by Kate Gable
She clears her throat and then meets his gaze.
"What are you implying?"
"Nothing."
She shifts her body a little bit, clearly uncomfortable, and answers, "I needed a friend, okay? I've been through a lot of shit in my life, too."
"You're what, forty, forty-five?"
"I think what my colleague is trying to say," I interrupt, "is that it's just unusual. There is a big age difference to spend so much time together."
"Yeah, maybe it's odd, but I'm not very good at making friends with people my own age. They have families. They care more about going to the hair salon, getting laid, or whatever else. Since I work from home and I walk dogs, it was nice to have someone over, a neighbor. It was nice to show her how to paint. It was nice to introduce her to the dogs. I was trying to make her feel better. If you think there's something wrong with that, then that's your problem, not mine."
The sternness in her voice makes me more confident about the fact that she's telling the truth.
After I give her my card, we walk out and ask her to be in touch in case she remembers anything else. She nods and closes the door in Thomas's face as soon as he exits.
"What do you think?" he asks.
"I think she's pissed at you."
"Yeah, but you know, I had to ask. Somebody had to be the bad guy."
"It's definitely unusual, but I got the sense that they were friends. Maybe she's one of those recluses who just isn't good at meeting people and talking to people. So, this kid comes along, and they have something in common. I guess we have to talk to Teagan's mom to find out what happened."
"Yeah. Guess so. Let's swing by the flower shop first though. Tell them we’re on the way."
5
We snake down the narrow two-lane road, sitting behind piles of cars, waiting for their turn to merge into the rest of Los Angeles at the bottom of the canyon.
Dale Hendrel’s shop, Laurel Canyon Flowers, is located almost at the bottom, right across from a subdivision called Mount Olympus. I don't know if they're aware of the irony of the name of this housing development or if they even care, but I find it humorous.
"I'd love to live here one day," Thomas says.
"Have you ever seen the houses inside?" I ask.
"Yeah, I had a girlfriend who lived in one. Her father bought it for her. He was a movie executive."
"What was that like?"
"Eh, it was unfortunate when we broke up."
"You wish that you were still together?"
"For the house? Yes. For the person? Not so much." He winks at me and I feel a little bit uncomfortable.
I can't tell if he's joking or just making fun, but that's often the case with Thomas. He says things just to get a rise out of someone and sometimes to charm them.
The flower shop is small and narrow, but full of old-world charm. It doesn't feel antiseptic, but rather welcoming. The building looks like it's an old 1920s cottage popular in this area of Los Angeles because it's the kind of housing that the old studios would put actors into. There is thick crown molding where the ceilings meet the walls made of real wood. The walls are painted a friendly color of sunflower yellow, which brings out the beauty of the bouquets of flowers lining the walls and the big counter up front.
A woman in her sixties is minding the counter. She's thin, but not frail, someone who looks like she's not a stranger in a Pilates studio. There's a mystery novel open on her Kindle and the only reason I can tell is because the screen flashes when she looks up.
I introduce myself to Diane Goodwin, the woman behind the front desk. She smiles and gives me a slight nod. She has crow's feet and laugh lines around her lips, but she looks like a nice person to have a chat with on a casual day or a Saturday morning at a farmers market.
"Can I help you with something?" she asks.
We show her our badges and introduce ourselves. I secretly hope that Thomas will take the lead on this and break the bad news to her about her boss, but he doesn't. Instead, he waits for me to do it.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news," I begin after clearing my throat. I jump right in. I don't mince words and I tell her that Dale Hendrel is dead.
By the expression on her face, she looks like she’s about to break down. She stares at me and then looks away. She gasps for breath as she covers her mouth, but then she takes a few forced breaths and meets my eyes again.
"I'm really sorry for your loss," I say, "but I need to ask you a few questions in case there's anything that you might know about what could have happened."
"Yes, of course," she says, fighting back tears. "How could this have happened?"
"I'm not really sure. That's what we're trying to find out. Can you tell me anything about the flower shop? How long has Mr. Hendrel owned it?"
"He inherited it from his father. It's a family business. I think his father started it back in the 70s. They've lived in this area for a long time."
"Dale Hendrel grew up around here?"
"Yes. His family came from the Midwest back in the 50s or so."
"He's an only child? He inherited this job?" Thomas asks.
Diane shakes her head and says, "No, he has a brother. His brother was really upset that their father gave the shop over to Dale."
"Really?" I ask. "How upset?"
"They had a whole falling out. I don't think they're in touch and they haven't been in years."
"When exactly did he inherit it?"
"There was a big lawsuit for years, but I think it was finally settled two years ago. His father died about eight or nine years ago."
"Wow, that's a long time for a family to feud," I say.
"I've been working here for about twenty years. His brother is not a good man."
"What do you mean by that?" Thomas asks.
"He's just not. He's dangerous. He made threats. There are also rumors that he's involved in all sorts of shady things like insurance scams and that kind of thing."
"What's his name?" I ask.
"Timothy Hendrel."
