Gone But Knot Forgotten by Mary Marks Page B

Oliver’s. I wonder how long this has been in the family.”
    I turned the basket in my hands and something slid around inside. “What’s this?” My heart sped up as I pulled out a small key. I turned it over, looking for some kind of identification. “What do you think this is for?”
    â€œIt’s too small for a door.” Birdie furrowed her brow. “Maybe this opens a cupboard or a safe.”
    â€œOr a jewelry box,” said Lucy.
    I added the key to Harriet’s key ring.
    We carefully examined and cataloged the rest of the baskets. A photo of an auction receipt stated Harriet paid $350,000 for a Mono-Paiute polychrome basket, shaped like a large salad bowl and woven by Nellie Jameson Washington in the early twentieth century.
    â€œWho knew baskets could be so valuable?” Birdie twisted her braid. “Don’t you think it’s odd your friend Harriet collected different kinds of Americana, yet she didn’t collect any quilts?”
    â€œBirdie has a point,” said Lucy. “I’d at least expect to see a Baltimore Album. I heard one sold at auction about ten years ago for three hundred thousand.” Baltimore Albums were a style of quilt popular among ladies of leisure in the nineteenth century with lots of intricate appliqués featuring flowers, baskets, and birds. Each block in the quilt featured a different usually symmetrical design.
    â€œYes, I do find that strange.”
    After we accounted for every basket on the list, we moved to the antique wooden toys. The more valuable pieces in Harriet’s collection were a horse and wagon pull toy, a sailboat with some of the original paint and spinning tops, including an antique Hanukkah dreidel from Portugal with Hebrew letters painted on each of the four sides.
    Birdie looked at her watch. “It’s four, dear. We should get on the freeway and head home.”
    I nodded. “It’s been a long day.”
    Lucy wagged her fingers in an air quote. “No problemo. I had fun, considering.” She looked in the direction of Harriet’s bedroom and her voice dropped a notch. “We still have the upstairs to do.”
    We said good-bye to Carl and headed for Encino. They dropped me off at my house around sundown. Shabbat had officially started. I rushed inside to phone my daughter, Quincy, who lived in Boston, and left a greeting on her voice mail. Next I called my uncle Isaac, my mother’s brother. He took care of me, my mother, and bubbie the whole time I grew up. Uncle Isaac was the only father I ever knew.
    â€œShabbat shalom, Uncle.”
    â€œGood Shabbos, faigela. What’s new?”
    I briefly told him about Harriet, but left out the grisly parts.
    â€œOy! What a ganze shandeh. Such a nice girl. I knew her father, may he rest in peace.”
    â€œWill you come to her funeral? She needs a minyan. ”
    â€œOf course. I’ll bring Morty and the boys.” Uncle Isaac played poker every week with his seventy-and eighty-year-old friends. At their age they were experts at funeral prayers. Poker and Talmud. A person should live a balanced life.
    â€œSo, nu ? What’s going on with you? You still seeing the detective? What about that big Jewish fellow, Yossi Levy?” Uncle Isaac always referred to Crusher as “that big Jewish fellow.” Crusher impressed my uncle when he confessed to using his do-rag as a religious head covering. At Shabbat dinner four months ago, we were impressed by Crusher’s knowledge of Torah, his “hidden depths” as he called it.
    â€œI haven’t heard from Arlo in months, Uncle. He dumped me, remember?”
    â€œBut I thought he changed his mind.”
    Until he found out I slept with Crusher. “We had some issues.”
    â€œWhat about Levy?”
    Ah yes, what about Levy? I didn’t tell my uncle Crusher wanted to marry me. Knowing my uncle, I’d never hear the end of it. Uncle Isaac