Dream House (13 page)

Reston frowned. “You're barking up the wrong tree. Roger wouldn't lay a finger on Maggie. He knows I'd kill anyone who hurt her,” he said simply, as though he were talking about swatting a fly.

He hadn't really answered my question. I asked Hank to get me Linz's phone number and paged backwards through the
photocopied pages while he was out of the room. Maggie had written
Tiler
on the next-to-last page. With two exclamation points.

Something about that bothered me, but I couldn't figure it out. Something bothered me about the other pages, too, but
Reston was back before I could mull it through.

“Who's the last person Maggie spoke to before she disappeared?” I asked.

“Aside from her dad, you mean.” He handed me a slip of paper with Linz's phone number. “I called her around ten, but she was getting Oscar to bed. He had a rough day, so of course, Maggie did, too. She said she'd call back, and when I didn't hear from her, I figured she was painting. She does that when she wants to relax. I didn't want to bother her, so I went to the casino and played the tables and found out later she'd called. By then it was late and I didn't want to wake her.”

“You were in Vegas?”

“On business. I was in San Bernardino earlier in the day.”

The cops had checked the phone records, he told me. Except for a 10:30 call to the hotel, Maggie hadn't made any long-distance calls that night—not on the house phone, not on her cell phone.

I looked at the page again. “Maggie wrote about a meeting with Dr. E, and on the same page,
V
and
D.
”

“
D
is the Professor.
V
would be Ned Vaughan. He's a family friend and very close to Oscar, although I would have thought she'd write
Ned.
The doc is his internist. El-something.” Hank remained standing, his hands locked on the scrolled iron back of his chair.

“She didn't have any friends or colleagues with a first or last name that starts with
D
?”

He shook his head. He was shifting his weight from one foot to another, a sprinter waiting for the starting shot. His restlessness was making me nervous.

I thumbed back a page. “What about
pb?
Would that be
plumber
?”

“Sounds right.” He picked up his mug, took a sip, and made a face. “This is cold. You want a refill?”

I covered the top of my mug with my hand. “I'm good, thanks.”

He dumped the coffee into the sink. I flipped back several pages and waited for him to return with his refilled mug. “A week before Maggie disappeared, she wrote something about bank and help. Any idea what that is?”

“Banking is hell, everyone needs help,” he said, unsmiling. “I don't know. Sorry.”

I showed him the notation about the MS, but he had no idea whether or not Linney had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. “Maggie took care of all that,” he told me.

I looked at the following page again.
Lighting. Pool tile. Call pb?! Tiler!!
I must have been frowning because he asked me what was wrong.

“Just thinking,” I said. “When are the police coming to pick up the planner?”

“I haven't told them about it yet.” The color in his face deepened. “To tell you the truth, I hate the thought of giving it up. When I hold it or read it, I can see Maggie sitting on the bed writing in it, her legs crossed under her. Or in the car.” He paused. “I guess I'll call the detective this morning.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-THREE

I
ASKED TO SEE PROFESSOR LINNEY'S ROOM. I WAS
prepared to answer Reston's “Why?” with some vague explanation that would avoid any intimation that the old man had been killed (I didn't want to piss off Porter or Hernandez more than I already had by seeing the planner and Linney's room before they did), but Reston didn't ask.

The old man's ground-floor bedroom, carpeted in taupe, its walls painted ecru, was larger than his room in the Fuller house. Someone had filled it with the basics. A maple sleigh bed, nightstand, dresser, a desk with a book-filled hutch. His Columbia
undergraduate degree hung next to a plaque from the University of Southern California. On the desk were a black ceramic cup with pens and pencils, a pad of lined paper, and a tape recorder.

“The Professor used it for department meetings, and to record notes for his book,” Hank said when I asked him about the recorder. “He wasn't into computers.” He looked around the room and sighed. “I haven't been in here since the old guy died. It's strange, not seeing him.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“Friday morning, just before I left. He asked me when I'd be back. He didn't usually give a damn, but at the time I didn't give it any thought.”

“I understand that the housekeeper left him alone in the house.”

