Dream House

by Rochelle Krich

  “What about the prints on Margaret's planner?”

  “Margaret Linney's, her husband's, her father's, Roger Modine's.” Hernandez paused. “Yours.”

  I ignored the disapproval in his voice. “One more question? Did you use bloodhounds to try to find Margaret Linney?”

  “We did. They picked up her scent and lost it within a few hundred yards of her house. And they found it at the neighbor's.”

  I frowned. “The neighbor's?”

  “Mr. Bolt. Apparently, Margaret Reston was in his house several times, including the morning before she disappeared. They've known each other for many years.”

  “Right.” I remembered Bolt saying something about Margaret borrowing a book and looking at a painting.

  “You've talked to quite a few people,” Hernandez said. “Have you formulated any ideas?”

  I couldn't tell whether Hernandez was making fun of me or really interested. “Not yet. ‘Truth is a slowpoke.' That's a Yiddish proverb my grandmother told me.”

  “‘La verdad ama la claridad. Truth loves clarity.' That's what my grandmother always told me.”

  “Also nice.”

  “I prefer John Wycliffe. ‘I believe that in the end the truth will conquer.' Let's hope he's right.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  SABBATH CANDLE-LIGHTING THIS FRIDAY WAS AT FOUR thirty-one, but you have an extra eighteen minutes if you're in a crunch, which for me is almost all the time.

  This Friday was no different. I'd spent the rest of the afternoon finishing the edits on my manuscript and FedExing the manuscript to my editor. Then I showered and packed, phoned my mom and Bubbie G to wish them a good Shabbos, and stopped by the magazine kiosk on Fairfax and Oakwood for a copy of People because mine hadn't arrived with the mail and I'm one of those “people who need People.” So it was four thirty-six when I slowed over a speed bump, pulled into Mindy's driveway, and parked behind her blue Suburban.

  Most of the Jewish world is more punctual. Driving to Martel I'd passed men and boys, and had seen more in the distance, all of them dressed in Sabbath suits and black hats or yarmulkes and walking toward Beverly Boulevard or along it, mini caravans heading to various neighborhood shuls. I wondered if one of those men up ahead was Zack.

  My niece Aliza opened the side door for me. She's five years old, has Norm's blue eyes and Mindy's straight dark brown hair, wet now from her bath, and you can tell she's going to be as tall as her mom. Her three-year-old strawberry-blond-haired, blue-eyed sister, Isabel, was right behind her, a ratty-haired doll cradled in her arms, her thumb planted in her mouth.

  “Can you please put this on the kitchen table, Aliza?” I placed the Saran-wrapped marble cake securely in her upturned small hands.

  Isabel removed her thumb. “Can I have?”

  “Later,” said Aliza, a mom-in-training. “It's for Shabbos. Right, Aunt Molly?”

  “Right. Don't run,” I said as she started to.

  I pulled my roll-aboard up the three steps into the service porch. Isabel trailed behind me as I hurried to the guest room and watched as I shut off my cell phone and stored my purse in the closet.

  “Mommy lit candles,” she told me.

  “I'm going to do that right now.”

  “Mommy said I can watch.”

  Mindy had set two tea lights for me on a round silver tray on the cloth-covered dining room table, next to the sterling silver twin candelabra that Norm's parents, following tradition, had given her when they became engaged, and the matching smaller candlesticks they'd added when each of the children was born. I lit my tea lights, waved my hands around the flames three times before covering my eyes, and recited the blessing, followed by prayers for my family and a special one for Bubbie G.

  Peace washed over me like a wave.

  Mindy was upstairs changing Yitz. Norm kissed his daughters and hurried out the door, and I held them up, one little girl in each arm, so that they could wave at their daddy through the breakfast room window. I waved, too, and found myself looking at The Dungeon, which was disappearing against the darkening sky.

  The girls helped me set the breakfast room table. After that we built a tower with Lego blocks (the large, hard-to-swallow size), and I read them Corduroy. They played in relative quiet as Mindy and I recited prayers and harmonized to welcome the Sabbath with “L'cha Dodi.” Mindy had to warn Isabel only once not to pick up Yitz, who was reclining in his infant seat, his lids heavy with impending sleep.

