Knot on Her Life

Book 7: Quilting Mystery

by Mary Marks

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Craft & Hobby Cozy Mysteries; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

While quilter Martha Rose awaits the birth of her granddaughter, a neighborhood girl appears at her door with a mystery that can’t be pinned down . . 

  Martha’s eager to finish the baby quilt she’s making for her new granddaughter, but she scraps those plans when a young girl rings her doorbell begging for help. Poppy Halaby, the foster child of Martha’s neighbor, is an orphan whose parents were murdered by a killer who was never caught. When Poppy’s doting foster mom falls suspiciously ill, Martha is determined to keep the child safe. But she’ll have to unravel more about Poppy’s parents to stitch a broken family back together again—and prevent another crime cut from the same cloth . . .

Release date: July 30, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 237

Sample

The oldies radio station softly played “Peaceful Easy Feeling” while I cut pink triangles for a baby quilt. I sang along with the Eagles, smiling in anticipation of the day two months from now when we would welcome my first granddaughter into the world and wrap her in this quilt. An insistent ringing of the doorbell cut through the soft cloud of my reverie. I glanced at the clock.

Who could that be at 8:30 a.m.? My peaceful easy feeling evaporated with every urgent chime. The closer Quincy got to her due date, the jumpier I’d become. But surely if my daughter went into premature labor, she’d call me or send a text message—not stand on my doorstep and ring the bell.

I tossed the rotary cutter on the mat, hurried to the living room, and peered through the peephole. When I couldn’t see anything, I opened the door and looked down. A girl about four foot six with caramel-colored skin stood shifting her weight from foot to foot. A worried frown presided over large, dark eyes, and her fuzzy brown hair needed a comb. I could relate. I’d struggled over five decades with a mop of unruly curls.

“Are you Martha Rose?”

“I am . . .”

“I think something’s wrong with Sonia.” She dispensed her words carefully, like a new dealer in a casino. “She won’t wake up. She’s not moving. Sonia told me you’re a friend of hers.”

Sonia Spiegelman, my neighbor across the street, lived alone for as long as I could remember. When I first met her, I dismissed her as just another yenta who patrolled the neighborhood, poking her nose into everyone else’s business. But I eventually understood that the woman meant no harm. Sonia merely sought friendship. Two months ago, she mentioned she’d applied to become a foster parent. “To make a difference in someone’s life.” I’d completely forgotten about it until now.

“Are you staying with Sonia?”

The girl nodded. “She’s my new foster mom.” Her body coiled tightly as she took a breath. “Hurry.”

The girl continued to shift from foot to foot while I grabbed my cell phone and purse with my house keys. She seized my wrist and yanked me across the street. Sonia’s house stood out from the other midcentury homes in our modest Encino neighborhood. She’d painted the outside a pale turquoise and the front door the color of grapes. “It brings good karma,” she’d explained.

“What’s your name?” I asked the girl as we pushed through the purple door.

“Marigold Poppy Sarah Halaby. But everyone calls me Poppy.”

The remnants of sandalwood incense tickled my nose as soon as I stepped inside. Sonia had trouble moving on from her glory days in the 1980s. A rumpled madras cloth hung off the end of the cherry-red sofa. The autographed photo of a very young Sonia standing next to boyfriend Mick Jagger still hung in a place of prominence.

I turned to Poppy. “Where is she?”

The girl raised her hand and pointed with a slender finger to Sonia’s bedroom.

“You’d better stay here.” I tried to keep the concern out of my voice.

Poppy nodded and sat on the end of the sofa, pulling the madras cloth around her shoulders. “I already know what you’re going to find.” She looked at the floor and declared in a small voice, “I’ve seen dead people before.”

The beaded curtain hanging at the entrance to Sonia’s room clacked as I pushed it aside. The moment I saw her, I feared the girl was right. Sonia lay on her back, eyes closed and mouth open. Her long graying hair spread in a tangled fan on the pillow, and one arm dangled off the edge of the bed. I rushed to place my fingers on her neck and detected a faint pulse. As I bent over her, I smelled a sweet, fruity odor and knew immediately what was wrong.

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called 911. “I believe my neighbor is in a diabetic coma. She’s barely hanging on. Please hurry!”

Sonia once confided over a rare glass of wine that she’d lived with diabetes since childhood. She explained that a lack of insulin could produce ketoacidosis, leading to coma and death if not treated. One of the symptoms was a sweetness in the breath—the same sweetness I now detected with each unsteady exhale.

While Poppy and I waited for help to arrive, we searched for a bottle of insulin, hoping to find the doctor’s name on the label. Within three minutes, sirens stopped in front of the house and two blue uniformed paramedics rushed from the red LAFD ambulance inside.