Hank frowned. “He told Louisa I said it was okay 'cause I'd be home within the hour. He seemed real clearheaded that morning, so I can see how she'd buy it.” His tone indicated other
wise.

“I'd like to talk to her.”

“She'll be back tomorrow. But like I told you, the police talked to her. She didn't know anything about Maggie's disappearance.”

The housekeeper had probably been nervous talking to police and might be more open with me. I also wanted to ask her what Linney had been like in the days before he died.

“And the caregiver?” I asked. “She didn't show?”

“Can you believe it?” He rolled his eyes. “I have half a mind to sue.”

I'd heard Reston mention the agency's name when he was talking to the black-suited woman at the meeting and dug it out of my memory bank. First Aid. “What's the caregiver's name?” Maria something, Fennel had said.

Reston hesitated. “I don't want you talking to her just yet. In case I
do
decide to sue. I want to check with the lawyers. Anyway, she wasn't with the Professor when Maggie disappeared.”

But Linney might have said something to her about Margaret. “Can I take a look at Professor Linney's papers? He may have made some reference to your wife's plans, written down something she said.” I wondered if my explanation sounded as lame to him as it did to me.

“The police asked. Oscar didn't hear anything that night, didn't know anything. But go ahead and look, if you want. Knock yourself out.” Hank checked his watch. “I have a few calls to make. I'll be in my office if you need me.”

That was fine with me. I'd assumed that Reston would oversee my search, and I wondered if he'd left me alone to show that he trusted me or that he had nothing to hide. Or, my suspicious self suggested, because he'd already removed anything incriminating.

Sitting at Linney's desk, I pressed the
EJECT
button on the tape recorder, but there was no cassette inside. The desk's center drawer was filled with odds and ends: paper clips, pens, a gold bookmark. No address book, which was disappointing.

In the bottom of the two drawers on the right I found his USC material—class roll books, curriculum sheets for various architectural courses, typed minutes of department meetings, an assortment of cassettes labeled with the day and date of department meetings. The second drawer yielded several accordion folders: two with architectural sketches, one with photos of homes (many black-and-white, some full color), and the last with two loose pages filled with tiny, cramped handwriting and a cassette labeled
TREASURES
. I played the tape and heard his whiny voice announce the date, February of this year, and the title. Then nothing.

I glanced at the top page, dated almost a year ago.
Treasures of Yesterday and Tomorrow: Preserving the Architectural History of Los Angeles.
Linney's book—or what would have
been
his book if the Alzheimer's hadn't aborted the project. The photos were filed into pockets of the folder labeled with neighborhood names, arranged in alphabetical order: Angelino Heights, Carthay Circle, Melrose Hill, Miracle Mile . . . all the HARP areas I'd been reading about.

At the back of the drawer I found a manila folder with bank statements and correspondence from Skoll Investment, Incorporated, based in Denver. I thumbed through the pages and noted that Linney had invested over forty thousand dollars with them in property. Not a small sum. I checked the dates. April of this year. Around the time he'd been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, according to Tim Bolt. I copied down the names listed on the correspondence and the company's address and phone number.

Thinking of phone numbers reminded me about the call Fennel had overheard. I walked to the answering machine on Linney's nightstand, pressed
REWIND
, then
PLAY
.

Nothing but the whirr of a blank tape. Either Linney had erased Margaret's message, or someone else had.

I checked the old man's dresser but found nothing of interest. On top of the dresser were photos. A duplicate of the formal wedding portrait I'd seen in Linney's Fuller bedroom. Linney with Margaret, from infancy through chubby-cheeked childhood. The professor and an adolescent Margaret with braces on her teeth, her face slimmer, his gaunt; both subdued, presumably by the loss of wife and mother. A smiling Margaret in black cap and gown, clasping a rolled diploma. Margaret seated in front of a grand piano, her slender hands poised on the ivories.

There were no photos of Margaret as bride, none of her groom. That was telling, I thought, but not surprising.

Returning to the desk, I checked the drawers again, not knowing what I was looking for. Then I took down Linney's books, and behind a biography of Frank Lloyd Wright I found an unlabeled tape cassette.