Thomas raises his eyebrows like he recognizes the name. I want to ask what he's thinking but I bite my lower lip. Not right now. I don't want him telling me anything in front of Diane.
Diane doesn't have anything more of substance to offer. She opened the shop this morning and the last time she saw Mr. Hendrel was two days ago when he came in to do some business work in the back. I give her my card and we leave things on good terms. I ask her to give me a call and get in touch if she can think of anything else.
"Who's Timothy Hendrel?" I ask Thomas as soon as we're outside the door.
A loud garbage truck rushes past us just as he's about to open his mouth and say something. When we see that it stops to pick up the trash from a nearby business, he pulls me into an alley right behind the building.
He says, "Timmy H. Have you ever heard the name Timmy H?"
"No." I shake my head.
"He's one of the biggest drug dealers in this area. Meth. Coke. He has ties with the Mexican cartels, but he mainly sells and services this neighborhood, all of Laurel Canyon, Beachwood Canyon, and North of Sunset."
"What are you talking about? That can't be the same person."
"It is. Well, it sounds like it is. Hendrel's not such a popular last name."
"You think that he's Dale's brother?"
He nods.
"Why would he kill his whole family though? Nieces and nephews, that's sick."
"Mexican cartels are known to do a lot worse. I'm not saying I'm certain, but this is definitely a lead that we have to look into."
I nod, putting my notebook back into the pocket of my jacket. I tap my foot on the ground, trying to think of what to do.
"Let's go talk to narcotics," I say. "I want to see the file on this guy and see what they can tell us about him."
"Good idea." Thomas nods.
Before heading over to the precinct, I suggest that we go see Mrs. Ellis. Her son was friends with Angie before he committed suici
de and Mrs. Ellis was close to Julie Hendrel, Angie's mother. Apparently there was some sort of falling out and I wonder what happened.
Mrs. Ellis lives in a big, 3,000 square foot home in West Hollywood. It's completely surrounded by hedges, giving it privacy both in the front yard and the back.
It takes her a few minutes to answer when we ring the bell on the gate. We're about to turn around and give up when the gate opens. She then appears, dressed in a floor-length bathrobe made of satin or perhaps silk. I can never tell the difference between quality fabrics.
She's barefoot and wearing thin, sheer pajamas underneath. Her hair falls in disarray all around and it looks like there's about a gallon of dry shampoo on top.
I know how that works because I use the products a lot when I don't have time to take a shower and do my hair. Mrs. Ellis has pale skin and small, delicate bone structure, or perhaps she just doesn't eat enough, like a lot of women in the city. Her eyes are red and if she were wearing any makeup, it looks like it has worn off.
We introduce ourselves, show her our badges, and she nods. She hangs her head, whimpering that she knows what happened to Julie.
"A friend of mine called just now," she says. "She lives on Julie's street. I can't believe that she's dead. I can't believe that they're all dead."
"We're very sorry for your loss," I say and I'm about to jump right into asking the questions when she surprises me by inviting us in.
Inside the gates, there are twelve-foot hedges all around. A big play set sits at the far end of her front yard and as we walk inside her Spanish-style 1920s, but recently remodeled all modern house, I see the big pool and the hot tub in the backyard.
"My husband has the kids today," she says.
"Are you divorced?" I ask.
"Yes. Well, no. We're separated, but he took them today to the movies after he heard what happened, just to give me some space."
"Yes, I understand." I nod.
She hangs her shoulders and taps her fingernails on the quartz countertop in the kitchen. She walks over to the cupboard, retrieves a tall glass with specialty bubbles inside to make it look handmade.
She pours herself a glass of water. My mouth is parched, but she doesn't offer me any. She gestures to the kitchen table and we all sit down, facing the backyard.
I glance longingly at the crystal blue pool surrounded by nothing but green grass, green shrubs, and the lone lemon tree standing in the corner, framing her slice of paradise.
"I'm sorry to bother you on such a difficult day, but we really need to find out as much as we can about the Hendrels and who might have done this. Can you tell me how long you and Mrs. Hendrel were friends?"
"Julie and I were close for years. We met when Teagan and Angie started school together in kindergarten. We did the PTA and volunteered for activities. She was always the funniest mom there. She had a good sense of humor and she liked to drink wine, which in my book was a win-win."
"Yes, of course." I nod.
She takes a sudden pause and a tear runs down her cheek. She shakes her head violently from side to side, trying to hold back the rest, somewhat successfully.
"I just can't believe that I'm talking about her in the past tense. I can't believe that she's gone. Is she gone? Is this really happening?” she whispers.
"Yes. We're very sorry, Mrs. Ellis," Thomas says.
He leans over and touches her hand to try to put her at ease and it seems to work. She takes a few gulps of water and waves her fingers in front of her eyes, trying to dry them.
"Can you tell me what happened between your son and Angie? Was there some sort of falling out?"
The glassy look that Angie had appears on Mrs. Ellis's face. She looks far into the distance, almost like she's dissociating from where she is now in order to even talk about her son.