  Dinner was delicious—sweet and sour meatballs, chicken soup, corn-crumb-topped chicken, and a potato kugel (Bubbie G's Shit arayn recipe). Dessert was my marble cake, which I thought was a little dry and not as good as Edie's, but I had two slices and a few Linzer cookies. We sang throughout the meal, and talked, and Norm posed questions to Aliza about the weekly Torah portion she'd studied in school, rewarding her with a jelly bean for every correct answer. It's what my dad used to do every week, and I wondered what it would be like to sit at a Sabbath table with Zack and our children. Mindy caught my faraway expression.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, and I said, “Nothing,” but from her smile I suspected that she knew.

  At seven we were done. The rinsed dishes were in the dishwasher, where they would wait until Saturday night. Mindy was upstairs putting the girls to bed. Norm had dozed off on the family room sofa while reading the Times, and I was trying not to do the same. During the week I usually stay up late, sometimes till two or three in the morning, but Friday nights are a soporific. My sister-in-law Gitty, the nutritionist, says it's the wine or grape juice and the heavy meal. I think it's the candles, and the knowledge that the week has truly come to an end and that I can step off the carousel and stop spinning.

  By the time Mindy came downstairs Norm was snoring lightly. She sat down next to me, put her feet on the coffee table, and yawned.

  “Get some sleep before you have to feed Yitz again,” I told her.

  “He'll be up in half an hour. And Isabel has been coming into our bedroom lately around four every morning. I vaguely remember what sleep was like. It must be nice.”

  “Poor baby.” I stroked her forehead. “A little sibling jealousy, huh?”

  “Well, a few days ago she asked me how long Yitz would be staying with us. Mom says I was the same when you were born, so I guess it's payback time.” Mindy smiled. “Tell me about your day.”

  “I found out Reston and his wife had reciprocal powers of attorney. That's how he was able to put the Fuller house on the market.”

  Mindy yawned again. “Right, but before he closes the deal, he has to get a declaratory judgment from a court saying he has full authority over the property. Or he has to convince a title company to insure that he has the title to the property.”

  “What's the difference?”

  “Time, and money. Going the court route requires a motion. That can take two to three months. Going through a title company is faster, but it may involve a higher fee. The title company needs to be indemnified in case the other party says, ‘Whoa, I didn't want to sell my house.'”

  “I get it.”

  “One more thing. The title company will only recognize the power of attorney for six months to a year. After that, it's a different ball game.”

  I wondered aloud when Reston and his wife had given each other powers of attorney.

  “You can check County Records in Norwalk,” Mindy said.

  “Fun. That's completely out of my way.”

  “Or, if Reston went through the title company, you can ask them to run the property. They'll be able to tell you.”

  I nodded. Something was tickling my memory. . . .

  “Did you find out if Linney opened a home equity line of credit? Molly? Are you there?”

  I looked at her. “Sorry. I'm trying to—” I stopped. “Tim Bolt.”

  “What?”

  “The other night at the HARP meeting? Walter asked me to take him home, and Bolt said, ‘It's out of Molly's way.' How would he
know that unless he knows where I live?”

  “He probably meant because he lives around the corner from Walter. Did you ever mention what neighborhood you lived in?”

  “I don't think so. I may have, when we were talking about HARP areas.” I narrowed my eyes, trying to replay our conversations, but came up blank. “I can't remember.”

  “So now you're wondering if he vandalized your car, right?” Mindy removed her legs from the table and sat up. “Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe he doesn't like my asking so many questions.”

  “Why would he care?”

  “I don't know. He was close to the family. Maybe he doesn't want me digging up dirt about Maggie.”

  Mindy considered. “I think you're reading into this, Molly. You tend to do that.”

  “True. And ‘Back off, bitch' isn't something Bolt would say, I don't think. He's very quiet, a little intense. Maybe he left the flyers.”

  She wrinkled her forehead. “What flyers?”

