Grave Endings (15 page)

A minute or so later, he recited another blessing. The room reverberated with cries of “Mazel tov!” and the rapid-fire
thunk
s of the voile bags we all hurled over the
mechitza
at Zack, who had ducked and taken cover behind the
tallit
to deflect the sweets-filled missiles, much to the shrieking delight of the kids who swooped down like locusts to claim them. He didn't escape completely. I'm pretty sure I got him, and Edie did, too. Bubbie G landed one on Ron. I think he was her target all along.

Zack was dancing around the bima with his father and mine and other men, including my brothers and brothers-in-law. I was flushed with exhilaration, grinning and kissing family and friends and some people I didn't even know, when I turned to accept a hug and was startled to see Aggie's mother in the entrance to the women's section.

We exchanged smiles. I don't know if mine showed my sudden awkwardness. Hers looked fragile, and I was touched that she'd come to share in Zack's and my happiness. I was also saddened by the ghost of Aggie that she'd brought with her, and embarrassed by the conspicuousness of celebration. The white roses along the walls and at the four corners of the bima, the vines draped along the top of the
mechitza.
The squeals of the children, the laughter, the jubilant singing and dancing.

I'd tried phoning the Lashers during the past few days. The line had been constantly busy, and I'd assumed they'd left the receiver off the hook. On Thursday I'd passed their Mansfield Avenue house on the way to Edie's, but I didn't stop. I'm not sure why.

In the months after Aggie was murdered, I'd visited her parents at least once a week, usually more often. When my family expressed concern that my involvement in their lives wasn't healthy for them or me, I was defensive: Aggie was an only child. I had spent countless hours and many nights in the Lashers' home. It was a mitzvah to comfort those who have lost loved ones, and what better comfort could I provide than filling some of their lonely hours and telling them stories about Aggie that would preserve her memory and lighten their pain?

I didn't tell the Lashers everything. I didn't tell them that on that fateful July night, Aggie had asked me to accompany her to the prayer vigil. I didn't tell them that I'd been too lazy to change out of my shorts; that I'd had little interest in prayers, or faith in their power; that I'd preferred staying home and watching a rerun of
Will &
Grace.
I didn't tell them that at the time Aggie's lifeless body was being tossed like garbage into a Dumpster miles from where she was last seen, I was flirting on the phone with a guy whose last name I can't recall.

I made my way through the throng of women and children toward Mrs. Lasher. I didn't know what to say, how to juggle grief and joy. When I reached her, she hugged me and kissed my cheeks. Without lipstick or blusher her face looked pale against the dark brown of the wavy, shoulder-length wig she had left in her closet for a year or so after Aggie died. She had always reminded me of a butterfly—pretty in a delicate way, sunny, a little restless as she flitted from room to room. She was subdued now, dormant, her color hidden inside her folded wings.

She clasped my hands. “Mazel tov, Molly. Binyomin and I are so happy for you.”

There was something brave about her tremulous smile, something wistful and painful and hopeful. Her smile said that she saw Aggie when she looked at me, that she was struck again with the realization that she would never walk her daughter to the chuppa, would never see grandchildren, that despite her heartache she genuinely wished me well in this second chance at joy.

Tears filled my eyes. “Thank you so much for coming, Mrs. Lasher. I wish . . .”

“I know.” Her brown eyes glistened. “We almost didn't come. We didn't want to make you sad, Molly. But how could we
not
come? You're like a daughter to us. You were a sister to Aggie.”

She leaned closer. “The detective told us he talked to you,” she said in an undertone, although with the noise in the room no one could have heard her. “Knowing won't bring Aggie back, the pain will always be there. But now we can move on. We
have
to move on, Molly.”

Someone grabbed me by the waist and spun me around. Lola, one of my grandmother's Amazonian friends. She pressed me into her pillowy chest and kissed me with gusto, and when I turned back, Mrs. Lasher was gone.

I thought about her as I recited the blessings for the month of Adar that would begin on Sunday—a month distinguished by great rejoicing, which was why Zack and I had chosen it for our wedding. I thought about her and her husband as I prayed that the month would be filled with goodness and sustenance, with “peace, joy and gladness, salvation and consolation.”

I didn't see Mrs. Lasher or her husband at the buffet kiddush Zack's parents hosted in the shul's reception hall. To be honest, I tried not to think about them or Aggie during the kiddush and the family lunch that followed.

Later, in my apartment, at the end of a wonderful day of celebration, I thought about them and wondered again why Binyomin Lasher had attended the funeral of the man who killed his daughter. I wondered how they had reacted to news of the letter Creeley had written.

I had changed into a skirt and sweater and was freshening my makeup when my cell phone rang. Zack, I thought, telling me he was on the way to pick me up for our appointment with the calligrapher.

It was Trina Creeley.

“He trashed my apartment,” she said, her words a crescendo of wailing, like an approaching siren. “The front-door lock is broken. Everything's a mess. I can't stay there tonight.”

I put down my lipstick. “You know who did this?”

