pattern and colorway. Therefore, each store offered its own unique selection of dry goods.

Fabrics, like fashions, reflected seasonal trends. Some years, certain colors were plentiful while others were hard to find. During the 1980s, most colors were grayed and dull. In the 1990s, Amish quilts became popular. The simple geometric designs used by the Amish featured solid fabric in clear colors set against dark backgrounds. Manufacturers introduced solid and print fabrics in colors that were truer and brighter. Around the turn of the twenty-first century, reproduction fabrics from the 1930s reflected both pastel and bright colors from that era. Then around 2005, reproduction fabrics from the 1800s trended into popularity. Colors became grayed again—completing the circle.

Exploring a new quilt shop held for us the promise of discovering unique treasures and an opportunity to add fresh fabrics to our collections. I knew we'd be back here in the next day or so.

We followed the SUV into the parking lot of Yoder Brothers, a one-story red brick building. Gravel crunched under the tires as we stopped at the far edge near a tangle of wild blackberry vines. Lancet sent Tucker and O'Neal to check out the building while she stood next to Lucy's Caddy.

My body was stiff from sitting so long without a break. Pain shot down my hip when I stood. I grabbed Arthur's leash and limped with him to a nearby cypress tree where he relieved himself. Then I poured some water into his stainless steel dish and gave him a well deserved drink.

Jazz unfolded himself from the backseat and carried Zsa Zsa to a soft patch of dirt where she squatted. He praised her copiously.

Lancet sauntered over to me and spoke quietly. “While we were driving, I got a hit on VICAP.” She was talking about the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program database the FBI maintains.

I whipped my head around in surprise. “That was fast. How bad is it?”

Jazz was approaching us with Zsa Zsa in his arms.

“I'll tell you later.”

When everyone was ready, we moved toward the entrance. Birdie hung on Lucy's arm. Agent O'Neal offered to stand outside with Arthur, so I handed over the leash and grabbed Birdie's other arm. If Denver Watson waited inside, I wanted her to have plenty of support and protection.

My eyes took awhile to adjust to the dim interior. Another figure standing nearby appeared as a shadow at first. Gradually, I made out a buck-toothed man in a black suit with a solemn expression.

He glanced at Agent Tucker for a nod of approval then approached us with nervous steps. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked at the three of us. “Mrs. Watson?”

Birdie tilted her head. “I'm Mrs. Watson.”

Bucktooth nodded once. “I'm Milton Yoder, proprietor of Yoder Brothers, at your service. If you follow me to my office, I have some papers for you to sign. Then we can arrange for you to take one last look at Mr. Watson if you wish.”

Lucy and I kept hold of Birdie, and Jazz walked with us into the Spartan office of Milton Yoder. Every surface was clean, dusted, and completely devoid of any decorative item, with one exception. Behind the desk hung a picture of praying hands holding a cross on a chain.

Jazz sat next to Birdie, facing Yoder, while Lucy and I stood behind their chairs.

While Milton Yoder explained the paperwork to Birdie, I leaned over and whispered to Lucy, “I have to tell you something before Birdie goes in and looks at Russell again.” I pulled her by the sleeve and led her back near the door.

“What?” she whispered back.

“The quilt was missing.” I could tell by the look on her face she didn't understand what I was saying. “The Baltimore Album quilt. In Russell's coffin. When we discovered Levesque's corpse, didn't you notice? In order for the killer to fit him in there with Russell, he had to remove the quilt.”

Lucy's eyes widened and she mouthed, “No!”

I dipped my head slowly. “Birdie's quilt is missing, and I forgot to tell her.”

“Maybe she'll want to skip the part about looking at him again,” Lucy whispered.

Birdie finished signing the documents and handed the pen back to Yoder.

He tapped the papers on the desk to make a neat pile and stapled them together. “Do you wish to view Mr. Watson again?”

Lucy and I exchanged a worried glance.

“After everything that's happened, I want to make sure it's my husband we're actually burying today, and not someone else.”

Yoder looked at Jazz. “Perhaps your son could make the identification?”

Jazz sat up straight. “Russell Watson was not my father. He was my fiancé.”

Yoder's eyes clouded over.

“Birdie,” I hastily interrupted. “I hate to see you go through that again. Why don't you let me look for you? It'll only take a minute. Then we can leave for the cemetery and do what we came to do.”

She gave me a grateful smile. “That's so thoughtful, dear. We'll wait right here until you're through.”

Lucy winked at me and gave me thumbs-up. Crisis averted.

As Yoder led me down the hallway, I asked, “Are any other mourners here besides us?”