“Expect nothing,” Alice Walker tells us in a poem of the same name, so I tried not to but of course I did, because why would Linney have hidden the tape if it weren't important, at least to him?

I was tempted to slip the cassette into my purse, but that would be theft, and possibly obstruction of justice. So I inserted it into the recorder and pressed
PLAY
.

A few seconds of lead, then, “Professor, it's Ned. Sorry you couldn't make the meeting last night. Hank said you weren't up to it, and I guess he told you about the excitement. Hope you're feeling better. I'll call again.”

The HARP meeting, I thought.

“This is Dr. Elbogen's office reminding you that you have an appointment . . .”

“. . . come by tomorrow, if that's okay, Oscar.” Fennel's squeaky voice. “Want to make sure you're not getting into too much trouble.”

“What's that you're listening to?”

I stopped the tape and turned toward the doorway and Hank. “I found this behind Professor Linney's books,” I told him. “I thought maybe he'd recorded something about Margaret,” I lied. “But it's just messages.”

“Go on,” he instructed, approaching the desk. “Play the rest.”

So I did. I rewound a second or so and pressed
PLAY
.

“. . . make sure you're not getting into too much trouble.”

“Fennel,” Hank said. “The Professor's friend.”

“Mr. Linney, this is Joan Eggers returning your call. I'll be here till five today.”

“Professor, Tim Bolt. Just checking to see if you're feeling better. I wanted you to know that the gardener added seed and fertilizer and trimmed the bushes, so everything's looking fine, just the way you like it.”

There was a caller who left no message. We listened to a long stretch of taped silence, and then another beep.

Hank sighed. “I guess that's—”

“This is Margaret. Meet me at the house Friday at four. I'm afraid. Don't tell anyone.”

A soft moan escaped Reston's lips. He grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself, a giant oak about to be felled by a storm.

“Play it again,” he ordered.

I rewound the tape and did as he asked.

“Again,” he said.

I think we listened to it about five times before he told me he'd heard enough.

“It's Maggie's voice,” he said, his voice hushed with wonder and anguish and a strangled joy. “I can't—” He stopped, and I watched hurt and bewilderment cross his face. “But why didn't she call
me
?”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

“S
O WHAT BRINGS YOU TO WILSHIRE, ASIDE
FROM
YOUR
column?” Rico Hernandez asked.

Several other detectives were in the large room—some standing and talking to each other; some at their desks, writing or on the phone. A few had seemed to follow me with their eyes as I'd made my way to Hernandez's desk. Maybe it was my hair. The rain had stopped, but the air was still full of moisture that had given my natural curls a wild voluminous look much like Madeleine Kahn's electrified “do” after she's done the deed with the monster in
Young Frankenstein.
Or maybe I'm just self-
conscious at Wilshire where, as I mentioned, my questions about my best friend Aggie's unsolved murder make me as welcome as herpes.

I usually do my
Crime Sheet
data collection on Mondays, but yesterday I'd been otherwise occupied. Today I'd made Wilshire my first stop. It's the division closest to Reston's Muirfield house. More important, I wanted to talk to Hernandez without Porter around. Lucky for me, Hernandez was in and willing to see me. Luckier still, Porter was out. Well, not luck. I'd listened while Hank phoned Porter, who had promised he'd be right over to pick up the answering machine tape and planner. So I was feeling a little pleased with myself.

“I was hoping you could tell me what you've learned about Professor Linney's death,” I said, eyeing the “blue books” on Hernandez's dauntingly neat desk. I didn't recognize the names on the labeled spines of the three books standing upright, and the spines of two others were facing away from me. I wondered if one of the latter held reports and photos from the Linney case. If in fact there
was
a case, I cautioned myself.

“And
I
was hoping you'd had a change of heart about your notes.” The corners of Hernandez's mouth were turned up in amusement. “What's your interest in Professor Linney's death, Miss Blume?”

I took that as encouragement and settled onto my chair. “Please call me Molly. The truth? I feel somewhat connected. First of all, I gave Professor Linney a ride the other day. And I think someone lured him to the Fuller house and made the arson look like another one of the HARP-related vandalisms I wrote about in my
Times
piece.”

