Knot in My Backyard

Book 2: Quilting Mystery

by Mary Marks

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Baseball may be America's official favorite pastime, but for Martha Rose and her friends, quilting is far more fun. . .and a lot less dangerous. A diamond brocade pattern is more quilter Martha Rose's style than a baseball diamond—especially when it comes to the new eyesore of a stadium ruining her lovely San Fernando Valley neighborhood. Martha doesn't know a bunt from a bundt cake, but when she stumbles upon the battered body of baseball coach Dax Martin, she doesn't need a scorecard to know it's foul play. LAPD homicide detective Arlo Beavers is convinced one of her neighbors is responsible. But Martha and her fellow quilters Lucy and Birdie soon discover a whole field of suspects who might have wanted to take the coach out of the game permanently. . . "What's knot to love? Mary Marks has crafted another winner stitched together with humor and heart—Martha Rose is one gutsy lady." —Rochelle Staab, author of the Mind for Murder mysteries

Release date: November 4, 2014

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

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, Bumper, 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 grasses 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—déjà 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 identity 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.

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 reassurance 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 glasses 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 God, 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 glasses 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.

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 nobody 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 shifted 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 assault. Since then, the noise has been even louder. Ed’s life is hell on the days Beaumont uses the field.”

“You’re right. This doesn’t look good for Ed. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to talk to him before I say anything to Arlo, and I need to talk to him soon. It’s just a matter of time before the police figure out the connection.”

“Now listen, girlfriend. I think you should back away from this. You’re going to upset Arlo. Just let him do his job.”

“Look, poor Ed’s in enough trouble for hitting Martin. I couldn’t live with myself if I sat by and did nothing while he became a suspect in Martin’s murder.”

“How do you know he’ll be home? Doesn’t he work?”

“He’s a computer guy. Works from home.”

“Then wait for me and I’ll go with you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Lucy arrived; she was wearing rose-colored capris and a pink blouse. My friend always dressed with a theme. Without exception, including today, everything always matched perfectly. A pink-sapphire-and-diamond bracelet her husband recently gave her hung from her wrist.

We wasted no time and started down the street toward Ed’s house. Lucy walked like a sixty-year-old runway model going to war. Her very short, bright orange hair shone in the sunlight atop her five-foot-eleven-inch frame. I wasn’t so graceful. I really worked my shorter legs to keep up with her, while my salt-and-pepper curls bounced around my face.

“Martha! Wait up!” shouted a female voice behind me.

I turned.

Sonia Spiegelman rushed across the street toward Lucy and me. The last thing I wanted was a conversation with Sonia, the neighborhood yenta. If she knew what we were up to, our entire Encino neighborhood would also know in thirty seconds.

Sonia panted slightly as she caught up to us. A dozen delicate Indian bangle bracelets tinkled on her arm, a remnant of her flower child days with Mick Jagger. “Did you hear what happened? They found a murdered body behind the baseball fields. I saw your cop boyfriend’s car in front of your house earlier, so I figured he must have told you. What did he say?”

“Hello, Sonia. This is my friend Lucy.”

“Oh, sorry.” Sonia glanced at Lucy. She held out her hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you.”

Then she turned to me again, with eyebrows raised. “So, do you know what happened? Who died?” Sonia probed without shame and was more than willing to share what she knew. And she usually knew a lot.

I glanced at Lucy, who briefly rolled her eyes.

“Um, the police aren’t sure. Sorry, but I don’t know more.” I shrugged.

“So, are you guys going for a walk, or what?”

“Yes.”

She seemed to be waiting for an invitation to join us, but I wasn’t going to give her one. Sonia was harmless but annoying.

After a rather long minute of disappointed silence, Sonia shrugged. “Well, I guess I’ll be going.”

Lucy smiled. “Bye, Sonia. Nice to meet you.”

We turned away and walked slowly down the street, waiting for Sonia to disappear inside her house. As soon as she walked out of sight, we doubled back to Ed’s front door. I knocked, but nobody answered. We were about to turn away, when I heard someone moving inside.

The door opened a crack and Ed gave me a warm grin. Handsome, early thirties, light brown hair, and stubble on his jaw, he looked more like a movie star than an outlaw biker with a dark side. He wore his summer uniform of khaki shorts, flip-flops, and a blue striped tank top showing off a tattoo of the Greek flag on his left shoulder.