  I told her. “They don't have a threatening sound, Min. More like warning me to be careful. Maybe he's worried for me but is afraid to tell me 'cause he'd have to explain. Anyway.” I shook my head to clear it. “What were you saying?”

  “I asked if you checked into Linney and HELC.”

  “I didn't have time. It's like a credit card against the property, right? Suppose Linney had a line of credit. If he transferred the deed to the house to his daughter, what happens to the line of credit?”

  “Depends how he did it. If the transfer went through escrow, then the line of credit would be closed and he'd have to pay off any outstanding loan. But he could have transferred ownership by filling out a Grant Deed form you can buy in any stationery store. He'd have to sign the form in front of a notary public, take it to County Records, pay a document fee, and file it. If he did that, the line of credit would stay open.”

  “And he could have withdrawn monies against the property.”

  “Right.”

  “For Skoll Investment, which as far as I can figure, doesn't exist. So where's the money?”

  I was still thinking about that later as I was reading, yet again, about the royal family in my People. Norm had gone upstairs. Mindy had nursed and diapered a sleeping Yitz and was going to bed.

  “Maybe I'll be lucky and get two hours,” she said. In the doorway she turned around. “I almost forgot, Molly. I checked out your Mr. Tiler.”

  “A divorce attorney. I know. Thanks anyway.”

  “Intellectual properties.”

  I put down my magazine. “You're sure?”

  “Only one with that name in the L.A. area. I have his address and phone number if you want to contact him. Gordon Tiler. Didn't you say Margaret Linney composed music? Maybe she wanted to protect her material.”

  “But why the exclamation points next to his name?”

  Mindy covered her yawn with her hand. “Ask me tomorrow, when I have a functioning brain.”

  The problem with going to sleep early Friday nights is that I often wake up around one or two in the morning. Tonight I woke up a little after ten. I hadn't even slept three hours. Too much on my mind, including lunch tomorrow with Zack's parents.

  Unlike weekdays, when I can watch an old movie or sit at my computer to write or play online mah jongg, on the Sabbath I can't do any activity that requires my turning on electricity. It sounds like an inconvenience, I know, and there was a time when that's how I regarded it, but I've come to appreciate it for what it is: a reminder that the day is special, a separation from the rest of the week, an opportunity to reconnect with the spiritual.

  Still, I was the only one awake in a house that was dark except for nightlights in the bathrooms and halls, and the only sound was the tick, tick, tick of the clock on the nightstand. Lying on my back, I tried to trick myself back to sleep by sorting the bits of information floating around in my head. Modine and Reston and HARP. Linney and the cell phone. Grant Deeds and Home Equity Lines of Credits. Margaret's planner. All part of a pattern, like the winding ribbon in my computer's screen saver that changes color and size and has no discernible beginning or end.

  The photocopied pages of Margaret's planner were in my purse. I left the warm comfort of the bed, slipped into my robe, and took the pages into the dining room.

  The candles were still flickering, casting shadows on the walls. I placed the booklet on the table and read the pages for the fourth or fifth time. I don't know what I was expecting—some sort of epiphany, I suppose. But I was no wiser when I finished, just more frustrated.

  At least two puzzles had been solved. Tiler and HELC. I hadn't noticed the little mark and the curve that had turned the P into a C until Mindy pointed it out. Reston hadn't either. “Banking is hell, everybody needs help,” he'd said when I'd asked him about it. But wouldn't he have known there was a line of credit against the property?

  A candle sputtered and died. I looked again at the entry. The little mark was faint, but there. Photocopies will sometimes pick up marks that aren't noticeable on the original.

  It occurred to me that Hank could have erased the C, or part of it. Turned it into a P and rendered the entry meaningless.

  I didn't recall seeing bank statements in the same folder that held the correspondence from Skoll Investment, but at the time I hadn't thought to look.

  If Hank had altered one entry, had he altered others? I thought about the page that wasn't there, the one he claimed Maggie had ripped out.

