I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper and looked over my shoulder. "I can't talk outside because I don't want anyone else to hear. Can I come in?"

She took a cautious step aside, and when I walked into her living room, I smelled a pungent herbal tang in the air, something vaguely familiar, mixed with the fragrance of sandalwood incense in a smoky layer of air. Sonia directed me to a worn sofa and chairs draped with printed cotton cloth from India, which had also seen better days. A framed photo of people I thought I recognized hung prominently on one wall.

"Would you like some tea? I've just brewed a pot."

"Sure. Thanks."

Sonia walked through a rattling curtain of purple beads as she entered her kitchen. I jumped up quickly and examined the photo on the wall. There was a very young Sonia snuggling up to-no way! He signed the picture To my groovy little chick, Sonia. Luv forever, Mick. That must have been a very long time ago because Sonia was no longer "groovy" and these days Mick looked positively wasted. Had Sonia really been one of Jagger's girlfriends? Sonia's brush with greatness, her proximity to fame-was that why she lived in a time warp, this shrine to the seventies?

Sonia walked back into the living room with two steaming mugs. "So, tell me why you're here."

I sat and took a sip. Mint and chamomile. Yuck. What I wouldn't give for a strong cup of dark French roast with cream. I took another sip. "Delicious. Thanks." Then I put the cup down and leaned forward. "I've been secretly working with the police." Not exactly a lie-the secret part was real. Beavers didn't know I was doing this.

Not convinced, she waved her hand. "The cops just busted you four nights ago. The whole neighborhood knows that."

I thought fast. "The arrest was just for show. I actually spent the night in a nice hotel, not in jail. We wanted the secret operation to look like the police were after me so I could gain the confidence of the bad guys." I could hardly believe how easily I could lie to this woman.

Sonia put her cup down, her eyes wide open. "Really?"

She was hooked. Now to reel her in carefully. "Can I count on your keeping a secret? I mean, you absolutely cannot tell anybody."

"I'm good. I know how to keep my mouth shut."

Yeah, like that could ever happen. Yentas are like Google and Wikipedia in human form. Just give them a click and they'll tell you much more than you ever wanted to know.

"I knew I could count on you. You're the guiding force behind our little community. You know everything that goes on, and now I need your expertise."

She looked at me for a few seconds. "I gotta say, Martha, I always thought you didn't like me. Even when I rescued your cat, you never thanked me."

Sonia's private world seemed to be all about the past. I'd never seen a man at her house, nor much of anyone else, come to think of it. I supposed Sonia was lonely. Maybe that was why she was such a gossip, inserting herself into other people's lives as a way of getting attention and feeling important. I was ashamed of the contempt I'd shown her. She probably rescued b.u.mper with good intentions. Who knows what would've happened to him if the killer found him in the house. "You're right, Sonia. I never thanked you, and I'm sorry. You did b.u.mper and me a huge favor. It was really very kind of you."

Sonia's face softened, and she smiled. "Well, apology accepted."

I smiled back. "Sonia, I need to focus on one thing in particular. Did you see anyone or anything unusual at my house Tuesday or Wednesday night?"

"The cops came by and asked everyone on the street the same question. I told them I hadn't seen anything. Neither did anyone else, so far as I know."

"You told me yesterday the Eyes have been patrolling the streets ever since my fake arrest."

"Right. Ron Wilson arranged shifts for all the guys."

I only knew Ron vaguely. He lived on the next street and hung out with a bunch of other geezers, some of them original owners of the midcentury homes in our tract. Those old vets loved reliving their glory days and playing soldier on our quiet suburban streets at night.

"Were they out Tuesday and Wednesday nights?"

"They were."

Yes! "I'm wondering if any of them saw any unusual activity around my house. Someone at the door? A strange car parked outside?"

"We can check with Ron. He keeps a log."

"Really? He keeps records?" My voice was two notes short of a squeal. This could be the break I'd hoped for. "Can you give me his phone number?"

"I'll do better than that." She picked up the phone. "Hi, Ron. This is Sonia. I'm bringing my neighbor Martha Rose by to talk about all the stuff from last week. No, she's been out of jail for a few days. Anyways, that was all just a big show to throw off the real bad guys. She's working with the cops right now in some secret investigation, and I'm helping her."

See what I mean? Wikipedia.

She ended her call. "Just give me a minute to get dressed."

While Sonia was in her bedroom, I wandered around looking at her dusty knickknacks. Rainbow-colored dream catchers, really old copies of Mother Jones, new copies of People magazine, and a purple yoga mat rolled up in the corner. h.e.l.lo! What was this? A bong? I sniffed the mouthpiece. Yup. Exactly what I thought I smelled.

