Part 4 (1/2)
Beavers bristled. ”I know. I helped run down some of that evidence. You're not implying the LAPD is involved in some sort of new conspiracy, are you?”
Didn't Kaplan say he graduated from the Beaumont School?
”No, of course not. But I am sure Ed is right. Something bigger is going on.”
Beavers put his arm around my shoulders again as he drank his tea.
I looked at him. ”Is Ed under arrest?”
”Kaplan's interviewing him now.”
”Kaplan, huh? Poor Ed. Arlo, you must have seen the homeless camp right across the river. Maybe they witnessed the killing. Maybe they could prove Ed wasn't the killer.”
”We're way ahead of you. We're looking for them now. There's evidence a man and a woman were living in those bushes.”
Wow! I need to remember that when I meet up with Switch.
I tried to imagine what living in a thicket would be like in the richest country in the world. Sure, the weather was warm now, but what would those poor people do in two or three months when the weather turned cold and rainy?
Beavers squeezed my shoulder. ”Listen, I know Pappas is a friend of yours and I know he's helped you in the past, but the thing is, you need to stay out of this. Right now, my captain has given Kaplan lead on this case because of you.”
”Why?” I knew the answer.
He leaned down and pulled me closer. ”Because everyone knows we're a thing. You can't investigate your own thing.”
He nuzzled my neck and I smiled, content to forget about Kaplan's snarky remark and everything else.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of Beavers knocking around dishes in the kitchen. The clock read eight. I'd overslept. b.u.mper jumped on the bed, purred, and tickled my face with his whiskers, tired of waiting for me.
”Okay, okay!” I rubbed the itch from my cheeks. ”I'm up.” I threw on my baby blue chenille robe and slippers, shuffled toward the kitchen, and found a pot of coffee already made.
Beavers stood at the counter, whipping up an omelet. His German shepherd, Arthur, jumped up and greeted me with a wagging tail. I skritched him behind his ears, just the way he liked it.
”When did he get here?”
Beavers looked at me over his shoulder and smiled. ”After you fell asleep last evening, I went home, ate, and brought him back with me. We didn't want you and b.u.mper to be alone.”
I came up behind him, wrapped my arms around his waist, and gave a squeeze. He turned around and I gave him a long, searching kiss; then I put my head on his chest, careful not to wrinkle his clean white s.h.i.+rt.
I still couldn't bring myself to say the L-word. Even though we'd been dating for four months, I feared that merely uttering the word would put me at a permanent disadvantage. Thanks to my divorce, I wasn't ready to go to that scary, vulnerable place.
Beavers had told me he understood. He'd been through a bad marriage too. He also seemed frustrated with my reluctance to wade deeper into our relations.h.i.+p. I sometimes worried he'd lose patience and give up on me.
”You okay?” he mumbled into the top of my head.
I smiled at him. ”Better than okay.”
He turned back to the stove and poured a mixture of egg, veggies, and cheese into a hot skillet with olive oil. ”You've switched to egg whites?”
I was too embarra.s.sed to tell him about joining Weight Watchers. Beavers, who was in his mid-fifties, had a lean, hard body. He ran every day with Arthur. When I chose ice cream, he chose fruit; beef, chicken; b.u.t.ter, olive oil. Bless him, because he never once criticized my extra pounds. In our intimate moments, he called me ”beautiful” and ”luscious.”
b.u.mper walked over to Arthur and rubbed his head against the dog's foreleg. Arthur lowered his head and the two of them briefly touched noses. The dog, a retired LAPD canine officer, now lived happily with Beavers. Four months ago, when a killer was after me, Arthur was my bodyguard.
I washed my hands and poured some half-and-half into a cup before I filled it with steaming-hot dark Italian roast. Since the shawarma sandwich and the biscotti were the only things I ate yesterday, I was still on track with Weight Watchers.
We sat at the table and devoured the steaming omelet and whole wheat toast. I switched on the small television in my kitchen and turned to the morning news, hoping to catch a weather report. The temperatures had hovered in the triple digits for the last week, and I hoped for some serious relief.
I turned up the volume when the announcer said, ”. . . body found yesterday at the Joshua Beaumont School baseball field in Encino. The victim was thirty-year-old Dax Martin, Beaumont's head baseball coach.” The scene switched to a talking head standing in front of the Beaumont School. ”Kip, what is the feeling at the school today?”