“So you're feeling used.”

“
And
somewhat responsible.” The way he said it made me sound self-centered, which I guess was partly true. “So naturally, I'd like to find out how he died.”

“I see.”

No further comment from Hernandez. I suppose I'd been hoping for a comforting statement like the one Connors had offered. “Do you have the autopsy results, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“Was Professor Linney murdered?”

“Unfortunately, I can't discuss the results at this time,” the detective said, pleasant but official.

I'd expected a stock answer. “But you think his death and his daughter's disappearance are connected?”

“Again, I can't comment at this time.”

“His death is obviously suspicious, or the fire department would be handling the case, not you.” I turned my head and nodded at the blue books, hoping Hernandez would instinctively look their way and confirm my guess.

He tugged on a snow-white monogrammed cuff peeking out of the sleeve of his navy blazer.

The Rosetta Stone was probably easier to read. Maybe I would have done better with Porter. “According to one of Professor Linney's close friends, Margaret phoned her father last Thursday.” I repeated what Fennel had told me. “I advised Mr. Fennel to contact you,” I continued, hoping to earn points and information. “Did he?”

Hernandez nodded, a noncommittal go-on expression in those chocolate brown eyes.

“I found the tape this morning in Professor Linney's bedroom in his son-in-law's new house. Mr. Reston asked me to help find out what happened to his wife,” I added when I saw Hernandez's raised brow. “I urged him to give you the tape, along with his wife's daily planner, which I found in her bedroom last night. Mr. Reston told me it had been missing from the time his wife disappeared.”

Hernandez studied me for what was probably less than a minute but felt longer. “You seem to have a knack for finding things,” he finally said.

His tone and gaze made me shift on my seat even though he had no way of knowing I'd been trespassing when I'd come across the planner. It was the kind of penetrating look my dad does well, the kind that probably had suspects spilling all for Hernandez.

My cheeks tingled. “My point is, Detective, I'm trying to help your investigation, not hinder it. I'm hoping you'll share information with me, and I promise not to print anything until you give me the green light.”

Hernandez treated me to another amused smile that on Porter would have looked snide. “Thank you, Molly, but I have a partner. I'm not looking for a replacement.”

“You can check with Detective Connors. He'll vouch for me.” After my
Times
article, I hoped that was still true.

“Where was Margaret Reston's planner?”

“In her nightstand.” I told him about the movement I'd noticed at the window, about the perfumed and dusted room. “Whoever was there could have replaced the planner.”

“Perhaps it was Margaret Reston,” Hernandez said.

“Margaret Reston?” I repeated stupidly. I hadn't considered that, though of course, I should have.

“If she made that phone call, she may still be alive. From what you tell me, her father and Mr. Fennel recognized her voice. So did her husband.”

“I guess they'd know.”

Hernandez cocked his head. “But you're not convinced. I take it you've talked to Margaret Reston?”

“No. I've never even met her.”

“Then why the skepticism?”

“What about the autopsy results?” I countered.

Hernandez wagged his finger at me. “We're not bartering here, Miss Blume.” Along with the return to formality, a flinty note had deepened his musical voice.

Nothing ventured . . . “Her voice was stiff. You'll hear it when you listen to the tape.”

“Tension or anxiety can do that,” Hernandez said, but he looked thoughtful.

“And her message was abrupt. ‘This is Margaret. I'm afraid. Meet me at the house. Don't tell anyone.' It's strange, don't you think, considering she'd disappeared and hadn't talked to her father in five months?”

“Maybe she was afraid someone would overhear, or trace her call.”

“Maybe.” I had to admit that was a possibility.

“Mr. Reston didn't comment about the message?”

“He wants desperately to believe his wife is alive. I think he noticed something was off but didn't want to admit it. Why else would he listen to the tape five times?”

Rico Hernandez drummed his fingers on his desk while he contemplated what I'd told him.

“If Margaret Reston is alive,” I said when the drumming stopped, “why hasn't she come forward? Doesn't she care that her father burned to death? And why didn't she let the poor man know all those months he was grieving for her? Why didn't she leave a note?”