He clasped his hands again. “Yes. I believe a brother is here as well as a few friends. They were told to wait in the chapel by the authorities. I must say, I've never handled a funeral where the FBI was involved. We're a quiet little town here.” He looked at me accusingly. “Christian. God-fearing.”

Without another word, he opened the door of a small room where Russell's mahogany coffin sat on a low platform. The top had two deep scratches it must have received when it fell out of the back of the hearse. Someone tried to disguise them with a darker stain.

Yoder raised the lid. “Please confirm this is the deceased, Russell Watson.”

I took a deep breath and peeked inside. Sure enough, I'd been right about the quilt being missing. Russell's orange makeup was smeared, and his clothes reeked of the decomposing corpse that had lain on top of him for three days. I gagged and quickly backed away. “Were you really going to allow Mrs. Watson to see her husband in this condition?”

He shrugged. “We could clean him up for a fee.”

“Just close him up good and tight and get him in the ground as fast as you can. If you don't want to be part of the biggest lawsuit in the history of your God-fearing town, you will never—I repeat, never—breathe a word of his condition to Mrs. Watson. Do I make myself clear?”

Yoder blinked and nodded. We returned to his office, where my friends chatted quietly.

I forced myself to smile at Birdie and Jazz. “You can both relax. Russell's tucked away nice and safe. He's ready to make his final journey.”
And the sooner the better
. “Shall we go?”

Birdie's shoulders slumped with relief. “Thank heavens. Yes, let's go. I'm ready.”

“Follow me to the chapel, please.” Yoder gestured toward the other end of the hallway and threw me a dirty look as I followed Russell's widow out the door.

Lucy and I each flanked Birdie and escorted her down the hall. Jazz fell in next to me. The four of us linked arms and marched toward the door of the chapel, knowing Denver Watson waited inside.

C
HAPTER
25

A dozen men and women turned in the polished wooden pews to look at us as we entered the chapel. One man sat alone in a middle pew, staring intently at Birdie. He bore a strong resemblance to Russell Watson.

An elegant blonde in a short upsweep rushed over to Birdie. She wore an expensive cream-colored pantsuit and blouse. Diamonds dripped from her ears, fingers, and wrist. I recognized the scent of Bvlgari Rose Parfum hovering around her in an intoxicating cloud. I guessed she was around Lucy's age, somewhere in her very well-preserved sixties.

She and Birdie hugged each other for several seconds.

Finally, Birdie pulled back a little so she could look at her friend. “Rainbow! I'm so glad to see you. How was your flight?”

“Comfortable. It helps to have your own jet.”

“You holding up okay?” she asked.

Birdie shrugged. “Fine, all things considered.”

The elegant blonde bent down, whispered something in the older woman's ear, and pointed to the man in the middle row. When Birdie looked his way, he stood and slowly ambled toward her. The fringes on the sleeve of his brown suede jacket danced as he raised his arm to remove his hat. Underneath his Stetson, his hair was white, like his brother's, but longer; combed behind his ears and curling over the collar of his denim shirt.

His blue eyes sparkled as they gazed at Birdie. “Hey, Twink.”

All the wrinkles in Birdie's face seemed to relax and disappear, and a soft smile curled her lips. “Denny.”

I looked at Lucy, who seemed as perplexed as I was. This guy didn't seem like a threat at all. Denver Watson looked about as far away from vengeful as a man could get. Was this just a ploy to charm the vulnerable Birdie out of a quarter of a million dollars in bearer bonds?

He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “We've got a lot of catching up to do.”

Reluctantly, Lucy, Jazz, and I stepped away to give them a little privacy. We moved to one of the back pews.

The blonde joined us and offered a slender hand with a French manicure. “I'm Sandra Prescott.” She smiled. “But my friends call me Rainbow.”

“I'm Martha Rose.” I introduced the others. “I'm happy to meet you. Birdie's told us a little about you. All good, of course.”

She smiled. “Well, she's told me a
lot
about you. I can't imagine how we avoided running into each other all those times I visited LA.”

Lucy waved her hand. “She probably wanted you all to herself, hon.”

“This is a terrible business about Russell, isn't it?” Rainbow scowled and lowered her voice. “I can't help feel I'm somehow responsible.”

What was it with Russell Watson that so many people wanted to take responsibility for his death? First Jazz and his secrets and now Sandra Prescott, aka Rainbow.

“Care to elaborate?”

She shook her head, and every short blond hair stayed perfectly in place. “Not now. But we'll talk later, Martha. Birdie's told me you're very good at solving crimes.”

“Why don't you go to the FBI with your suspicions? I hear they're also pretty good at that sort of thing.”

