Gone But Knot Forgotten by Mary Marks Page A

voice. Quincy, a reporter for NPR station WGBH in Boston, constantly met interesting men who were attracted to her intelligence, her long legs, and the coppery ringlets framing her beautiful face.
    â€œTell me about him.”
    â€œHe’s a physics professor at MIT. Young, brilliant, and very hot. We’ve been out every night this week, and he says he’s ready to get serious.”
    Crusher proposed marriage two weeks after we met. I became worried for my daughter. “How serious?”
    â€œHe wants an exclusive relationship.”
    â€œHow exclusive?”
    â€œOh, Mom, don’t read anything more into it. He doesn’t want us to date anyone else. He says he thinks this relationship can go somewhere.”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    â€œI’m willing to try. He’s nice and funny and great in bed.”
    I gasped. “Stop! TMI. You’re still my little girl.”
    Quincy laughed. “Mom, don’t you know I love teasing you? And besides, I know you’re way past all of that.”
    Past? If she only knew . “Quincy, honey, I only want your happiness. Just go slowly and be careful.”
    Quincy sighed. “Okay, Mom, but sometimes, when something good comes your way, you just have to let go and trust. Right?”
    The million-dollar question.
    Around seven in the evening I got a call from Detective Farkas. “The coroner just released Mrs. Oliver’s remains to the mortuary. You can go ahead with her funeral tomorrow morning like you planned.”
    â€œDid he confirm Harriet was strangled?”
    â€œYes,” Farkas wheezed. “He also found a fractured wrist bone. She probably struggled with the killer before she died.”
    â€œOh God. Poor Harriet must have been terrified. Will you be at the funeral, Detective?”
    â€œWhy? You think the killer will show up after more than ten months just to gloat?”
    â€œI think it’s possible. Strangulation suggests a crime of passion to me.”
    â€œYou got anyone in particular in mind?”
    I thought about Nathan Oliver. Although I didn’t see one photograph of him in Harriet’s house, maybe one existed in his missing person’s file. “You might keep your eye out for a man in his fifties who looks a lot like Harriet’s husband.”
    â€œThe dead guy? You’ve gotta be kidding.”
    â€œMaybe not so dead, Detective. Remember, no one ever saw Nathan Oliver’s body.”

C HAPTER 12
    Monday morning I called Kresky’s Kosher Market and Catering near Uncle Isaac’s house in West LA to deliver a couple of platters to his house at noon. Uncle Isaac would be hosting the mourners after the funeral.
    Birdie, Lucy, and I drove to Gan Shalom Memorial Park in Lucy’s vintage black Caddy. The nine a.m. southbound traffic crept slowly over the Sepulveda Pass. Neither of my friends knew Harriet, but they were determined to support me; not to mention they were also curious about the mystery of her death and the theft of her treasures. Both of them committed to return to Harriet’s house and finish searching for the missing items.
    I sat in the backseat in a gray Anne Klein woolen skirt suit and knee-high gray leather boots against the December chill. I told them about my visits with Paulina and Isabel.
    Today Lucy wore all black, like the grim reaper. “Don’t just write the psychic off, Martha. Maybe Nathan reached out from the dead.”
    Birdie pinned a stray piece of hair back on top of her head. “Or maybe Nathan isn’t dead after all. Maybe he returned in the flesh to kill Harriet.”
    I sighed. “Well, she didn’t go without a struggle. When the coroner examined her the second time, he found a broken wrist.”
    We pulled up to the valet parking and an attendant helped Birdie from the car. For once she hadn’t worn her overalls but opted instead for a lavender skirt and pullover sweater. Wisps of white hair