Quilting Mystery: Knot In My Backyard Part 10

"Does she drive a yellow Mercedes?"

Miguel looked shocked.

I was right! Diane Davis and Dax Martin were having an affair.

"Did anyone else know about the coach and his girlfriend?"

He looked down and didn't answer.

"I know who she is, Miguel. Did her husband know-like the coach's wife said he did?"

He shuffled his feet in the dirt. "Please, Mrs. Martha."

I couldn't blame Miguel for not wanting to come right out and accuse his employer's wife of having an affair with the coach.

Dax Martin's murder was personal. Although I could sympathize, I could hardly see a small, pregnant woman beating her husband to death with a baseball bat, no matter how much he deserved it.

I doubted a rich and successful Beaumont parent, no matter how obnoxious, would kill Martin over his refusal to give their kid more playing time.

Diane's husband, Jefferson Davis, the control freak, was still the most likely suspect in Dax Martin's murder. If Javier and Graciela could confirm this, Ed would be out of the woods.

Of course this also meant Diane Davis could be in terrible danger. Who was to say Mr. Davis wouldn't turn his rage on her next? I worried for her safety.

"Did you tell any of this to the police?"

"No, Mrs. Martha. I mind my own business. They do not ask and I do not say." He looked worried. "Mrs. Martha? You know I could lose my job if they find out I talk to you. I have a family."

I smiled and put my hand on his arm. "I promise I won't tell the school you talked to me-not even if they send me to Guantanamo and pour water up my nose."

He relaxed a little and gave me a slight smile. "Gracias."

CHAPTER 18.

I continued to walk around the adjacent park to burn calories and put some mileage on my new exercise shoes. I stepped off the path to take a closer look at the deep violet flowers of a Mexican sage plant growing in a sunny patch. I smelled it before I saw the pasty dog c.r.a.p now staining the sides of my clean white Skechers.

Back home again, I sc.r.a.ped most of the doody off my shoes and put them in the laundry room to wash for the second time in a week. I was disappointed to find out I'd been gone only twenty-five minutes, including my conversation with Miguel.

His story about Coach Martin's affair was too good to keep to myself, so I put on my pink Crocs and walked over to Ed's house, five doors away. Ed opened his door, looked at my Barbie-pink rubber shoes and smiled. "Where's Ken?"

I walked inside. "I have some serious news, but we've got to be careful who we tell. If anyone at the Beaumont School finds out he gave us this information, Miguel could lose his job."

"Who's Miguel, and what did he say?"

"The groundskeeper. He confirmed Dax Martin had an affair with the headmaster's wife, Diane Davis, for the past several months. Then a week before he was killed, Martin had a huge argument with his pregnant wife. From what Miguel overheard, the enraged Mrs. Martin knew about the affair and told Jefferson Davis."

"Do you think Martin's wife killed him?"

"That's the thing. She's small and very pregnant. Probably not able to beat a big man like Martin to death with a baseball bat."

Ed looked impressed. "So you were right. Dax Martin could have been killed by the jealous husband of Diane Davis, the high-and-mighty headmaster of Beaumont School. Great news!"

"Well, great news for you. Not so much for Martin. He's still dead."

"Yeah. There's that. Wouldn't it be sweet to see the school taken down a peg by a scandal?"

Ed's phone rang. He had a brief conversation and hung up. "That was Simon. He's contacted a friend in the US Attorney's Office. He should have some new information in time for our meeting tomorrow."

I got up to leave. "Great. Hang in there, Ed. Things are beginning to look a whole lot better for you."

I made a quick trip to the market to get all the ingredients for dinner, including a loaf of braided challah and some kosher wine. Uncle Isaac would never sing the Shabbat blessings with just any wine.

I peeled fresh Idaho potatoes on top of a newspaper for easy cleanup. Then I shredded them in my food processor with fresh onion and prepared a kugel to go in the oven later in the afternoon. Even though I had remodeled my kitchen a little more than a year ago, I mostly used my microwave to prepare meals. Still, I hadn't lost the knack for cooking traditional Jewish dishes.

At about eleven, Lucy and Birdie showed up with quilts over their arms just as I put the brisket in my new stainless-steel oven.

