She shrugged. "It's a living."

"Where do you find them?"

"Trash, Dumpsters, streets, alleys. I have my reg'lar places." She pointed to Solomon's, a deli down the street. "The owner of the deli over there, Sol, he saves 'em for me."

I was about to walk away when a piece of yellow and white cloth sticking out from a greasy looking bedroll attracted my attention. "What's that?" I pointed to the cloth.

"Oh, it's something I found in the Dumpster behind that building last week." She pointed a dirty finger toward G.o.dwin's building.

"You'd be surprised what you can find in a Dumpster. Once I found a brand new sweater with the tags still on. See?" She smiled proudly and opened her coat to reveal a hideous purple and yellow Fair Isle sweater with snowflakes and reindeer encircling her torso in horizontal stripes. Some places were dark with old grease spots.

"Great find." I pointed to the cloth. "How about that thing?"

She eyed me warily. "It's my towel."

"Could I see it?"

She frowned. "I didn't steal it. I found it fair and square."

I smiled and took a twenty out of my purse. "Please show me the towel."

She grabbed the twenty and with her other fist pulled Claire's baby quilt out from the bedroll.

I tried to control the excitement in my voice. "What's your name? Mine's Martha."

"Hilda."

"Well, Hilda, I'd like to buy the towel from you."

She eyed me shrewdly. "It'll cost you."

I gave her another twenty. She took it and just looked at me, not moving. I reached in my wallet and took out my last twenty. "This is all I have."

She smiled and handed over the missing quilt. "G.o.d bless you."

I briefly thought about going back to the BCA office to find Detective Beavers, but I knew once Beavers got hold of this quilt, he'd seize it as evidence. As I walked toward my car, I wondered why the thief would go to the trouble of stealing the quilt only to throw it in the Dumpster.

If there was any forensic evidence on the quilt, it had long been obliterated by Hilda's rough treatment. I didn't see how the police could find any meaningful clues on it. So I decided to clean it up at home and take a closer look. Who knew what I might find?

CHAPTER 15.

All the drama made my head hurt. A flare-up was coming on. On the way home I stopped at Yum Yum and got ten ounces of frozen vanilla yogurt with only eight calories per ounce. Then I loaded the top with crushed Heath bars for a dollar extra. I deserved it.

When I got home, I took a Soma and one of my migraine pills. b.u.mper followed me into the laundry room for a pit stop. I checked to make sure the other quilts were still in their hiding place. Then I put the foul-smelling baby quilt in the washing machine to soak and added some Orvis soap.

Washing quilts with ordinary detergent faded the colors and weakened the cotton fibers. Serious quilt owners tried to use a pH neutral soap if they had to wash their quilts. Orvis, a gentle liquid soap, was originally developed for shampooing horses. Used to be you had to go to the feed store to get Orvis soap, but now it was also available in quilt stores.

Back in the living room, I took the yogurt and a plastic spoon out of the bag and plopped on the sofa. b.u.mper jumped up and settled into my lap purring. I closed my eyes against the throbbing in the right side of my head and only opened them to scoop up the next sweet mouthful.

The thief had the same list we did and knew where to find this quilt. So, how did he get into the offices of BCA? Could he have come in during the daytime disguised as a workman? He could have pretended to be repairing something while he searched the rooms.

I'd seen that scenario on television hundreds of times. n.o.body paid attention to a guy in overalls with a tool belt. He could have stuffed the little quilt inside his shirt and n.o.body would have known. So why did he go to so much trouble just to throw it in the Dumpster?

By the time the spoon sc.r.a.ped the bottom of the Styrofoam container, the meds were kicking in. I felt deliciously detached and floating out of my body a little, the way I always did after taking my medicine. I looked at my watch. Two-thirty.

I took out my notepad and flipped through the pages. The name Jerry Bell jumped out at me. This was the guy who received monthly checks of a thousand dollars or more from Claire for as far back as her check registers went. Why? Was he blackmailing her? Was he a lover who was being subsidized? Claire hardly seemed the type to go for a boy toy, but you never knew.