“She’s diabetic.” I pointed them in the direction of Sonia’s bedroom.

One of them pricked her finger to test for sugar levels in her blood. He showed the test to his partner. “Her numbers are sky high! Start a D ten drip while I call the doc.”

“Is this it?” Poppy hurried over to me. “I found it in the fridge. It says insulin.”

The first paramedic took the bottle from her outstretched hand and nodded. “Good job.” He read the information on the label to a physician over a handheld radio. After a pause he said, “Copy that,” and disconnected the call. He unwrapped a sterile syringe from his medic bag and injected a carefully measured dose of Sonia’s medicine. Then they transferred my still-unconscious neighbor onto a gurney and loaded her into the ambulance.

I grabbed her purse and locked up the house. As Poppy buckled herself into the backseat of my Honda Civic, I asked, “How long have you been staying with Sonia?”

“A week.”

Poppy remained silent on the ride to the hospital. At the front desk of the ER, I dug into Sonia’s purse for her insurance card. The clerk took photocopies and told us to sit in the waiting room.

“I’m gonna find Sonia.” Without warning, Poppy pushed her way through a swinging door marked RESTRICTED ENTRY and marched down the hallway.

“Come back!” I hissed, running after her.

She stopped outside the bay, where doctors had started a second drip and fixed an oxygen mask over Sonia’s pale face.

I caught up with her and grabbed her hand. “We can’t be here, sweetie. We’ll be in the way.”

Poppy scowled and pulled her hand out of my grip.

A male nurse in green scrubs approached us. He looked at a clipboard. “Are you Martha Rose?”

I nodded. “How do you know my name? Did she ask for me?”

“No, she’s still not conscious. We looked up the info from Miss Spiegelman’s Medical Alert bracelet. You’re listed as next of kin. Are you sisters?”

I had no idea Sonia registered me as family. “We’re good friends.”

“According to a directive in her file, she’s assigned you the right to say what happens with her medical care in the event she can’t speak for herself. We’re doing all we can to stabilize her right now, but she seems to be having a strange reaction to her medication. Her prescribing physician’s name is on the bottle of insulin and we’re attempting to contacted him. Meanwhile, she may not wake up for hours. You’d probably be more comfortable waiting at home. Your telephone number is listed on her MedAlert along with your name. I promise we’ll call as soon as there’s a change in her condition.”

Poppy crossed her arms. She stared up at the nurse with those large, dark eyes. “What if she doesn’t wake up?”

The nurse glanced at me before turning his attention to Poppy. To his great credit, he didn’t talk down to her. “We’re doing everything we can to save her. She has a very good chance.”

Poppy nodded solemnly and turned to go. “I’m hungry,” she announced quietly. “And I’m too big to hold hands.”

My heart went out to this kid with so many grownup worries. “No problem. I know a place.” We walked from the hospital across Clark Street. The inside of Mort’s Deli smelled like kosher pickles, salami, and chicken soup. We commandeered a booth against the wall. “They make a great breakfast here. And afterward we can go next door to Bea’s Bakery and get something to take home while we wait for a call from the hospital.”

The waitress glided over to our table and took our order. Pancakes and orange juice for Poppy, and coffee and an almond bear claw for me. Sugar always helped in stressful or painful situations. My size 16 jeans attested to the fact I was no stranger to stress and, with my fibromyalgia, lived with chronic pain.

I waited for the woman to leave before saying, “Not many girls your age can say they’ve seen dead people before. Can I ask what happened?”

Her pupils narrowed to pinpoints. “My mom and dad were shot dead.”

How awful! I wondered if I’d read about it in the news. “I’m so sorry. What are their names?”

“Rachel and Ali Halaby.”

The names sounded vaguely familiar. Poppy revealed she saw their bodies. Did she mean in the funeral home, or did she actually view the carnage? I would look up the case on Google rather than risk upsetting her with more questions.

The juice arrived at the table, and Poppy took three large gulps.

I asked, “How do you like Sonia?”

She wiped her orange mustache with the back of her hand. “She’s better than the last one.”

“You went into foster care after your parents died? Weren’t there other relatives who could take care of you?”

She shook her head slowly. “The social worker told me no one could take me in right now. But she lied. Dad told me his family stopped speaking to him when he married a Jewish lady. Mom’s family did shawa ’cause she married a Muslim.”

“The word you’re looking for is shivah. It means seven and refers to seven days of grieving when a family member dies. It’s kind of the same thing as not speaking.”

Poppy took another sip of juice and shrugged.

“Still, it sounds like your parents made their marriage work. Were they very religious?”

“Not really. When they got married, they agreed to raise their daughters Jewish and their sons Muslim. I turned out to be their only child, so I learned both.”