A square-jawed, frowning African-American reporter in a suit and tie spoke into a microphone. ”Well, Adam, the students here at Joshua Beaumont are stunned and saddened by their coach's death.”
The camera panned over to some students in maroon jackets, with the gold Beaumont crest on the breast pockets, wearing backpacks and talking on cell phones. Some girls were hugging and wiping tears from their eyes.
The camera panned back to Kip. ”As you can see, Adam, some of the students have already set up a memorial here at the entrance of the school.”
The scene switched to an iron gate stuffed with posters, notes, stuffed animals, baseb.a.l.l.s, and novena candles. ”This is a sad day for the school, Adam. Back to you.”
A photo of Dax Martin's smiling face appeared on the screen. Adam's voice said, ”Martin was a former San Jose State baseball all-star headed for the pros when knee and shoulder injuries cut his career short. His bad luck was good luck for Beaumont. The talented young coach took his players to three champions.h.i.+ps in the Mission League. Dax Martin was a loving husband and father of three small children, with another one expected in two months.”
The scene s.h.i.+fted back to the announcer. ”The school said they knew of no reason why Martin would have been at the field late on Sunday night, the estimated time of the murder. Police are following a few leads and say they have already located a person of interest.”
I looked at Beavers. ”By 'person of interest,' do you mean Ed?”
”Look, Martha, I can't control what the media says. Everyone who ever knew Martin is a person of interest in the investigation. What are your plans for today?”
”Today is Tuesday, so we're going to Birdie's house to quilt, like we always do.”
The paper napkin made a swis.h.i.+ng sound over his mustache when he wiped his mouth. He got up and carried his plate to the sink. ”I'm leaving Arthur here to watch over things, if you don't mind.”
”Sure. Fine. But there's nothing to worry about.” He looked at me sideways. ”Tell that to someone who doesn't know you.”
CHAPTER 8.
I arrived at Birdie Watson's house at ten on the dot. Birdie was Lucy's across-the-street neighbor in another area of Encino; The three of us had been quilting together for the last fifteen years, ever since I retired early from my administrative job at UCLA.
During those years, we'd helped each other through family crises and health problems, as well as birthdays, graduations, and joyful events. We were sisters despite our age differences. At fifty-five, I'm the youngest. Lucy's in her sixties and Birdie's in her seventies.
The fragrance of summer roses, lavender, and gardenias hung on the warm morning air and circled around me as I walked through Birdie's English garden to her front door. When I entered the cool house, the aroma of freshly baked applesauce cake teased me-my favorite. Already the calculator in my head worked out how big a piece I could have and still stay within my daily calorie allotment. The results weren't promising.
Birdie gave me a warm hug. ”I made your favorite cake today.” (As if she needed to tell me!) She wore her signature denim overalls, with a white T-s.h.i.+rt and Birkenstock sandals. Her pure white braid hung down her back in a long rope, while little wisps fluttered around her face like downy feathers.
We each claimed our favorite spot in Birdie's living room. Mine was an overstuffed green chenille easy chair that had arms wide enough to hold my sewing supplies. I settled in, adjusted my gla.s.ses, and spread open the Dresden Plate quilt I'd just started st.i.tching. The Dresden Plate pattern is a circle divided into scalloped wedges, each wedge a different fabric. I centered one of the plates featuring pink and yellow prints into a fourteen-inch wooden hoop to hold the fabric taut. This would ensure two things: the bottom layer of the quilt wouldn't pucker, and my st.i.tches would be small and even.
I typically worked on more than one project at a time. In addition to selecting materials with Lucy yesterday for the new sc.r.a.ppy Jacob's Ladder quilt in my sewing room, six other quilt tops waited to be layered with batting and backing and basted together in preparation for quilting. I had already basted the Dresden Plate and recently had begun the long process of sewing the three layers together by hand, one st.i.tch at a time.
Birdie set a cup of fresh coffee with cream beside me. ”I'll bet we're the last holdouts in the guild. So few women quilt by hand anymore.” Birdie was right. The majority of quilters in the West San Fernando Valley Quilt Guild used a sewing machine to do the work.