"Coffee?" I asked.

Lucy shook her head and I followed as she and Birdie walked toward my sewing room. "Can't stay. We've just set up a workshop in the parish hall at Saint Winifred's. We've got about ten quilters and three sewing machines. Seven will be tying and three will sew on bindings. We brought you the five quilts that were already finished."

I examined the quilts lying on my cutting table. The blocks were simple Windmills, a square of eight triangles with their points meeting in the center. The alternating dark and light fabrics created a whirligig pattern. The backings were pieced with spare yardage and everything was tied together with perle cotton embroidery thread. Binding had been sewn on by machine, and the resulting blankets were utilitarian but cheerful.

Birdie tugged on her braid. "Martha dear, do you have any extra batting? We may not have enough."

I pulled out a bolt of low-loft pure cotton batting-as tall as I was-from the closet. Batting was usually sold in cuts just big enough for one quilt. Since I made so many quilts, I bought in bulk. "There should be enough for about six more quilts here."

Birdie felt the batting between her expert fingers and made a face. "We can't use all cotton, dear. Pure cotton batting needs to be st.i.tched in place so it doesn't separate. We need a polyester or poly-cotton blend that won't pull apart between the ties."

Of course I knew what Birdie meant. I'd seen some antique quilts tied every four inches. Over years of use, big lumps of cotton had bunched in between the ties. "Sorry. I can't help you, but I'll give you a donation to buy some more today."

Lucy smiled and held out her hand. "Seems only fair since this whole thing was your idea in the first place."

"By the way, I found out I was right about Diane Davis having an affair with Dax Martin."

Birdie perked up. "What's all this? Are you talking about that dead coach you found? Lucy told me about the young woman you suspected he had an affair with."

"How'd you find out?" Lucy demanded.

"I'm sworn to secrecy. But, believe me, I'm one hundred percent certain."

"You amaze me, Martha Rose."

I laughed. "I amaze myself sometimes."

After lunch I took a break from cooking and drove to the Boulevard to find Hilda. I wanted to know if she'd notified the people we were coming on Sunday. She was sitting with Rafi inside his restaurant. They were sipping something cold, and Rafi had just made her laugh. They both saw me at the same time and waved me over to the table.

Hilda's slightly greasy hair clung to her scalp, and dust and perspiration from the August heat coated her skin. A spot of grease stained the front of her Labradoodle T-s.h.i.+rt and the hem of her blue chambray skirt had picked up more dirt.

After a bit of small talk, I asked Hilda, "Have you told everyone about Sunday?"

"Yup, and they're pretty excited. They want to meet the woman responsible for gettin' rid of Switch."

I rolled my eyes. Then I got inspired. Tonight is Shabbat and I'm fixing a big dinner. Hilda is homeless. She could use a good, hot meal.

"Listen, Hilda, I have a large roast in the oven I have to get back to. I'd really love for you to come home with me and have dinner tonight."

Hilda looked at me for the longest time, fighting with some inner demon, trying to decide. Her eyes became glossy with tears. "What about my cart?" she asked in a small voice.

"We can load your stuff in the back of my car and bring it with us."

Rafi gently patted her hand. "You park your empty cart in back behind the Dumpster. n.o.body take it from there. Cart will be waiting for you."

"Yeah, okay." She wiped her eyes. "Yeah."

We drove to Ralphs grocery store, with the recycling center in the parking lot. Hilda exchanged two bulging black trash bags full of cans and bottles for a few dollars. She folded the empty bags and put them in the pocket of her skirt. The bills went down the front of her T-s.h.i.+rt.

When we arrived at my house, she said, "I know this house. I've seen it from the park. You have a nice yard."

Because of my fibromyalgia, I didn't do much of my own gardening anymore. My talented landscaper, Abraham, gave me the most beautiful yard on the street. Graceful pepper trees shaded the perimeter, and fragrant, drought-resistant plants, such as rosemary, sage, and lavender, grew in little communities. Even the white Iceberg roses did well in the xeriscape.

"Listen, Hilda, as long as you're here, you might as well take advantage of my washer and dryer. Do you have any clothes you'd like to wash?"