“Fear,” Hernandez said with quiet certainty. “The same fear that drove her away in the first place.”

“What about the blood on the desk and in her car? And the missing jewelry?” I frowned. “Unless she staged the kidnapping and skipped with the jewelry so she could sell it and live off it,” I said, answering my own question. And if that were the case, why? “Was it her blood?”

“It was, yes. And before you ask, we didn't find anyone else's.”

Finally, an answer. “What about the jewelry? Has any of it turned up?”

“Not yet.” Hernandez's face showed a flicker of disappointment. “For all we know, the stones could be in several different countries by now. If Margaret Linney died, I imagine her kidnapper would be extremely nervous about being found through her jewels.”

I felt a beat of excitement. “So you
do
think she's dead?”

“On the other hand, if she staged her kidnapping, she'd be nervous about being traced through her jewelry.”

I mulled that over, then thought again about the tape. I shook my head. “I can't believe she'd phone her father and set him up like that.”

“Maybe she planned to meet him but was prevented from doing so. Maybe she was killed.”

Hernandez's seesawing was driving me crazy. “Is that what you believe?”

“I'm reserving judgment until I hear the tape. About the planner, Molly. We'll need your fingerprints since you handled it. I take it you've examined it?” He spoke with the resignation of a parent who's been asked to meet with his child's principal, again.

“Only the last few entries.” I didn't volunteer that the
photocopied pages were in the Coach bag at my feet. “I
did
find something interesting,” I said, in my best dangling-carrot voice.

“Bartering again?” Hernandez asked when I didn't continue.

“Trying to.” This time he didn't sound annoyed. That and the fact that he was using my first name renewed my hope. “Mr. Reston told me his wife had quarreled with Karl Linz, the tile setter, but Linz's sister alibied him.”

Hernandez nodded. “The quarrel took place weeks before the disappearance.”

“But there's a notation in the planner on the day before Margaret disappeared about the tiler. With two exclamation points. Why would she be upset about Linz two weeks
after
the quarrel, unless they had another one?”

“As a writer, you're clearly attuned to the significance of punctuation,” Hernandez said dryly. “But you're right. It's an excellent question, Molly, and a fine observation.” He jotted something on the small notepad in front of him.

I have to admit his approval pleased me. “And then there's Professor Linney's bruises. The day we met, his legs were black and blue.”

“Did he mention how he obtained the bruises?”

I shook my head. “Not to me. Apparently Professor Linney accused several people of hitting him. The caregiver, the housekeeper, his son-in-law.”

Hernandez wrote that down, too, but didn't look impressed. “Linney suffered from Alzheimer's, so he may have imagined the abuse. The fact that he accused several people makes that more likely, don't you think? But thank you for telling me. Anything else?”

Time to play my ace. “Linney told me he didn't want to climb stairs because he was terrified of falling and breaking his hip.” I paused. “So what was he doing in an upstairs bedroom in the Fuller house?”

“You didn't mention this yesterday.”

I had the detective's interest now. I could hear it in the
F-sharpness of his melodious voice. I could see it in the stiffening of his posture. And in his scowl. It wasn't the response I'd hoped for.

“I remembered after you left.” I spoke with sincerity born of truth, but I had that squirmy feeling again. “Anyway, I thought you should know. That's why I'm here.”

“And because you want information.”

“That, too,” I agreed. “I'd be grateful for details about Margaret Linney's disappearance. Whom you suspect. I don't suppose you'd let me take a look at her file?” I probably had a better chance at winning the lottery.

“I wish I could help you, Miss Blume.” We'd gone from formal to friendly and back to formal. “I appreciate the information you've shared.”

“Was Professor Linney murdered? Just tell me that.”

“I believe this is where you came in.” Hernandez braced his hands on his desk and stood. “If there's something I can tell you that won't compromise our investigation, I will.”

“Like the Lakers' score?” I picked up my purse and slung the strap over my shoulder.

Hernandez smiled. “I'll give your regards to Detective Porter. He'll be sorry he missed you.”