“You’re lucky.” When I saw the quizzical look on her face, I added, “Most people are raised with only one point of view. Sometimes that gets in the way of things. Anyway, don’t worry about Sonia. She has a very good heart, and I’ve never seen her be unkind.” I wasn’t lying. Sonia might have been the neighborhood yenta, poking her nose into everyone’s business, but she never spread malicious gossip and was always the first to offer help.

The food arrived, and Poppy tucked into the pancakes after drenching them with maple syrup. I wondered what to do with her during Sonia’s stay in the hospital. Sending her back into the foster system after only a week seemed cruel. And what about the trauma of her parents’ murder? Shouldn’t she be in therapy? And what about school? Did Sonia enroll her yet?

Halfway through our meal, my cell phone rang. “Mrs. Rose? This is Jeremy Chun, the nurse you spoke to before. Miss Spiegelman regained consciousness a few moments ago and is asking for you. She’s been transferred to room twelve fifty.”

I waited for Poppy to finish eating before rushing back across the street to Tarzana Medical Center and up the elevator to room 1250. The head of Sonia’s bed was slightly raised, and a transparent cannula replaced the mask on her face carrying oxygen into her nose. She smiled when she saw us and opened her arms in an invitation to Poppy.

The girl sauntered over to the bed and stood stiffly.

Sonia lowered her arms and spoke gently. “The doctors want me to stay here for a couple of days until they can figure out why my medicine didn’t work.” Sonia looked at me and wrinkled her brow. “Can you take care of her in the meantime? I’m trying to avoid getting the social worker involved.”

I knew what Sonia left unsaid. I also hated to think of the girl going back into LA County foster care. “Of course!” I touched the girl’s shoulder. “Poppy, how would you like to stay with me for the next couple of days?”

She eyed me briefly. “I guess.”

Sonia held an invisible phone next to her ear. “Call me when you get home.”

I didn’t like the frightened look on her face.

Sonia and I had exchanged house keys a long time ago. So when we got back to my place in Encino, I helped Poppy transfer her things to my guest bedroom, the one with the red Jacob’s Ladder quilt. I parked her backpack on top of an old wooden chest pushed against the foot of the antique walnut sleigh bed. “This used to be my daughter Quincy’s room.”

Poppy lightly ran her fingers over the bumpy texture of the quilt. “Quincy’s a funny name for a girl. Where is she now?”

“She lives nearby with her husband. They’re expecting a baby girl in two months.”

“You should give her a flower name. My mom says girls should have flower names. You could call her Violet or Pansy.”

Did Poppy realize she spoke about her mother as if she were still alive? “Your mother sounds as if she loved beautiful things.”

A shadow crossed the girl’s face. “I need to pee.”

I showed her the door to the connecting guest bathroom. “I’ll be right down the hall.”

I stepped into my sewing room and called Tarzana Medical Center.

“Oh, Martha, thank God you were there this morning. You saved my life.”

“I’m glad you’re awake. You gave both of us quite a scare, my friend. What happened?”

“I came down with either food poisoning or a touch of stomach flu. They’re not sure which. Anyway, two days ago I started vomiting and became really dehydrated, which is always dangerous for a diabetic because your blood sugar can get out of control. I also became awfully thirsty, another danger sign. I drank enough water to fill an elephant, but I couldn’t keep it down. When I tested myself, my numbers were way up.”

“Did you call your doctor?”

“Of course. I’m always very careful. I keep a daily record of my numbers. My doctor thought it was only temporary and told me to double my usual dose to see if my numbers came down. He told me to call him back if they stayed high.”

“Why didn’t you call me, Sonia? I would’ve taken you to the ER.”

“I know. The problem is, the worse I got, the more confused and foggy I got. I don’t remember much more. I must’ve passed out sometime last night. Anyway, right now I’m more worried about Poppy. She’s been really traumatized, and I’m afraid that what happened to me may’ve made things worse. Poor kid is closed off and scared. But I know I can reach her.”

“Did you talk to her social worker?”

“Not yet. I phoned her therapist first, and he wants you to call him before he’ll agree to let Poppy stay.”

I wrote down the information. “What about school?”

“Keep her home for now. She’s really smart. Making up work won’t be a problem. And thanks, Martha.”

I immediately called Dr. Stanley Adams. “Thank you for getting back to me so soon, Mrs. Rose. My main concern right now is to avoid destabilizing Poppy’s life yet again. The trauma of seeing her dead parents made her very fragile. She still can’t talk about it. And until the killer is caught, she won’t feel safe.”

“I can’t even imagine!”