“Hey, Martha, ’sup?”

“Hi, Ed. My friend Lucy and I were taking a walk and I decided to see if you were home. There’s something you really need to know.”

“Is this about all the police activity out back by the river?”

“Yes. Can we come in?”

Ed opened the door wider and moved aside. We stepped into a dark, north-facing living room with sliding glass doors opening to the backyard. Beyond the back fence, several patrol cars were parked on the street.

In the ball field directly behind the squad cars stood a two-story structure the size of a small apartment building made of corrugated metal painted maroon and gold, completely blocking Ed’s view of the San Gabriel Mountains beyond.

Ed stared bitterly at the eyesore. “That’s what I have to look at every minute of every day.”

When the Joshua Beaumont School began renovating the existing Little League field two years ago, no one in the neighborhood suspected that they were actually planning to build a million-dollar baseball stadium. Nor did we ever suspect they could get away with erecting an ugly two-story building obliterating the view of several homes on our street. By the time the neighbors found out, the project was a fait accompli. The houses nearest the field suffered the most, especially Ed’s.

“I used to enjoy working in my yard.” He turned his back to the maroon-and-gold atrocity looming only sixty feet away. “Now I can’t stand to go out there.” He waved toward his dry, weedy backyard, complete with an empty hot tub, fading in the sun. This young bachelor liked to have the occasional barbeque, but clearly no one had been in the backyard for months.

“I’m so sorry, Ed. Beaumont School has given you more than your share of grief.”

“Yeah. After the relative quiet of summer, the new school year has started and those kids are back there, practicing every afternoon again. It’s just a matter of time before they have their first game of ‘fall ball.’ Between the noise and the ugly view . . . well, I’d like to blow the bastards up! Oh, sorry.”

“We’ve heard that word before.” I smiled. “Everyone feels the same.”

“So, what’s the deal?” He offered Lucy and me seats on his leather sofa.

“Dax Martin is dead. I found his body this morning on the riverbank behind the field.”

“You? Found? No kidding!” He looked genuinely surprised. “What happened?”

“Someone murdered him. There was a lot of blood. I don’t really know any more.”

“I can’t say I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Lucy tilted her head slightly and looked toward Ed. “Martha’s told me about the troubles with the school. Why didn’t you go to the police? There are laws against noise pollution.”

“You don’t understand.” Ed swept his hands through the air in frustration. “Beaumont School is bulletproof. The mayor, the police chief, the DA, and half the city council are either alumni or send their kids. Some of those very kids play baseball at that stadium.”

“Why don’t you all get together and hire a lawyer?” She looked at both of us.

Ed sighed. “Because they’ve got a bunch of high-priced lawyers—school parents who’ll defend their cause for free. And some of the other parents? They’re the ones who’re supposed to enforce those laws. They make sure our complaints are buried. Our resources are limited. We’re no match for them.”

“There must be something you can do.”

The corner of Ed’s mouth twitched slightly. “Actually, I’ve been doing some research online. I think I might have uncovered something wonky between the school and the City of Los Angeles. I discovered plans for the stadium were never submitted for approval to the city, and the city never sent out an inspector during construction. Same thing for the environmental impact report. So, far as I can tell, no records are on file for reports, permits, inspections—nothing.”

Lucy looked puzzled. “How can you build a million-dollar stadium without city approval?”

Ed shrugged. “I’ve tried to find out from the Army Corps of Engineers. They manage all the land in the Sepulveda Flood Control Basin—all the open land west of the Sepulveda Dam, including the area behind us where the Beaumont Stadium sits. So far, they’ve refused to hand over any of their records. They’ll only admit to leasing the land to Beaumont, but they won’t release the terms of the agreement.”

She frowned. “Wait a minute. What about the Freedom of Information Act? Can’t you compel them under the law?”

“I’ve tried, but apparently the US Attorney’s Office has better things to do than force the army to comply with my requests. I’ve been stonewalled at every turn.”

I still wasn’t sure how this tied in with Martin’s murder. Was he involved in some kind of backroom deal to get the city or the engineer corps to cut corners with permits in order to get the stadium built? “Ed, do you really think this has anything to do with Dax Martin’s murder?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Martin was involved in kickbacks or bribery? He sure pissed someone off.”

Had Ed shoved a stick into a hornet’s nest? “Have. . .