“I have my reasons.” Rainbow stopped speaking when Birdie waved us over. “We'll talk.”

The four of us joined the older couple, although Jazz hung back a little. Birdie introduced Lucy and me as her quilting friends. She reached for Jazz's hand and pulled him in closer. “This is Jazz Fletcher, your brother's longtime partner and fiancé.”

The scowling Jazz hesitated for a moment then stiffly shook Denver's hand and said, “You look like him, in a taller, cowboy sort of way.”

Denver regarded his brother's lover. “I'm sorry for your loss, Fletcher.”

Jazz nodded once but said nothing. Clearly his knickers were in a twist about something. Jazz must know more about what happened between Russell and Denver than he was saying. What was it?

The things I had to find out were piling up. What were Denver's true intentions toward Birdie, and why was Jazz so upset? Why did Rainbow feel responsible for Russell's death, and how did the red diary figure in?

One by one, the other mourners in the room walked up to Birdie. Some old friends showed up, including a woman in a pantsuit with her white hair gelled into a spiky Mohawk hairdo. Rainbow introduced her as Nancy King and explained she'd been trained by Russell to take over the financial management of Aquarius when he left. Others introduced themselves as Watson cousins, including Carol Anne, a registered dietician, and Johnny, an air traffic controller.

Yoder approached Birdie and said, “Mrs. Watson, I'm told your minister is waiting at Pioneer Cemetery. It's time to leave. Your car will follow right behind the hearse.”

Birdie hadn't wanted a chapel service but had asked an old friend of hers from the commune to officiate at the graveside. “I'm ready.”

“Ladies and gentlemen—” Yoder cleared his throat and raised his voice over the quiet chatter.

The room fell silent.

“We will now proceed to Pioneer Cemetery, five miles up the road. Please turn on your headlights and form a line with your cars behind Mrs. Watson's car.”

Our funeral procession crept at thirty-five miles per hour up Highway 99. Denver and Rainbow followed directly behind Lucy's car in a late-model Dodge pickup truck.

“Did you know this cemetery is haunted?” Birdie asked.

“Get out,” Jazz said.

“The story is legend around here. Back in the 1800s, Lafayette was the county seat. A local man, Gus Marple, was tried and convicted of murdering his mother's boyfriend. They say the mother, Anna, who was a witch, put him up to it.”

“Mothers and sons,” Jazz said. “I could write a book.”

“Watch it!” Lucy warned. “I've got five boys of my own.”

“Anyway,” Birdie said, “they hanged Gus right there in the cemetery. Anna watched her only son die. When it was over, she cursed the town of Lafayette. She condemned it to burn down three times. Since then, the town has been destroyed by fire twice.”

Lucy, who swore she had a sixth sense, listened to the story closely. “What about the third time?”

“They're still waiting.”

The hearse made a left-hand turn on a dirt road outside the hamlet of Lafayette. A small wooden sign nailed to the scaly trunk of a western white pine tree read
PIONEER CEMETERY, ESTABLISHED 1850.
Our cars snaked carefully through the neglected graveyard, where wild grasses and weeds grew knee-high. Over the decades, a relentless army of trees from the surrounding forest had invaded that resting place, swallowing the graves as it progressed. Their roots strangled many of the headstones, reducing them to jagged rubble. The surviving grave markers were so worn by the frequent rains of the Northwest, they appeared to be nearly unreadable. A few of the oldest headstones were still discernible several yards deep into the forest.

Yoder stopped near the tree line at the edge of the cemetery, just behind a battered blue Ford Taurus on the narrow road. A woman wearing a flowing white caftan emerged from the Taurus, carrying a large cardboard carton with holes punched in the sides. Her gray hair, crowned by a wreath of flowers, fell loosely to her waist. She placed the carton by an open grave and made her way quickly toward us.

She and Birdie fell into an embrace.

“Phoebe dear. How long has it been?”

“When did you and Russell leave Aquarius? Forty years ago? More?”

Birdie introduced us. “This is my old friend, Phoebe Marple.”

Marple? As in the ghost's family?

Denver and Rainbow joined them, and Phoebe embraced each in turn. “I'm so glad the universe has brought us back together again.”

Three women wearing identical purple robes emerged from Phoebe's Taurus, carrying shallow drums and rawhide mallets. They drifted toward the grave and stood together at the foot.

Lucy scanned the area and whispered, “I thought Yoder said the minister was already here.”

Jazz tilted his head in Phoebe's direction. “I think he was referring to the head forest fairy over there.”

Phoebe grabbed Birdie's hand. “Are you ready?”

