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  A KILLER RETURNS

  I got dressed; grabbed a small, black overnight bag from the top of my closet; and picked up Sonia’s house key from the brass dish in the hallway. “I shouldn’t be long,” I called out.

  I crossed the street to Sonia’s purple front door, slipped the key into the lock, and turned it. My jaw dropped as I stepped over the threshold. The place looked as if a train had barreled through. White stuffing spilled out from the deep slashes in the cushions of the cherry-red sofa. Books lay in disordered heaps on the floor. A vintage copy of Mother Jones magazine had been savagely torn in half. The framed photo of Mick Jagger standing with his arm around a much younger Sonia had been thrown across the room, shattering the glass.

  I hugged the overnight bag and carefully picked my way through every room, surveying the damage. I knew better than to touch anything. Someone had shattered the window in Poppy’s room from the outside. Shards of glass lay scattered all over the pillow where her head would’ve been. This is where the killer broke in last night. A sudden chill crawled up my neck and tingled my scalp when I realized he must’ve tossed the place.

  My heart jumped a little when I thought of what might’ve happened to Sonia and Poppy if they’d been home....

  Books by Mary Marks

  FORGET ME KNOT

  KNOT IN MY BACKYARD

  GONE BUT KNOT FORGOTTEN

  SOMETHING’S KNOT KOSHER

  KNOT WHAT YOU THINK

  KNOT MY SISTER’S KEEPER

  KNOT ON HER LIFE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Knot on Her Life

  Mary Marks

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A KILLER RETURNS

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Mary Marks

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2050-4

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2053-5 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2053-9 (ebook)

  For Timothy Gale Palmer. Without you,

  where would I be?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many smart people helped with this book and generously filled in the gaps of my knowledge. For a tutorial on the medical stuff, I’m grateful to Holli Beck, RN, Elyssa Berger, RN, and Malcolm Taw, MD. Additional thanks to Rabbi Amitai Adler for clarifying some cultural details.

  The members of my critique group, as always, have helped me navigate through the rocky shoals of a complicated story. Beginning with Jerrilyn Farmer, my thanks go to (in alphabetical order) Roger Cannon, Lori Dilman, Cyndra Gernet, and Nancy Isen-hart Holmes.

  The people at Kensington Books are the best in the business. Thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his support and expertise, and a special thanks to Lou Malcagni for creating such fabulous covers for all my books.

  Finally, I want to thank my agent, Dawn Dowdle, of the Blue Ridge Literary Agency for her assistance and editing skills.

  I am blessed.

  CHAPTER 1

  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 s
tay 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.

  CHAPTER 2

  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.”