I decided to find out, and dialed his phone number. He answered on the fourth ring, "Mr. Bell, my name is Martha Rose and I'm a friend of Claire Terry's. I hate to bother you under the circ.u.mstances, but I'd really like to talk to you about her death."

"Claire's dead?" The shock was unmistakable.

"Oh dear. You didn't know? Her death has been all over the news for the last week." The media loved to report on tragedies involving celebrities and the very wealthy. It was hard to imagine anyone could miss all the publicity.

His voice choked. "I've been out of touch with just about everything these last two weeks. When did she . . . What happened?"

He sounded genuinely upset. Would a blackmailer sound that way?

"She died last week. Mr. Bell, I really need to talk to you. Could you possibly meet with me this afternoon? I'll be happy to drive to where you are."

"Yeah, I guess so, although it has to be soon. I'm working the night shift, and I start at five. We can meet at Dinah's on Sepulveda near the airport. Do you know it?"

I knew the LA landmark well. Dinah's was famous for crispy fried chicken and apple pancakes the size of hubcaps. "I can't get there for another hour, so let's plan on three-thirty. How will I recognize you?"

"I'll be wearing green scrubs."

Three minutes later I was on my way to Culver City to meet either Claire's blackmailer, her lover, or both.

Traffic on the 405 south was heinous as usual. For once, traveling cautiously at fifteen miles per hour was a good thing. I was still feeling the effects of the pill. I pulled into the parking lot of Dinah's at three twenty-nine. Low-flying jets roared overhead, coming into their final approach at LAX and fouling the air with the acrid smell of jet exhaust.

Dinah's was decorated in typical 1950s coffee shop style with red vinyl booths and brown laminate tables. In the mornings the place smelled like coffee and maple syrup. In the afternoon it smelled like hamburgers and fried chicken.

I spotted a blond man in green scrubs standing near the cashier. He looked to be around thirty, the same age as my daughter. I walked up to him. "Are you Jerry Bell?"

He turned toward me. "Yeah. You're Claire's friend?"

I was stunned at how much he resembled Claire. He looked like he could be her younger, blonder brother. I didn't remember Siobhan mentioning she had any other children, though. Also, Jerry's last name was Bell, not Terry. Who would name a baby Jerry Terry anyway? So, if this man wasn't Claire's brother, who could he be? I began to entertain another possibility.

Jerry Bell looked sleep deprived and his eyes were puffy and red, as if he either recently had cried or smoked weed. His lips slightly trembled. It wasn't weed.

"Yes. I'm Martha Rose. Thanks for meeting me." I extended my hand.

His grip was firm but brief. "Uh, I want to find out what happened to Claire." He teared up and seemed so pitiful that my Jewish mother hormones started to surge.

I put my hand on his arm and suggested the one sure remedy for everything. "Let's get something to eat. I find it's always easier to talk over food."

We sat in a booth toward the back and Jerry ordered a coffee and hamburger. I was still full of yogurt and crushed Heath bars, so I just ordered coffee. I hoped the caffeine would help my headache.

"Ms. Rose . . ."

"Call me Martha."

"Yeah. Okay. How did Claire die? When?"

"We discovered Claire's body a week ago today. She died of an overdose."

Jerry stared at me, horrified. Just then the waitress arrived with a thermos full of coffee and two cups. He waited for her to leave.

"An overdose of what? I could swear Claire would never abuse drugs."

I poured the coffee for both of us. "The police don't think she took the drugs voluntarily."

His jaw dropped. "Holy . . . ! What are you saying? Are you saying someone poisoned her?"

"Would you know of anyone who might want her dead?"

All the color drained from Jerry's face. He put his elbows on the table and grasped his head. "No." Then he looked at me suspiciously. "I don't get the connection. What is your involvement in this?"

"Claire invited us to quilt with her last Tuesday morning. When my friends and I got there, we found her body and called the police. They later determined she was murdered."