Just then Sonia walked back into the living room wearing black flowing pants, a white peasant shirt, and sandals. She pulled her long hair into a clip at the back of her neck, revealing turquoise studs in her ears. This neighborhood yenta living right across the street from me was at one time the loose-haired girlfriend of Mick Jagger. Who knew?

She looked at the bong in my hands. "It's not what you think." She gave a wry smile. "I'm legal. I use weed for medicinal purposes." Made sense. Medical marijuana dispensaries were now legal in California. I had considered using weed for my fibromyalgia pain, but so far I hadn't worked up the courage to ask my doctor to write a prescription.

Of course, marijuana dispensary staff physicians wrote hundreds of prescriptions a day. Anyone could walk in the front door without a scheduled appointment and get a prescription for about a hundred bucks. Ten minutes for the script, another few minutes to buy the weed and a bong.

Fifteen minutes later Sonia and I sat in the Wilsons' living room looking at a hefty old guy with white hair cut military style. The floor plan of Ron's house was the same as mine. The built-in bookcases and slightly crooked finish molding around the windows and doors told me Ron was a do-it-yourselfer.

A wizened little Asian woman came into the living room and greeted us with a slight accent. Then she turned to Ron. "I go to the store now. Be back soon."

"Don't spend all my money." He smiled.

She looked at us, rolled her eyes, and went out the door.

"Been married over fifty years. Best little woman in the world. What can I do you for?"

I jumped right in. "Did the police ever come by your house to ask about Tuesday or Wednesday night of this last week?"

"No, n.o.body came by our street."

"I understand you arranged for patrols, though, and you keep a log. Do you know if anyone saw anything unusual around my house those two nights?"

"What's your address again?"

I gave him my address. Ron frowned and closed his eyes. "I think I remember something."

My heart started pounding as he reached over to a small table next to his chair and pulled out a spiral notebook with a worn blue cover. He moved his rather large girth in his black leather recliner and handed me the book . "Me and the boys sign in each shift and write down everything that looks out of the ordinary. n.o.body's ever asked to see the log before. What's this about, anyway?"

"I'm in the middle of an investigation. I can't talk about it. It's strictly a need-to-know kind of deal."

Ron nodded and winked. "I was in the army. Korea and Nam. I know what you're sayin'."

I smiled. "I'm glad I can count on you."

I turned the pages until I found Tuesday night. Ron signed in at nine.

Neighbor Martha Rose arrested. Confessed to harboring a terrorist cell in her bas.e.m.e.nt.

Eyes of Encino patrol activated.

Objective: hunt down terrorists.

Result: none found.

Oh brother. They believed the bas.e.m.e.nt thing? According to the log, each man was relieved after two hours and a new man signed on, but apparently n.o.body saw anything useful. Just a possum crossing the street and crawling under someone's house at two in the morning.

Darn. The killer was able to break in to my house and trash it without being detected. Some patrol. I turned to the entries for Wednesday night hoping for better luck and very nearly jumped out of my skin when I read: Zero thirty hours: Tall, slender woman leaving front porch of Rose house. Obviously not the homeowner.

Wait just a minute. What was obvious? Because she was tall or because she was slender?

No lights on inside. Gla.s.ses. Fifty something. Subaru sedan. Plate # 3ARB997.

I wrote down the information. "This is exactly what I was hoping to find. Great work, Ron. Thanks so much."

Ron winked and gave me a thumbs-up.

As we walked back to our street, Sonia smiled hopefully. "We could go back to my house and have more tea, or maybe go to your house. Do you realize I've never been inside your place?"

Poor Sonia. I was as gentle as I could be. "I'm sorry, but I've got to develop this very important lead you've just given me. I'm afraid I don't have time. You've been a tremendous help and I'm going to make sure the police know about you." I made a mental note to send her some flowers. Purple and red ones.

Back home I closed the door behind me and called the florist. Then I called Detective Beavers. I explained about the Eyes of Encino. "You wouldn't have known about them because the guy who runs it lives on another street. They didn't see anything on Tuesday night, the night of the break-in, but one of the guys actually saw someone at my house Wednesday night. He said she was a tall woman, which doesn't make sense. The description doesn't match the composite drawing of the quilt thief, and besides, all of the suspects are men."

"I'll have to talk to the guy who saw her. He might have been mistaken about the gender. In the dark, a tall slender man might be mistaken for a woman."

I immediately thought of Alexander G.o.dwin. Would the elegant Doctor G.o.dwin lower himself to place dog c.r.a.p on people's porches? Hard to believe.

"This isn't much to go on. Did the guy notice anything else?"