  I went through the planner, scrutinizing every letter of every entry and noticed little flecks between the letters of one: Check out Sub-Zero. I peered at the entry, then went into the dark kitchen and to the utility drawer where I groped around and found the magnifying glass Mindy keeps there.

  With the magnifier, the flecks were larger, but they were still flecks. I was certain that Hank had erased the original entry and replaced it with Check out Sub-Zero.

  Maybe not. Margaret may have erased it because she'd changed her plans. That's probably why she'd used pencil, not pen.

  But Margaret wouldn't have changed the C into a P.

  Even though I was wearing my velour robe, I felt cold. I returned the magnifying glass to its drawer, and myself to my bed, where I thought about Hank Reston.

  A man I liked. A man who had asked me to find out what had happened to the wife he passionately loved.

  A man who had probably tampered with her planner to keep me from finding out some truth, who told me he had “buckets of money” when he was having financial problems.

  A man who had been reluctant to give me the name of the home health care agency that had received two calls instructing the caregiver not to show that Friday morning.

  And the fact that he'd asked me to help him?

  He could have done it to keep tabs on me and what I learned, and divert suspicion from himself. I'd told Connors that Reston had no reason to vandalize my car. After all, he'd asked me to investigate. But what if he'd slashed my tires and left a threat knowing I'd think exactly that?

  I recalled being pleasantly surprised when Reston had left me alone to search through Linney's possessions. Come to my house, look through anything you want, I have nothing to hide. Saddam Hussein had said the same thing.

  Maybe Reston had wanted me to find the tape.

  He could have “found” it. It would be natural for him to go through his father-in-law's possessions. But unless I'd misread Hernandez, Reston was a prime suspect, and the police would have regarded his discovery more suspiciously.

  But if someone else discovered the tape . . . a tape that the police would find to have been spliced, a tape that would give credence to the probability that Margaret Linney was dead, and allow the grieving widower to inherit her estate. And Linney's, now that he was dead, too. And be reimbursed by the insurance company for several million dollars' worth of stolen jewels.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Saturday, November 15. 12:30 P.M. Corner of La Brea Avenue and Venice Bou
levard. A woman approached a man at a gas station and said, “You raped Saddam bin Laden.” She then took out a knife and attempted to stab him before running off westbound on Venice. The suspect is described as a 40- to 49-year-old Caucasian woman standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing 170 pounds, with brown hair and green eyes. (Wilshire)

  HAVING LUNCH WITH ZACK'S PARENTS WAS LIKE GETTING six stitches under my chin, which I did one summer in camp: The anticipation was worse than the actuality, but I'd be lying if I told you the process was painless.

  It wasn't that I didn't know his parents. Zack had introduced me to them three months ago at the shul's meet-the-new-rabbi dinner, and I say hello whenever I attend services at Zack's shul. (I'd first seen them at Zack's high school graduation reception, when I forced my friend Aggie to stroll with me past the Abrams family tableau. Several times. Seventeen-year-old girls with broken hearts do pathetic things, though come to think of it, there's no age limit on “pathetic.”) Anyway, they're always warm and friendly. But now I would be in their home and, as Chef Emeril would say, Zack and I were “kicking it up a notch.”

  Since Wednesday night I'd built myself up to a state of nervousness that not even the strongest antiperspirant could have helped. Reason told me Zack's parents wanted to like me as much as I wanted to like them: He's an only child, thirty years old, and they're probably chaleshing for him to marry and provide them with grandchildren. My experience with Ron's parents, decent people understandably blind to their son's faults, told me the same thing. But reason and experience are powerless against my insecurity and tendency to overanalyze, insidious Merlins who turn truth into illusion and illusion into truth.

  They'd probably checked me out with people in the community who knew my family or of them. (My parents had done the same with their prospective sons-in-law and daughter-in-law. It's the norm.) So they knew that I was divorced, that I'd left Orthodoxy for a few years. And if they'd vetted me with Rabbi Ingel, my high school Bible teacher, they'd no doubt come away with a less-than-flattering picture of “that Blume girl,” which is how he'd refer to me. Then again, I had a few things to say about the rabbi.