“It’s not a standard romantic comedy,” he said. “My character has an arc. At first, he’s cynical, doesn’t believe in love anymore, because he’s divorced. His turning point comes when he meets the Amber Andrews character. She’s cynical, too, because she just got dumped by the guy she dated in the last movie.”
“A sequel.” Martha pursed her lips. “Too bad. Sequels are always disappointing. Name one sequel that won an Oscar.”
“What is Godfather II?” Felix said, eagerly.
Martha smiled. “Quite right, Felix. That was a sequel, and it was excellent. Well. Half of it was excellent.”
“Yeah, fifty percent was good,” Courtney said. She seemed out of her depth.
“True,” Roland said “The part about Michael was lame, but the part about young Vito getting drawn into a life of crime — fantastic. There’s a character with an arc. Vito’s turning point comes when a small-time gangster asks him to hide some guns—”
“Who is Clemenza?” Felix sat forward, his face pink with excitement.
“Right,” Roland said. “Vito doesn’t realize what he’s getting into, but now he’s guilty, too, because he helped Clemenza.”
Courtney nodded vigorously. “Vito’s not innocent any more. He’s a criminal, just like Credenza.” I don’t think she had any idea of what she was talking about.
“That’s enough movie trivia.” Martha’s face had gone pale. “Leah, could we please move on?”
“In a minute,” Roland said. “I wanna develop the parallel with my character some more. See, there’s no turning back for Vito. He sinks deeper and deeper—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Tossing her sampler aside, Martha stood up and stalked out of the room.
Roland lifted both hands in a helpless, uncomprehending gesture. “Hey, what’d I say? I was just describing Vito’s arc.”
I didn’t understand it, either. Picking up Martha’s sampler, I gazed at the image of an eagle soaring past a beautiful mountain. Slowly, things started coming together — Martha’s bracelet, Martha’s room, even the stories Sam had been following in the news and the lawn ornament he was making for the Hartwells. “Felix,” I said. “The meaning of the name ‘Arnold.’ ”
His face clouded with confusion. “What is ‘eagle?’ ” he said.
I nodded. “And the meaning of ‘Belmont.’ ”
His eyes darted to the sampler; his voice dropped to a whisper. “What is ‘beautiful mountain?’ ”
I nodded again. “Please take a break, everyone. I need to speak to Martha.”
Taking the sampler with me, I found her in her room, sitting at her desk, staring down at her bracelet. “I’m sorry I made a fuss,” she said. “I got upset by all the talk about guns and crime.”
An odd response from someone who evidently enjoyed Godfather II, I thought. But it was time to stop noting inconsistencies, time to start explaining them. “Those are interesting beads,” I said. “Shaped like apples — apples for the teacher? Was that bracelet a gift from a student?”
Her back stiffened visibly. “From a young man I tutored for a while, yes.”
I set the sampler down on the desk. “Was this supposed to be a gift for the same student?” I paused. “For Arnold Belmont?”
She looked up at me, her face stretched taut with fear. “Oh, my God — they found me. They sent you to kill me. Please, I’ll give it back, every penny of it. And I swear I didn’t know what was in the box — I didn’t open it until I heard he was dead.”
“It’s all right.” I sat down on her bed. “I’m not a drug dealer, and I don’t work for drug dealers. I’m just a temporary secretary with a husband who reads newspaper stories about local crimes. The symbolism on your sampler helped me see the link with Arnold Belmont. Were you creating a family crest for him?”
She nodded slowly, watching me, probably still not sure if she could trust me. “He didn’t like the name ‘Arnold.’ He called it ‘a sissy name.’ I was trying to show him it’s a beautiful name, a noble name.”
“But he died before you could give it to him,” I said. “Was it like the scene in Godfather II? He came to you one night and gave you something and asked you to keep it for him. He must have feared that his suppliers suspected him of stealing the money. He didn’t want them to find it in his possession; he thought he’d be safe that way. But they killed him anyhow.”
“He was just nineteen.” A tear started down her cheek, and she rubbed it away. “In so many ways, he was such a nice young man — so respectful, so eager to learn. He didn’t mind when I corrected him. He hoped to go to college some day, to change his life. He was eager to embrace the opportunities so many young people despise and resent. He’d never told me what he did for a living, but I suppose I’d always sensed it was something — well. Not quite kosher.” She managed a wry smile. “Even so, I agreed to keep the box. When I heard he was dead, when I opened the box, I had to face the truth.”
“And you must have feared that he’d told his killers where the money was before he died,” I said. “You must have feared they’d come looking for you. So you decided to hide in a rehab center while you figured out what to do, and you took your most precious possessions with you in case it never felt safe to go home, in case you decided you had to disappear somehow. Why didn’t you go to the police?”
She lifted her shoulders. “I was afraid that they wouldn’t believe me, that they’d think that I must be involved in illegal things, too, that they’d think I was Arnold’s accomplice. I was afraid they’d arrest me.” She paused. “And I wanted to keep the money. I’ve worked so hard, I’ve been treated so unfairly, I’ve struggled so much — I felt I deserved it. So I used some of it to pay for a two-week stay here. I hid the rest.”
She’d chosen her rehab center wisely, I thought — one that promises complete confidentiality, one that doesn’t search guests’ belongings when they check in, one that doesn’t mind accepting payments in cash. Had Fred suspected that something about Martha was, in her phrase, not quite kosher? Had he been too eager to fill his luxurious rooms to care? “Has someone taken the money, Martha?” I asked.
She looked startled. “No — that is, I haven’t checked today, but I don’t think so. Why would you ask?”
I gestured toward the recipe file. “It’s a large file but contains only a few cards. I thought you might have hidden the money there, and someone might have taken it.”
Again, she smiled wryly. “Very observant. Yes, I did keep it there at first. But when Fred searched our rooms the other night, I got nervous. I don’t want the money found in my possession — I’d rather risk losing it. So I moved it.” She hesitated, then looked at me directly. “I moved it to a very safe place, Leah. I’m sure it’s still there. And there’s a lot of it. I’ll give you half if you—”
“No,” I said. “A policeman’s on his way here. When he arrives, tell him everything.”
She let out a sound that was halfway to a sob. “You called a policeman? He’s coming to arrest me for keeping the money?”
“Not to arrest you,” I said. “To figure out who tried to kill you.”
Before Lieutenant Brock arrived, though, I just about figured it out myself. It had made no sense to me that anyone would want to murder either Brian or Martha — there didn’t seem to be a motive. Now that I knew about the money, the motive seemed clear. Someone had found the money, and wanted it, and figured stealing it would be safer if Martha weren’t around to report the theft. Of course, she wouldn’t have reported it — she’d have been too afraid of getting in trouble herself — but the would-be thief didn’t know that. And then Martha prevented the theft by moving the money to a new hiding place, and Brian messed up the murder by drinking Martha’s tea. That must be one frustrated wrongdoer, I thought.