"I've saved the best for last. He actually got a license number." I gave him the license number and make of the car.

"Great. Hold on a minute. Didn't you promise to stop poking around just twelve hours ago?"

"It's Arthur's fault."

"Huh?"

"While I was cleaning up after him, I remembered about our neighborhood patrol and wondered if they could have seen who put the dog p.o.o.p on my porch on Wednesday night or who broke in the night before. Anyway, aren't you supposed to bring me my computer today?"

"I'll try. Depends on where these plates lead me."

"Well, I'll be home all day long getting my house back in order."

"How's Arthur doing?"

"He's made himself right at home."

"That would be an easy thing to do with you."

I stared at the phone for a while, trying to decide if I heard him correctly. "My goodness, Detective, are you flirting with me?"

He chuckled. "What do you think?"

What did I think? I thought I should run right down to Weight Watchers and sign up.

CHAPTER 30.

I spent the rest of the morning straightening up the mess the killer made of my bedroom four nights before. After the break-in, Joey and Richie picked up my clothes the best they could, but I needed to finish the job.

I was surprised to discover I owned thirty-two short-sleeved T-shirts. Some I hadn't worn for ages because stubborn food stains sat on the front where the girls formed a shelf big enough to catch a man falling from a three-story building.

As a quilter, I knew something about stains. For instance, soaking cotton fabric in black tea would permanently give it a darker hue. Many quilters used tea dying to soften the colors of a fabric. Also some unscrupulous antique dealers had been known to take a modern quilt made with reproduction fabrics and soak it in hot tea to make it look old, because antique quilts sold for a lot more money.

Another quilter's trick was to soak indigo-dyed cotton with pure Ivory Soap in very hot water to set the dye and stop it from bleeding color. Also, most quilters knew if you p.r.i.c.ked your finger with a needle and bled on your quilt, spitting on the fabric would take out the stain because your saliva dissolves your blood.

Food stains, however, if not treated immediately, were often impossible to remove from colored cotton. So I threw twenty-one T-shirts in the rag bag.

When I finished sorting my clothes at one in the afternoon, my stomach was growling. I'd managed to edit my entire wardrobe and was bagging all the old clothes destined for Goodwill. I was wondering whether to replace them now or wait until I lost some weight when the phone rang.

"Have you eaten yet?" Beavers had an annoying habit of not identifying himself when he called.

"No, Detective, and I'm starving. What about the license plate? Did you find out who it belongs to?"

"Yes. I'll be there in twenty minutes with your laptop and the best barbeque you'll ever eat." He hung up.

I took one look at my sweaty self, tore off my dusty clothes, and jumped in the shower. Five minutes later I towel dried my curls and put on a pair of gray linen trousers and a peach-colored blouse with pin tucks on the front and little pearl b.u.t.tons. I reached for the spray bottle of Marc Jacobs and this time I used it. Before I slipped into my sandals, I put a tiny gold ring I hadn't worn since the 1980s on the middle toe of my right foot.

Arthur started barking and wiggling his body in ecstasy as soon as Beavers pulled up in front of the house. When I opened the door, Beavers grinned and handed me a large paper bag smelling of garlic and hickory smoke.

"I'll need you to sign for your laptop." He put it on the coffee table along with some kind of official-looking papers.

As I unpacked the food on the dining room table, Beavers bent down and ruffled the dog's fur. "Hey, Artie, you been taking good care of this lady?" The dog licked his face in adoration. b.u.mper watched without blinking from a safe distance away.

I realized when he stood from petting the dog that Beavers wore his off-duty clothes again-cowboy boots, a crisp western shirt, and jeans that hugged his body perfectly. I blinked my eyes rapidly and felt warmth creeping up the sides of my face. "I forgot this was Sat.u.r.day. I've disturbed you on your day off again."

"I'm not complaining." He rolled up his sleeves and walked toward the sink to wash his hands. I caught a whiff of his woodsy cologne as he pa.s.sed, and I couldn't help admiring this view of his hard bottom. Nor could I overlook his muscular forearms as he helped me open the food containers.

A mountain of food sat in front of us, enough for several people. "What, no dessert?"

Beavers smiled slowly and looked at me, letting his eyes roll down the front of my blouse and come to rest at my feet. I quickly turned around to get plates and forks and set the table with shaking hands. He must have been looking at my toes. Maybe I should have waited to put on the toe ring.

I put two slices of tri tip with crispy edges on my plate and then covered them with barbeque sauce, wondering how many Weight Watcher points I was going to have to pretend I didn't eat. I added crunchy coleslaw, beans, mashed sweet potatoes, and corn on the cob. I pa.s.sed on the fresh baguettes-too many carbs.