"I will, Detective, day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, I made a promise to Siobhan that I intend to keep."

"Listen to me very carefully, Martha Rose."

The tiniest thrill of pleasure went through me in the way he used my whole name. It seemed somehow intimate, despite the sharpness in his voice.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, but I do know you better stop right now."

My bully radar started pinging and my brief sense of pleasure evaporated. This man just loved to throw orders around, but he didn't intimidate me. "Just what do you mean?"

Beavers never took his eyes off my face. "You knowingly tampered with a crime scene, a misdemeanor. By touching everything he touched, you've compromised our ability to collect his fingerprints. If you're holding anything back, that's obstruction. A felony."

"Well, how was I to know he stole the office files? If I messed up the prints, I didn't mean to. Besides, I was careful not to touch the quilt cupboard door."

"Listen carefully. This is not TV where crimes are solved in one hour minus the commercials. This is the dark side of LA. Poking around in people's lives can be dangerous. You can get killed. You can get sued. You can also get arrested for playing amateur detective."

He didn't scare me.

In the 1970s, in my antiwar protest days, I used to call the police "fuzz" and "pigs." They were much scarier back then, before sensitivity training and dash cams. "Just who the heck do you think you are, talking to me that way? I'm not afraid of you. My friends and I are going to find the messages in Claire's quilts. When we do, we'll likely find her killer."

Beavers spoke slowly, in a barely controlled voice. "There is someone out there who is after something you have. He may be the same person who killed Claire Terry. If he's killed once, he could easily kill again. Do you think you and a couple of senior ladies are any match for such a person?"

"That does it!" I jumped off the stool, shaking my finger. "The truth finally comes out. Just because we're older, you think we're stupid and incompetent. Any woman with gray hair is written off by society. We become invisible. A lifetime of achievement and wisdom is erased with a roll of the eyes and a patronizing smile."

b.u.mper must have sensed I was upset because he jumped up on the island, pinned his ears back, and stared at Beavers.

"I'm not a social worker or a shrink. If you feel you're invisible, call the AARP."

"Very funny."

My problem was that at one time, I had been very visible. As the only child raised in an extended family household, I was the center of everyone's world. Marriage to Aaron Rose changed all that. I felt invisible after years of his emotional abuse. Then, when the arrogant little jerk finally left me for another woman, he took what was left of my self-esteem. It took years of hard work to find myself again. I wasn't about to let another man treat me badly. Even if he was really, really hunky.

Beavers got up to leave. "Get off your high horse, Ms. Rose, and take my advice. Give the quilts back and stop playing Jessica Fletcher." He opened the front door and turned to me. "Make sure to keep your doors locked."

b.u.mper hissed at him from across the room.

Beavers's sarcasm raised my hackles, but at the same time my heart skipped a little at the look he gave me-almost as if he really cared.

My G.o.d, Martha, stop being so pathetic! The attraction is probably only in your mind.

TUESDAY.

CHAPTER 13.

The next morning was Quilty Tuesday, one week after we discovered Claire Terry's body. b.u.mper perched on the back of the sofa and looked out the window to survey his new home. He didn't run away when Lucy and Birdie arrived at ten. A good sign.

"Where'd you get the cat?" Lucy put her tote bag down beside her favorite easy chair. She was dressed in gra.s.s green pants, a green and yellow print silk blouse, apple jade earrings and bangle bracelet, and yellow sandals. She smelled like Jungle Gardenia and with her bright orange hair reminded me of the tropical plant section at Home Depot.

"He was Claire's. Siobhan asked me to take him, so b.u.mper and I are an official couple now."

Birdie handed me a plate covered in foil. The cinnamon and cardamom of the applesauce cake underneath wafted into the room. Then she stepped over to the sofa and caressed the soft ginger fur ball. b.u.mper burst into an ecstatic purr.

I served coffee with the cake as we all sat. Birdie made it with lots of plump, sweet raisins-just the way I liked it.

Lucy took a sip of coffee. "So, did you find the list?"

"No, unfortunately. The thief got there first." Between bites of cake I told them all about the empty folder and what Claire's other files revealed.