She seemed embarra.s.sed. "Yeah. It's hard to stay clean. I visit the Laundromat as often as I can, but those machines are expensive. I do a little was.h.i.+ng by hand in the restroom of a Mobil station over on the corner of Balboa and Burbank. They're real nice to me there 'cause I don't leave a mess afterward. They even pay me sometimes to clean the restrooms."

"What do you do with your wet clothes?"

"I go down by the wash, where n.o.body can see me, and hang them on a bush to dry."

Hilda pulled a sack of clothing out of the trunk of the car. She left something bulky behind.

"What about those?" I pointed to her bedroll and towel.

"I thought you might not want those in your machines. They're awfully dirty."

I smiled. "Don't worry. I've got heavy-duty appliances."

Hilda's guarded footsteps followed me to my front door.

CHAPTER 19.

The air-conditioning welcomed us as we came in out of the heat. The aroma of roasting meat, herbs, carrots, and onions filled the house. Hilda sniffed. "Smells so good."

I showed her to the laundry room, where she sorted her clothes. I went to check on the brisket and put the potato kugel in the oven. Soon there was a rapid clicking of the k.n.o.b turning on the was.h.i.+ng machine. Hilda started up the first load of clothes and walked shyly into the kitchen. "I really appreciate this. Thanks."

I smiled. "You know, I'm thinking now you're here, would you like to freshen up? Maybe take a nice cool shower?"

Hilda's eyes opened wide. "I would, but I don't have any clean clothes to put on yet."

"I think I might have something to fit you. Then you could also wash the clothes you have on."

I walked her to my daughter Quincy's old bedroom, where she slept on her visits home from the East Coast. A Grandmother's Flower Garden quilt covered a double-sized antique walnut sleigh bed. Hundreds of two-inch hexagons pieced in a mosaic of concentric circles of color mimicked the shapes of flowers. I worked over a whole year to sew the pieces together by hand and then quilt each individual hexagon.

I placed a fluffy white towel and washcloth in the all-white en suite bathroom and unwrapped a fresh bar of rose-scented soap.

Hilda pulled the bar of soap to her face, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. "Smells like my grandma's yard when I was a kid."

"Where was that?"

"Portland, Oregon. She took care of me after school while my parents worked. She'd have a batch of fresh, warm sugar cookies waiting for me every day after school." Hilda smiled wistfully.

"My grandmother, my bubbie, took care of me too. I lived with her and my mother and my uncle Isaac. Only Uncle Isaac is left. You'll meet him at dinner tonight. How about your folks?"

Hilda's shoulders sagged. "Oh, my grandma died a long time ago. My parents are . . . We don't really speak." She looked down and turned slightly away, struggling to maintain control.

I cleared my throat and opened one section of the bedroom closet. "Come and take a look. These are some of my daughter's clothes I've been meaning to take to the Goodwill. You're about the same size. Please feel free to take anything from this section to wear."

"Anything?"

"Yes, and I don't mean just one thing. Whatever you can use, you can take. Pants, blouses, skirts, anything."

Hilda gave me a funny look. "Why're you doing this? Why're you so sure you can trust me?"

That was a good question. I was a pretty good judge of people and simply felt in my bones Hilda would never harm anyone. "You've helped me a lot. I just want to return the favor." I jerked my head toward the bathroom and smiled. "Take as much time in there as you want."

Lucy and Birdie showed up around five with six more quilts. They didn't recognize Hilda. Her face and skin were no longer covered in grime. She wore a pair of gray corduroy trousers and a white peasant blouse from Guatemala, with bright embroidery around the neckline and on the puffy little sleeves. Her shoulder-length brown hair was clean and blow-dried. She lived a rough life, but her features still showed a lot of gentleness. She appeared to be somewhere in her early forties.

Lucy's mouth fell open when she figured out who Hilda was. "Well, don't you look absolutely wonderful!"

Amen to that.

No sooner did we put the newest quilts on my cutting table than the doorbell rang again. I left the three others in the sewing room and went to investigate.

Three hundred pounds of biker in a black T-s.h.i.+rt and red bandana walked in.

"Hey, babe. I just talked to Ed. He told me all about your conversation this morning with the-"

I held up my hand. "Don't say it. I promised him anonymity."