“So now you understand why another upheaval in her life could be devastating. However, I’m having conflicting thoughts about her situation. On the positive side, she seems to be comfortable with Miss Spiegelman. Unfortunately, this morning’s medical crisis may render your friend ineligible to provide foster care. So if we’re going to relocate Poppy, we should do it sooner rather than later.”

“Oh, but you can’t separate them, Dr. Adams. Sonia really wants to help the girl. Surely you can wait until the doctors figure out what happened.”

“I don’t disagree. I’m going to ask the social worker to let Poppy stay with you temporarily. But be forewarned. They’ll be paying you a visit. If they’re not satisfied with your situation, they will remove her.”

Ten minutes later, Poppy stood in the doorway of my sewing room, watching me cut pieces for the baby quilt. “What’s that?” She pointed to the rotary cutter in my right hand.

I pretended not to notice that her eyes were swollen from crying. “It’s a special tool. It helps quilters cut through several layers of fabric at a time. This green cutting mat and see-through plastic ruler help me make sure the pieces come out the exact size I need.” I beckoned with my hand. “Come closer and I’ll show you how it works.”

I spent the next ten minutes introducing Poppy to the concept of cutting up perfectly good fabric and sewing it back together again to form different designs. “Every pattern has a name. This one is called the Basket.” I pointed to my design board, a white flannel sheet hanging on the wall. I’d stuck a six-inch block I’d pieced with pink triangles on a muslin background to the fuzzy nap of the flannel. “This block is a sample of what the quilt will look like.”

She stepped closer to the wall and examined the block. “Daisy will like this.”

“Who?”

“The baby. I’m calling her Daisy.”

My fluffy orange cat walked in the room with his tail straight up in the air. He headed toward Poppy and sniffed her socks. She bent to pet him and, instead of running away, he began to purr and rub his chin against her ankles. “Look. He likes me. What’s his name?”

“Bumper.”

“That’s a funny name. Why do you call him that?”

“Because he likes to bump up against your legs like he’s doing right now.”

Poppy took one more look at the basket block and returned to the bedroom. At one point, I peeked in to find her on the antique walnut bed reading a copy of Harriet the Spy she’d found on Quincy’s bookshelf. Bumper curled beside her and took a cozy nap.

“It’s past lunchtime, sweetie. How about something to eat?”

She looked up from the book. “I don’t eat pork. It’s not halal.”

“Well, you’re lucky, because neither do I. It’s not kosher.”

After lunch, she asked for another piece of mandel broit from Bea’s Bakery at the same moment my six foot six bearded fiancé walked through the front door. Yossi Levy, aka Crusher, took off his motorcycle helmet, revealing the red bandanna he always wore underneath as a religious head covering. Next he removed his black leather jacket, exposing a black cord hanging around his neck with a badge reading BUREAU OF ALCOHOL, TOBACCO, AND FIREARMS. A Glock was tucked into a cracked leather shoulder holster.

He walked halfway to the kitchen before noticing Poppy with the cookie halfway to her mouth. He stopped and smiled. “Who do we have here?”

Poppy spotted the gun, jumped up from the table, and ran behind me.

I reached back, gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and whispered, “You’re safe, Poppy. He lives here.”

I let the girl stay hidden behind me. “This is Marigold Poppy Sarah Halaby, but everyone calls her Poppy. She lives across the street with our friend Sonia. Unfortunately, Sonia got sick this morning, so while she’s recovering in the hospital, Poppy will be staying with us. Poppy, this is Yossi.”

She poked her head out, eyes darting from the badge to the Glock. “Are you the police?”

He squatted down in front of us and still managed to tower over her. “Right you are. What gave me away?”

She edged out from behind me and squinted for a closer look at his badge. “Yours is weird. It doesn’t say ‘Los Angeles Police.’ I know what those look like.”

I caught Crusher’s eye and made a slight cutting sign across my throat. Too late.

“That’s interesting. How do you know?” he asked.

Poppy scowled. “They came after I called nine-one-one.”

“You called nine-one-one?” Crusher made his voice as soft as I’d ever heard it.

She looked down and remained silent.

I pursed my lips. “Poppy’s parents were killed.”

Crusher nodded. “I’m sorry. Did you see them get hurt?”

The girl shrank back against me and clamped her mouth shut.

I gave her shoulder another gentle squeeze. “You’re not in trouble, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

She pulled away. “I’m going back to my room now.”

We watched her disappear down the hallway toward the guest bedroom, with Bumper padding alongside her.

I waited until she’d walked out of earshot. “She won’t talk about it. I’m sure she knows a lot more than she’s saying.”

“Getting kids to talk is tricky.” He grabbed a handful of cookies from the plate sitting on the apricot-colored marble counter. “What’s wrong with Sonia, and how did the girl come to li. . .