Quilting Mystery: Knot In My Backyard Part 1

KNOT IN MY BACKYARD.

MARY MARKS.

KNOT IN MY BACKYARD.

"Go home and look at your new quilt," Lucy said. "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 and 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 who did he p.i.s.s off so fatally?

This book is dedicated to the source of my nachas:.

Olivia & Chloe, Genevieve, Makayla, Lilliana, Danielle, Oliver & Camille, and Chyanne & Chelsea.

Nine girls, one boy, three sets of twins. Oy!.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Heartfelt grat.i.tude goes to my mentor, Jerrilyn Farmer, and my critique partners, Cyndra Gernet and Lori Dillman. Along with Dawn Dowdle, from Blue Ridge Literary Agency, you all made me so much better than I started out to be.

For technical help I'm indebted, as always, to Linda Greenberg Loper, retired Deputy DA, LA County-my source for all things legal. Also invaluable was the expertise of the very observant and somewhat legendary David Ham, Senior Lead Officer, LAPD West Valley Division.

And, finally, a big thank-you to John Scognamiglio and all the wonderful folks at Kensington, who work so hard to help this cozy-mystery author.

Writing this book was particularly satisfying for me because, although purely fictional, it was inspired by true events perpetrated by the US Army Corps of Engineers. If you want to know more, Google "Sepulveda Basin Wildlife Reserve Devastation."

CHAPTER 1.

Yesterday I joined Weight Watchers for the eighth time. The lecturer, Charlissa, told me to get rid of all the bad food in my house and take a walk every day. So I did what she said, confident this time I'd work the program successfully.

After a breakfast of egg whites scrambled in one teaspoon of olive oil, I bent over to put on my new white athletic shoes. The top of my size-sixteen Liz Claiborne stretch denim jeans dug into my waistline. No doubt about it. At the age of fifty-five, I, Martha Rose, was outgrowing the largest clothes in my closet. I didn't think I could feel any worse today, but I was dead wrong.

I lived with my orange cat, b.u.mper, in a friendly residential area of the San Fernando Valley. Directly behind my house stood a fenced-off baseball field. A ritzy private school, whose nearby campus ran out of room, had muscled their way in and built a large new stadium on park land right behind our quiet street.

On the far side of the field, less than two hundred yards away, the Los Angeles River flowed east through the San Fernando Valley, crossing Glendale to Downtown LA, and out to sea at Long Beach. I planned to walk around the perimeter of the field to the bank of the river and back again. What a mistake.

In the summertime, the air can sizzle by noon. At eight this morning in late August, the temperature had already reached seventy-nine degrees. Gravel crunched under the rubber soles of my new shoes as I ambled along a dry path just outside the tall chain-link fence around the baseball field and onto the riverbank. No bushes were allowed to grow on the near side, the private-school side of the river. Only small weeds and gra.s.ses parched in the heat. Thick coyote brush, deer weed, and cottonwood trees topped the far side of the riverbank.

Concrete covered the bottom of the river, and the slopes were sprayed with stucco, courtesy of the Army Corps of Engineers. In the wintertime, rainwater from the mountains transformed the LA River into a raging, swift-water death trap. Someone managed to drown in it every year. After the rainy season ended, the river dried to just a trickle. This day in late August, only a thin thread of brown water inched downstream.

Something scuttled through the dense brush on the far side of the river. The fluffy brindled tail of a coyote appeared just before he disappeared into the landscape. I also made out bits of color hidden beneath the larger bushes, flashes of metal and plastic. I could barely identify a couple of sleeping bags and what looked like a cooking pot. Those bushes sheltered the homeless almost year round. I just couldn't detect anyone there at the moment. The homeless knew how to become invisible.

As I walked on, I saw a large heap of clothing come into view about ten yards ahead. At first, I thought some people had used this isolated spot to dump their trash. When I walked closer, I made out the body of a man lying tangled inside the dark jeans and maroon-and-gold baseball jersey. The dark red ground underneath his battered head crawled with ants and flies. His jaw hung open at an unnatural angle, and I didn't need to check his pulse to know he didn't have one.

The shaking started somewhere in my knees, and my stomach pushed up toward my throat. This was the second time in four months I'd discovered a dead body. My head started to float away-dej vu all over again.

The first time I'd been with my quilting friends, Lucy Mondello and Birdie Watson, when we discovered the murdered body of another quilter. I was the one who eventually figured out the ident.i.ty of the killer. The guy who worked the case was Arlo Beavers, a tall, hunky LAPD homicide detective, with a white mustache.

Beavers and I have been dating since then, which is kind of surprising since we started off on the wrong foot. He kept warning me to stop poking around the investigation. In the end, he was right. Because I refused to stop searching for answers on my own, I was thrown in jail and almost killed. After that, I promised myself and my friends I'd just quilt like a normal person and leave the policing to the pros.

And now, I had to tell him I just stumbled on what was obviously another murder. How would he react? Still staring at the dead man, I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket with badly shaking hands. Thank goodness Beavers was on speed dial.

"Arlo, it's me. I just found a dead body."

He laughed. There was a long silence. "You're kidding, right?"

I looked over at the body again. "I'm on the far side of the baseball field behind my house. He's lying on the banks of the wash. There's so much blood. I feel sick."

Then I moaned as I felt my stomach rising.

Beavers shouted through the phone, "Martha? Martha!"

I doubled over and threw up all over my new white Skechers.

I just realized I knew the dead man.

CHAPTER 2.

I shuffled backward, dust forming a crust on my soiled shoes, until I hit the chain-link fence separating the well-manicured green outfield from the semi-wilderness of the watershed. I collapsed against the fence and slid down to the ground, waiting for the police to show up. So much for my walking career!