Birdie was an avid fan of crime dramas and spoke forensics as a second language. "Looks like you may have uncovered some possible perps, dear. Jerry Bell, who is either her lover or blackmailer, and a nonprofit organization headed by her psychiatrist, no less, which stands to gain by her death."

"It appears so."

Lucy reached for another piece of cake. "Let's not forget Carlotta Hudson. Who else but another quilter would know to look for a journal or a list?"

"Did you find out who stands to inherit Claire's money besides the Blind Children's a.s.sociation?" asked Birdie.

"I didn't see a will anywhere in her files. Oh, there's one other thing." I told them about taking the computer home and fibbing to Detective Beavers.

Birdie grabbed the end of her braid. "Oh my goodness, Martha. Won't you get in big trouble?"

"Well, Siobhan said I could take the computer and I didn't exactly lie. I just kind of asked him if he thought the intruder might have taken it."

"I don't know," said Lucy. "What you did was pretty risky. Not telling him you took home Claire's computer was an important detail. What do you think he'll do when he finds out?"

"He won't. I'll give the computer back to Siobhan as soon as we're through with it."

I retrieved the laptop from the closet. "Well, we've got to find her pa.s.sword in order to get into this thing."

Lucy reached out her hands. "Let me." Of the three of us, Lucy was the most computer literate, thanks to the patient tutoring of her son Richie, who'd earned a degree in computer science. We crowded around Lucy's chair and stared at the black screen while Lucy pressed the power b.u.t.ton.

A familiar four-note melody sounded as the screen turned blue and asked for a pa.s.sword. Lucy typed in Claire, Claire Terry, Claire's Laptop, Quilter, Quilts, Quilting, but nothing worked. "This could take forever."

"Does Richie have some software that could get us in?"

"Probably. He's in San Francisco this week, though." That was Lucy's code for something she rarely talked about: her middle son was gay and regularly visited Silicon Valley to be with his boyfriend.

I'd known Richie since he was in Little League. He was like every other boy. Loved to play sports and excelled at baseball. Richie was also the brightest of Lucy's five boys, majoring in the hot new science of computers when he went to college. Lucy thought his reluctance to start dating girls was just due to shyness.

So, when Richie "came out" in college, Lucy and Ray were caught completely off guard. Ray had the hardest time accepting his son's s.e.xual orientation, but he eventually reconciled himself to Richie. Lucy supported her son from the time she found out but still seemed to feel a little embarra.s.sed. I once reminded her there is little stigma anymore, at least in the liberal community.

"Yeah," she'd replied, "but we're Republicans, Martha. It's still a big deal in our world."

"Well, if you're so Republican, why didn't you vote for George W. Bush?"

"There are limits to everything."

So, here we were, trying to get into Claire's computer on our own. "We'll just have to figure this thing out. Try her address, ninety-three hundred Rosario Road."

"Nothing."

"What do you normally use for a pa.s.sword?" asked Birdie.

Lucy paused for a moment. "Usually something that you won't forget easily. I use the names of quilt blocks for my pa.s.swords, like Monkey Wrench or Log Cabin."

"What name did Claire give to her latest quilt?" asked Birdie.

"Ascending, I think. Right, Martha?"

I nodded. "Try it."

Nothing happened.

"We'll try the names of her other quilts, just in case." Lucy typed in variations of Mother's Asleep, Midnight Garden, Secret Garden, Wandering Lover, and Jamey I Hardly Knew Ye, but the screen stayed stubbornly blue.

Birdie persisted. "Wait. What's the cat's name again?"

"b.u.mper. Pa.s.swords are never that obvious, Birdie. You need to make it really hard for someone to hack into your computer."

"Why not just try it anyway?"

Lucy typed in b.u.mper. Nothing happened. She looked up. "Sorry, hon'. Good guess, though."

I put my hand on Lucy's shoulder. "Wait a minute. Maybe it's case sensitive. Try all uppercase or all lowercase."

When she typed in b.u.mPER all caps, Lucy got a hit. Yes! At last we were in, and Birdie, who knew nothing about computers, beamed.

Claire kept hundreds of doc.u.ments and e-mails. We carefully scrolled down until we spotted a folder t.i.tled Quilts.