With shaking fingers, Jerry added two packets of sugar and stirred his coffee slowly. "How do they know it wasn't accidental?"

"There was blood on her hands."

"Oh my G.o.d."

Jerry's obvious distress could be for a number of reasons. If he was a blackmailer or a boy toy, he would have to say good-bye to those monthly checks. However, if he was Claire's true lover, he'd understandably be upset by her death. I didn't know what to believe about him yet. Of course, there was that third possibility I was beginning to think was even more likely.

The waitress returned with Jerry's burger. He vigorously shook salt all over his French fries and then squeezed a blob of ketchup on the side of his plate. "I haven't talked to Claire in about two weeks. Normally we talk every few days, but I've been working all night and studying for the boards on my time off." He picked up a fry and stirred it absentmindedly in a slurry of ketchup.

"Boards?"

"Pediatrics. I'm a resident." He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe she's gone." He put down the fry and swiped at his tears with the palm of his hand.

"I'm so sorry, Jerry." I didn't know what else to say.

We sat in silence for a while. He worked on his burger.

I used my fingertip to push around the white salt crystals that spilled on the brown wood-grained plastic of the tabletop.

"I have to ask you one thing. Were you and Claire lovers?"

"What the . . . ? Is this some kind of sick joke?"

"I'm sorry if I upset you, but I have to ask. It seems Claire had a boyfriend, and we're trying to find out who he is."

"Who is 'we'? What are you doing, anyway?"

He started to slide out of his seat, but I put up my hand to stop him. "Wait, Jerry, just give me a minute to explain."

He settled back down while I told him about my quest to break the code in Claire's quilts. "I thought maybe her boyfriend might know, that's all."

"I'm not her boyfriend. What made you think I was?"

"Well, this is a little awkward. I saw your name in her um, address book." I wasn't going to tell him I'd been snooping in Claire's files, let alone her panty drawer. "Since none of us knew who you were, we thought you might be the one. So I decided to call and find out."

Jerry's laugh was mirthless. "Sorry to disappoint you."

I waited a beat. "There's one more thing. Why did Claire give you so much money?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "How do you know about the money?"

I decided to take the direct approach. "Were you blackmailing her?"

He looked like he wanted to hit me. Then he closed his eyes, threw back his head, and laughed too loud. People around us stopped eating and stared.

I lowered my voice. "Well, were you?"

He stopped laughing and glared at me. "Not that it's any of your business. Claire gave me money to help me through med school. I wanted to make it on my own, but sometimes things got too hard. I promised to pay her back when I finished my residency and started to earn some real money. She always said I didn't have to, but I would have." He picked up his hamburger and took another large bite.

Although I thought I knew the real answer already, I still wanted to hear him to say it. "Well, if you're not her lover and not a blackmailer, what were you to Claire?"

Jerry swallowed. "I found her through adoption registry dot com. They help people locate their birth mother."

Bingo. "Can you tell me more?"

"I was adopted." He shoved a couple of French fries in his mouth. "My dad died when I was twelve, and my mom died while I was still an undergrad at Loyola. My girlfriend at the time urged me to look for my birth mother. That's how I found Claire."

"Siobhan Terry told me Claire never had children."

"I know. That was the official story. Claire had me when she was fourteen. Since they're Catholic, abortion was out of the question. They sent her away until I was born and made her give me up for adoption. They couldn't have me around. I was a social embarra.s.sment."

I waited until he finished another bite. "How did Claire react to seeing you?"

"She was happy when I first contacted her, but she said her father would be furious if he knew. I think she was really intimidated by him."

I remembered my conversation with Will Terry and how pushy he was. I suspected he could be quite a formidable adversary when he wanted to be.

"I told her times have changed and people change. Maybe they were ready to accept me, but she was adamant about not telling them or anyone else. I figured she knew them better than I did, so I just went along."

"I appreciate your being so open with me."

"To be honest, I don't know why I'm telling you so much. I mean, you're a stranger and all, but this is such a shock and, well, you seem to care."