“First, I want you to meet someone.” Birdie walked over to Jazz, took his hand, and led him to the circle of friends. “This is Jazz Fletcher. He was the love of Russell's life. They were going to be married.”

Phoebe searched Jazz's eyes and in the gentlest of voices said, “I am so very sorry for your loss. I can see the love. I can feel the suffering.”

Jazz's whole posture slumped, and he covered his face with both hands. Through his tears, he managed to choke out, “Thank you.”

Phoebe didn't hesitate to hug him as warmly as she had hugged her old friends. “Pain, like pleasure, is transitory, Jazz. You will eventually achieve a new balance. But for now, let your tears flow.”

While Birdie talked to her friends, I inspected the Watson family plot. Unlike the rest of the cemetery, someone had paid to keep the weeds cut and the trees from invading. Although weathered, the ancient headstones were still readable. I studied the ones closest to where I stood.

Poor Sarah hadn't been entitled to a last name or an epitaph on her tombstone. Back in those days, a married woman rarely had an identity of her own, apart from her husband's. Even Sarah's friends might have addressed her as “Mrs. Watson,” according to the convention of the times.

Yoder and three assistants rolled Russell's casket out of the back of the hearse. They placed it on heavy industrial straps suspended over the freshly dug hole.

Yoder nodded at Phoebe. “We're ready whenever you are.”

She stationed Birdie and Jazz on one side of the grave and Denver and Rainbow on the other. Then Phoebe took her place at the head of the grave. She closed her eyes and spread her arms wide in a welcoming gesture. “We call the spirits of the departed, who sleep in this sacred ground, and upon the elemental deities. Come forth!”

The three purple-robed women beat the drums. “Arise ye souls from glad repose,” they chanted.

Lucy nudged me with her elbow.

Phoebe opened her eyes and looked toward the sky. “We entreat you. Gather round your kin Russell Watson and welcome his spirit into the generations.”

“Welcome, welcome,” pulsed the chorus and drums.

Eyes closed once again, Phoebe began to sing in a reedy voice, “I Shall Be Released.”

Yoder's face wore a disapproving scowl.

Phoebe lowered her arms when she finished, and all her commune friends snapped their fingers in applause, while the chorus tapped a rapid rhythm on the drums.

Jazz looked bewildered.

“Would anyone like to say a few words about our friend Russell?” Phoebe asked.

Slowly at first, people began to recall the ways in which Russell Watson had touched their lives, or the role he played in arranging loans to family and friends over the years. Cousin Johnny recalled fishing trips on the Columbia River all the boy cousins had taken with their grandfather.

Birdie began to speak softly. “Russell and I dated each other in college. At the time, I didn't know he was gay. When we went to live in Aquarius, we both found happiness with other people, but we always remained best friends. Around the time Russell left Aquarius, I traveled to India, where I had a traumatic experience that changed my life. When I returned to the States, I suffered a kind of breakdown. Nowadays you'd call it PTSD. Anyway, Russell offered me a sheltered life and promised to always care for me and keep me safe. So we married.”

All the time Birdie spoke, Denver never took his gaze off her. I read both anguish and rage on his face.

Birdie cleared her throat. “For more than forty years, Russell kept his promise. I never wanted for anything material. He worked hard to keep me financially secure. And I kept my half of our arrangement by protecting his secrets. We depended on each other. About twenty-five years ago, Russell fell in love with a talented young man, Jazz Fletcher.” Birdie grabbed Jazz's hand. “They were going to be married. After all those years, Russell was finally ready to come out of the closet.”

She stepped forward and put her other hand on the coffin lid. Her voice quavered. “But then he was murdered. I'm so sorry, Russell dear. You deserved better.”

All eyes were focused on Jazz, who had removed Zsa Zsa from the yellow tote bag on his arm and was now holding her to his chest.

He looked around nervously. “He was my knight in shining armor. He was my everything.” Tears streamed down his face. “I don't know how I'll live without you, Rusty.” Jazz buried his face in Zsa Zsa's long white fur and sobbed.

Birdie patted his back.

Right on cue, the ladies in the robes pounded out a slow dirge and moaned in high, arching voices, “Ahhh. Ohhhh.”

Denver cleared his throat. “I'd like to say something. Russ was my brother, and I had a brother's love for him growing up. Now I realize he may've helped some of you financially, but he was also a selfish, self-centered SOB who took something that should have been mine.”

Everyone gasped. Jazz stopped crying and became a thundercloud, opening and closing his fists. Birdie put a calming hand on his arm.

“Didn't see that coming,” Lucy whispered in my ear.

Denver's face had hardened. “Wherever he is right now, he's got a lot to answer for.”