We found only one doc.u.ment in the folder-three pages recording in chronological order the names of all her quilts and dates of completion. When Claire sold a quilt, she listed the selling price and the buyer's name and contact information.

"Martha, what is your wireless pa.s.sword? I want to use your printer."

I thought I was pretty creative with my pa.s.sword. I used something easy to remember-my daughter's name. "Quincy."

Lucy snorted. "Talk about the obvious."

I smiled. "Not when you change the spelling to kwinsee, all lowercase letters."

Five minutes later we each held a hard copy in our hands. I put my copy in my fax machine, typed in Siobhan's number, and pressed the b.u.t.ton. Then I looked over the list. "Look on page three. Claire donated her last quilt to the Blind Children's a.s.sociation for a silent auction this month."

Lucy turned the pages. "Curiouser and curiouser. Which quilt?"

"Lullaby. A baby quilt."

Birdie leaned toward the computer screen. "Oh, I wish we could see what it looked like."

Lucy started typing on the keyboard. "Maybe we can. I'll look for her photo alb.u.m." A minute pa.s.sed. "Bingo!"

My gla.s.ses slipped farther down my nose as I also leaned in to get a closer look at the laptop screen. Each of Claire's quilts was extensively photographed both full size and up close. The baby quilt was pieced with a simple basket design in yellow and white. Claire used dark gold embroidery thread to make her French knots.

We studied the list, trying to find a pattern or clue in the quilt names, and scrutinized the photos. "Does anything jump out at you?" I asked.

Birdie sighed. "Not so far, but maybe these t.i.tles are anagrams or cryptograms. I'm pretty good with word puzzles. I'll work on them tonight." Birdie was being modest. She was an avid reader and true wordsmith, easily solving the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle in ink!

Lucy sounded frustrated. "If she st.i.tched her life's stories into these quilts, I sure don't see how. We probably should make a backup copy of everything before we have to give back the laptop. Those pictures may prove to be invaluable."

"How are you going to do that?"

"In case of a disaster, Richie told me it was important to keep backup files off-site. So I carry a ten-gig flash drive with me." Lucy dug around in her purse and pulled out her key ring. She waved her hand. "All our personal and business files."

I poured another round of coffee while she plugged the flash drive into the USB port and copied Claire's files.

"I've got an idea. I'm going to call Claire's psychiatrist. If there is a pattern or a code, she might have told him."

Lucy and Birdie exchanged a look.

I stared at them. "What?"

"Well, we just know how much you love shrinks."

Lucy was alluding to my ex-husband, Aaron Rose, the psychiatrist. We weren't exactly bitter enemies, but I didn't like the man. He was an arrogant know-it-all who could never be wrong. I helped put him through medical school and in return he transformed me into a cliche. After our daughter was born, he cheated on me and eventually dumped me for the gorgeous wife of one of his colleagues. "I've outgrown our relationship," he told me. If anyone could push my b.u.t.ton, it was Aaron.

"I'll be fine."

Birdie didn't seem so sure. "Martha, what about confidentiality? Do you really think he'll tell you anything?"

"What've I got to lose? Time is running out. I've got to give those quilts back tomorrow." I opened my notepad and found the page with his phone number. I expected to get his answering service. He must have been between patients because he picked up the phone. I turned on the speaker so everyone could hear.

"This is Dr. G.o.dwin." Strong voice. Authoritative but pleasant.

"Dr. G.o.dwin, my name is Martha Rose and I'm a friend of the Terry family. We know Claire Terry was very committed to the Blind Children's a.s.sociation, and that you knew her. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on a delicate matter."

I glanced over just in time to see Lucy roll her eyes.

"Yes, I knew Claire Terry. She was a wonderful friend to BCA. So dedicated to the children. Her death is a great loss."

"Yes, we are devastated."

I let a few beats pa.s.s. "I know you must be terribly busy, Doctor, but Mrs. Terry is quite fragile and I'm running out of time. Is there any possibility I could see you today?" I knew this was a long shot because shrinks rarely made room for the walk-in trade.

"Can you tell me what the delicate matter is?"

"I'd prefer to discuss this in person." I lowered my voice to a near whisper. "I'm not alone right now and I don't want to be overheard."