"Teagan was always such a sweet and sensitive child. He's my only boy and I babied him a lot, but we would have so much fun. He was so affectionate and kind, but then everything got dark."
"What do you mean by that?" I ask after a long pause.
She inhales slowly and exhales even slower. I give her space, but if she hesitates for too long, I remind myself to step in. I have to keep this conversation going.
"I know this is difficult, Mrs. Ellis," Thomas says, squeezing her hand, "but anything that you can tell us may help."
"Teagan liked Angie. He had a crush on her. They were friends, very good friends. They went out on a date together and they kissed. Then she said that she didn't want to be with him. She said she didn't want to date him. He was broken by that."
She touches the inner side of her mouth and her cheek with her tongue and then presses her lips together tightly to keep herself from crying.
"I guess things felt weird between them after that, but he told me about it, and it seemed like it was going to be fine. Then somehow, it wasn't."
"What do you mean? What happened?" I ask.
"He killed himself.”
The words hang in the air between us and just as I’m about to say something, she continues.
“He came home, and he hung himself in his closet. He left a note, telling us that he loved us and he was sorry, but the world was just too painful to deal with. I blamed Angie for not wanting to date him. I shouldn't have. I should have been understanding. You can’t feel what you don’t feel. He wanted something he couldn't have, but I had so much grief. I was so angry, and I couldn't see Julie after that. She just represented everything that I’d lost. I was so angry with Angie and I was so angry with Julie for being her mother. I was just angry. Now that her whole family's dead, I don't know. I'm just... I can't believe that this happened."
She begins to cry again and a few moments later, her family comes back, the older children laughing and talking loudly, and a baby and a toddler crying in the father's arms.
Mrs. Ellis makes cursory introductions but doesn't even mention that we're detectives. Mr. Ellis seems to know what's going on, at least by the expression on his face. To be mindful of the children, I ask him to step out and talk to us on the porch.
He's about a decade older than his wife and he confirms the story of what happened to Teagan almost word for word. I give him our condolences and our cards with a promise to be in touch about anything that we find out.
"So, what do you think about that?" Thomas asks me when we get back in the car.
"I don't know. I mean... What? You think she killed Angie's whole family because she thinks that Angie was responsible for her son's death?"
"No, of course not. I just wanted to see what your read on the situation was."
"They're suffering. They've been through a lot and I can see why she wasn't friendly with her old friend anymore. But do you think she has anything to do with this? If she were to kill anyone, it would be Angie," I say. "Not her siblings. Not the husband. Probably not even Julie."
"Yeah. I get that sense, too."
We sit in the car for a few minutes as I jot down a few more thoughts and notes from the interviews. Thomas doesn't have this habit.
He makes notes when he gets back to the office, but how can they be that accurate if there's all this time that passes in between?
I've tried to talk to him about this numerous times, but he just shrugs it off and says he remembers what's important. I give him the benefit of the doubt. What else can I do?
We decide to talk to narcotics a little bit later because I'm still officially off today and I want to check in on Violet to see how she's doing.
"Will you come back to the office later?" Thomas asks.
I shrug and say, "Maybe or maybe you can just talk to them without me tonight."
"Yeah, of course.” He nods, tilting his head and giving me a wink.
"Are you asking about work or are you asking me if I'm free to hang out tonight?"
"A little bit of both.” He smiles, and I smile back.
He looks around and after seeing that there's no one that we know, he pulls me close and gives me a
kiss.
I shake my head no and push him away. He tries to kiss me again, but this time I'm more forceful.
"You're going to get us in trouble. Look, you know that we shouldn't be doing this."
"Well, let's make it official. Let's file the papers with human resources and everyone will know that you're mine."
"Is that all you want? A conquest?" I laugh.
He grabs my hand and reassures me, "No, I want you."
"I'll think about it, okay?" I get into my car and shut the door in his face.
He smiles and I get the sense that he likes playing this game. He likes fighting the good fight.
What he doesn't know is that he makes me nervous.
6
When I get back home, I find Violet sitting cross-legged on the couch with her computer open on her legs, her phone in one hand, and an iPad with Netflix on the couch next to her.
"Are you doing work? Texting? Or watching Netflix?" I joke.
I head straight to the kitchen and gulp down a big glass of water.
"All three at once, baby." She laughs. "How's the case? Did you solve it yet?"
"Nope. I wish it were that easy."
"Well, there'd be a lot more murders then," she says, pulling her hair up into a high ponytail.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you'd either be completely free, or you'd be working on cases all day long and for that you need a lot more murders."
"Good point. I guess all the backlog with crime scene evidence and the slow moving of interviewing everyone involved is what's keeping the murder rate down,” I say sarcastically.
She laughs and I laugh along with her.
"Do you want to get pizza?" I ask, plopping down on the couch realizing just how lackluster my apartment looks in comparison to McKenna's or even any of the other ones I've been to today.
All I have is a basic Ikea couch and some basic art on the walls. I guess I'm going for the minimalist look without actually spending a big budget on looking minimalist in that Etsy and Pinterest kind of way.