Moments later, sirens sounded. A young patrolman squatted next to me and his nose twitched when he glanced at my soiled shoes. "You all right, ma'am?"

"My pants are too tight."

He frowned with concern, looked over his shoulder, and waved a paramedic toward me. "She's in shock."

Beavers got there just as the guy removed the blood pressure cuff from my arm.

"Really, I'm fine!" I struggled to get up. The snap on my waistband popped open. Then two strong men lifted me by my arms to a standing position.

In contrast to my short plumpness, Beavers stood a lean six feet tall. His Native American eyes searched mine for rea.s.surance I was all right. He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and gently led me toward my house. "I'm going to walk you home, Martha. What were you doing back here?"

I pushed my gla.s.ses back on my nose. "Just taking a little stroll." I wasn't going to admit I needed to lose weight, just in case he hadn't yet noticed the extra pounds. "I came across the body and called you. Then I kind of got sick when I realized I knew the guy."

Beavers stopped walking and stared at me. "Good G.o.d, Martha. Not again."

I just looked down and continued to walk. "His name is Dax Martin. He's the head baseball coach for the Joshua Beaumont School. This is their baseball field."

"How do you know a baseball coach?" Beavers knew my idea of extreme sports was a one-hour stroll through a quilt show.

"We've had run-ins with him before."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Me and my neighbors. Long story."

When we got to my front door, I had to fish the keys out of my pocket with my fingertips. There wasn't room for my whole hand. Once inside, I turned on the air-conditioning, put my dirty shoes in the laundry room, and poured two gla.s.ses of water. We sat in my newly renovated kitchen, with its apricot-colored marble countertops and largely unused stainless-steel appliances. He leaned forward. "So, what exactly do you know about this guy?"

I closed my eyes. A migraine began to pound on the right side of my head. "He's an arrogant jock who works for a fancy private school. Their new school year started last week. During baseball season, they invade our community with lights, noise, and traffic. When they're done, they leave tons of trash on our streets. We complained to him many times, but he just ignored us."

He squinted at me. "Did you ever try going over his head? Contacting whoever runs the school?"

"Yeah. Several times. But what you saw back there isn't just a high-school baseball field. It's a million-dollar stadium. Those parents are rich and powerful. They expect the full Monty when they watch their boys play baseball. Do you think they care how their monstrosity impacts us?"

My Encino community was a well-defined and closely knit one. When our midcentury homes were built, the surrounding parks and river ensured an almost rural ambiance. Horseback riders from nearby farms used to amble where the private baseball stadium now stood.

"The new stadium with the two-story building and the two-story scoreboard has destroyed our view of the neighboring parks and mountains. Their loudspeakers prevent us from enjoying our own backyards. Our properties have been devalued by at least thirty percent because of them."

"Dax Martin was responsible for all of this?"

"Well, he certainly liked to take credit. He served as the public face of the Beaumont School during construction. Once I saw him give a television interview and I wanted to kill him myself."

"Can you think of anyone who could have done this?"

"You mean like everyone living in all of the four hundred houses here?" The muscles in my neck tightened. I got up from the sofa. "I'm going to have to take something for this headache."

"I've got to get back to the crime scene. We'll talk later." He stood and kissed me on the forehead.

I closed the front door behind him and headed for the medicine cabinet. I actually did know someone who might have a special reason to kill Dax Martin, but I didn't want to tell Beavers just yet. I didn't want to bring my friend more tsuris than he already had.

CHAPTER 3.

After about twenty minutes, the meds kicked in and my headache receded. I picked up the phone and called my best friend, Lucy.

"Hey, Martha."

"I found someone murdered in the wash behind my house this morning."

Silence.

"Say something."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! This can't be happening again. What in the world were you doing in the wash?"

"Walking. I was beside it, not in it. Charlissa from Weight Watchers told me to walk every day."

"Since when are you going to Weight Watchers?"

"Since yesterday." Even though Lucy gave birth to five sons, she looked like a beanpole. I should be so lucky.

"Who died?"

"The baseball coach at the Joshua Beaumont School. Dax Martin. Looked to me like he was bludgeoned to death. I called Arlo, and he brought me home."

"Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?"

"Well, I do have a little dilemma. Since we've had such trouble with that school, Arlo asked me if I knew of anyone in the neighborhood who might have wanted the man dead."

"You've told me over the years about the conflicts with the Beaumont School. I'm guessing almost n.o.body in your neighborhood will be sad the coach is gone."

"Actually, I thought of someone who's bound to become a suspect, but I didn't want to tell Arlo."

"Who?"

I s.h.i.+fted the phone to my other ear. "Ed Pappas. You know him from my Hanukkah parties."

After my back surgery a few years ago, my young neighbor Ed Pappas watered my yard and took care of my trash barrels. I invited him to my Hanukkah party that year, where he met all my family and friends. From then on, he became like a son. He still took out my trash barrels every week and did odd repair jobs when I needed them done.

"Of course. He's always seemed like a nice young man. Doesn't he have motorcycles parked in his driveway sometimes? If he hangs around with a biker crowd, he might have a darker side."

"Not all bikers are outlaws. A lot of regular working guys belong to biker clubs. They're not gang members. They just ride for recreation. And, anyway, he can't have a dark side. Ed does yoga."

"Well, why would he be a suspect, then?"

"Ed's place is directly across from the Beaumont School loudspeakers. The noise they blast goes right into his house. He stormed over there one day and got into a fistfight with Dax Martin. Ed threatened to kill him if he didn't turn the volume down. The police were called and arrested Ed for a.s.sault. Since then, the noise has been even louder. Ed's life is h.e.l.l on the days Beaumont uses the field."

"You're right. This doesn't look good for Ed. What are you going to do?"