Part 7 (1/2)
Lucy opened the door, took one look at my face, and pulled me inside. ”What happened?”
”I'm an idiot.”
We sat at her kitchen table and she kept saying, ”Oh, my G.o.d!” as I told her the story of the meeting with Switch, the fight, the injured dog, the flirty blond vet, and the breakup with Beavers.
When I told her about Crusher's morning visit and Beavers finding me in my bathrobe, she just shook her head. ”You're right. You're an idiot. This about tops every reckless thing you've ever done. If I could, I'd break up with you too.”
”Thanks a lot.”
”Look. I've known you longer than Arlo has. I know you'd never deliberately hurt anyone. In fact, under normal circ.u.mstances, you're a very compa.s.sionate person.”
”Thanks.” I inhaled deeply and began to relax. My best friend always knew how to comfort me.
”Not so fast, girlfriend. I also know Arlo's right. You're stubborn as a one-eyed mule. You never just dabble. You always jump headfirst into things. When you're on a mission, you lose sight of everyone and everything else around you. Your judgment goes to H-E-double-sticks!” She wiggled her fingers in air quotes.
”Don't hold back, Lucy.”
”And don't get me started about the chip on your shoulder. Okay, your ex-husband was a cla.s.s-A jerk. Now get over it. If you want any hope of getting Arlo back, you'll have to adjust your att.i.tude. There! I've said it.”
”Don't I deserve some trust as well? I mean, Arlo admitted I was right all along about the murder four months ago. Why can't he believe my judgment in this case? I know Ed, and that guy would never commit murder. And the accusation about me and Crusher? So offensive!”
”He'll calm down. Just give him some s.p.a.ce right now.”
I sighed. ”You're right. I do go overboard sometimes. I can be selfish and single-minded, but I don't mean to be. Oh, I don't know what to think anymore. My brain is a mess and I feel like c.r.a.p.”
”Go home and look at your new quilt. Maybe working on it will help you make sense out of all those pieces floating around in your head.”
I drove back home, determined to follow Lucy's advice. The thermometer on my dashboard put the outside temperature in the nineties. I rushed from the air-conditioning of my car to the cool interior of my house. I cleaned up the coffee cups and donut crumbs, put in a load of laundry, and made my bed.
As I worked, I kept wondering about Dax Martin, the loving husband, father, and beloved coach, versus Dax Martin, the pompous jerk and bully.
A savage beating indicated his killing was personal, an act of rage. Who was Dax Martin really, and whom did he p.i.s.s off so fatally?
Completing the household ch.o.r.es freed me to lose myself in the creative process of designing and piecing a new quilt top. A colorful pile of cotton textiles waited on my sewing table to be transformed into Jacob's Ladder blocks, but I couldn't start just yet. If unwashed cotton material is sewn into a quilt, it can shrink when washed, causing the seams to split. I'd made a rule to wash and preshrink every new piece of fabric I bought before bringing it into my sewing room.
However, washed cotton becomes wrinkly and has to be ironed before cutting. I turned on my steam iron and sat at the ironing board for two hours, slowly pressing the creases out of all the dozens of different pieces of cloth. Even though I hated to iron clothes, I loved to prepare my beautiful textiles. I took time to admire each unique pattern. Once a piece was smooth, I lined up the selvedge edges, made sure it was square, and carefully pressed the folds in preparation for precision cutting.
Ironing for the last two hours had also smoothed some of the wrinkles from my brain. I could once again think in logical sequence without being mugged by tears. I turned off the iron, stood, and stretched. Then I walked to the laundry room and transferred the clean load out of the washer. My new athletic shoes thumped dully against the stainless-steel drum, turning inside the dryer.
I thought again about the witnesses. Where had Javier and Graciela gone? How could I find them? Had I missed anything at the crime scene? Forgotten any detail? Despite the heat, I decided to take a quick walk back to the river to jog my memory. I planned not to go any farther than the yellow police tape. If I did, it would be just my luck for Detective Kaplan to show up.
Since my new athletic shoes were in the dryer, I wore my gardening shoes, a pair of bubble-gum-pink Crocs that made me look like Barbie's plump mother.
CHAPTER 13.
A Joshua Beaumont groundskeeper rode a large green power mower in straight lines over the outfield. A very tall young woman stood on the street at the chain-link fence and gazed in his direction. She wore a pair of white slacks and a gauzy white s.h.i.+rt over a black halter top. Her long, Malibu-blond hair drooped in the hot sun, and large sungla.s.ses covered her face. A yellow Mercedes SL convertible sat at the curb behind her.
As I got closer, I could see she was crying. She held a wad of tissues in her right hand and lifted her sungla.s.ses with her left so she could wipe her eyes. The sun glinted off the large diamonds in her wedding ring. Expensive hair, expensive car, big diamonds-clearly, she was a Joshua Beaumont person.
I stopped about three feet away from her. ”Hi.”
She glanced at me, blew her nose, and looked away.
”Are you okay?”
She took a shaky breath and sniffed. ”I'm fine,” she said in a voice hoa.r.s.e from crying.
”I'm guessing you knew Dax Martin.”
She turned sharply toward me. ”Who are you?”
”My name is Martha Rose. I live in that house over there.” I pointed to the one near the end of the street. ”I went for a walk a couple of days ago and found his body.”
She must have been as tall as Lucy in her bare feet, because she stood well over six feet in her platform sandals. She dabbed her eyes and blew her nose again. ”I just can't believe what happened.”
I put my hand rea.s.suringly on her arm. ”Are you his wife?”
She took a step backward. ”Oh no, I'm an old friend. We went to high school together. Beaumont. We used to joke we both ended back where we started.”
”How do you mean?”
”Dax worked for my husband, Jefferson. He's the headmaster of Beaumont. I'm Diane Davis.” She offered her hand, apparently forgetting she'd just used it to blow her nose.
”Well, I can see how Mr. Martin's death would be such a personal loss. I'm so sorry.”
”You saw him. Did he . . . Did he die right away?”
Oh, my G.o.d. How should I know? He may have been conscious through the whole savage beating, in which case he would have suffered greatly.
”I'm not an expert, but I think it was an ambush. The attack was probably over very quickly.”
Her hands shook as she covered her face.
The severe August sun was creeping toward its zenith. ”I need to get out of this heat. Can I offer you a cold drink back at my house? It's much cooler inside.”
She hesitated for a moment and then relaxed. A sniff, more nose blowing, and ”Yeah, I could really use something cold. Just let me close up the car.”
She walked rather skillfully on her five-inch platforms. I wore a more moderate version of platform sandals in the 1970s. They boosted me all the way up to five feet five, but I turned my ankle once and nearly broke my neck in the fall. Now my shoes were all about comfort, and I painted quite a contrast walking alongside this dazzling California girl in my bubble-gum-pink rubber shoes.
The inside of my house felt mercifully cool. I gestured for Diane to sit on the sofa. ”I have diet cola or water. Which would you prefer?”
She took off her sungla.s.ses and her puffy red eyes disturbed an otherwise perfect face. ”Water and lots of ice, if you have it.”
We sat for a minute, just enjoying our drinks. Between sips Diane pressed the frosty gla.s.s against her forehead and around her eyes.