“A man phoned a day after Randy died. He said his name was Jim. I don't know if that's his real name. And his voice sounded funny, like he was using something to change it. He said Randy had a package that belonged to him. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about, but he didn't believe me.”

“Maybe it was burglars,” I said, leaning against the sink.

“He phoned tonight right after I got home, so I know he's watching my apartment. He said he wouldn't have had to do that if I'd looked for the package. I told him again I didn't have any package. He said I'd better find it. He killed Randy, and now he's going to kill me!”

My heart beat faster. “Did you call the police?”

“He said no police. He said he'd know if I called them. I need to get some things from my apartment and find a place to stay until I figure this out. I can't call my father. He—I just can't. Can you help me?”

“Trina—”

“I'm sorry about the other day. I don't blame you for being angry. I thought maybe he sent you.”

“Where are you now, Trina?”

“In the ladies' room at Grauman's Chinese. You said you wanted to help. Will you come? Please? Because I don't know who else to call.”

twenty-two

ZACK PARKED IN A LOADING-ONLY ZONE AROUND THE corner from the theater.

“I don't want you going inside,” he said again. “What if it's a setup? Why doesn't she want you to phone Connors?”

I had relayed Trina's explanation when I'd phoned him, and again when he'd picked me up. I repeated it now. “She's waiting in the restroom for a change of clothes, Zack. Obviously, you can't go in there.”

“Well, come right back. Then I'll go and bring her to the car.” He didn't look happy. “Buy a ticket, Molly. If this Jim followed her, he'll be looking for anything unusual. You don't want to draw attention to yourself.”

I nodded. “Why don't I just wait for her to change, Zack? She's terrified. At least she knows me.”

“If this guy was at the funeral, he may have seen you and may recognize you if you walk out with her. He won't be looking for a woman leaving with a guy wearing a yarmulke. Tell her who I am, what I'm wearing. Tell her I'll meet her at the concession counter.”

I got out of the car and rounded the corner. The sidewalk was packed with people waiting in line for one of several new films, including the new Hugh Grant romantic comedy. The forecourt was crowded, too. Crowds are good, I decided. Then I wondered if Jim was hiding among them, watching.

I imagined eyes on me as I bought a ticket and handed it to a man inside the lobby. He tore it in half and glanced at my large tote, probably suspecting that I was trying to sneak snacks inside. I kept smiling and he waved me through.

Trina had told me she would be in the women's restroom to my left. I found the restroom but didn't see her. Stood up again, I thought with a surge of anger. Or maybe she was playing games. I phoned her on my cell and was surprised when she answered on the first ring.

“Where are you?”
she whispered.

Her fear made me shiver. “In the restroom. Where are you?”

The door to a stall squeaked open and out she came. I gave her my tote and reached for her black vinyl one. She hesitated, then handed it to me. It was heavy.

“Don't lose that,” she said.

“My fiancé's wearing navy Dockers and a gray sweater over a white T-shirt.” I kept my voice low, though I doubted that any of the other women in the restroom were interested in our conversation, or that they could hear us over the sonata of flushing toilets and groaning faucets. “Phone me when you're ready. He'll meet you at the concession stand.”

“Why can't you wait?” Her tone was plaintive.

I told her. She blanched, then nodded and disappeared into a stall.

A minute later I was back in the forecourt. I sauntered along the sidewalk, rounded the corner, and got into the car.

“She's there,” I told Zack. “She'll phone me when she's ready.” I put Trina's bag at my feet and resisted the temptation to unzip it and peek inside. “Thanks for not being upset about all this.”

“She needed help, Molly. Why would I be upset?”

“I forgot to cancel Galit,” I said, just now remembering.

“I phoned her on my way to your place. We're tentative for tomorrow afternoon, assuming you can leave Trina. If not, I told Galit we'll figure something out.”

I wished I could kiss him. “Have I told you recently how much I love you?”

“Twice in the last hour. But keep it coming.” He smiled.

Ten minutes passed. I wanted to phone Trina, but Zack said to wait. A minute or so later my phone sang “Für Elise.” I flipped it open and handed it to Zack.

“So she'll know your voice,” I said.

He put the phone to his ear. “Trina? This is Zack. I'm with Molly. Are you ready? Okay, I'm on my way.” He shut the phone and handed it to me.

“Keep it,” I said. “In case she needs to reach you.”

Zack gave me his phone and left. I maneuvered myself around the gear stick on the center console into the driver's seat in case the driver from Parking Enforcement who had been circling the block ordered me to move the car.

With my hands on the steering wheel, I waited and checked my watch for seven minutes that seemed like a hundred before Zack appeared with Trina. They were walking close together and looked like a couple. She had switched her black leggings for my denim skirt and wrapped my Burberry shawl around her neck. The street-lamp gleamed on the European hairs of my straight blond wig.

Zack opened the back door for Trina, then slipped into the front. She gave me her address, on Selma.

“I'll drive around in case someone's following us,” I said. The words sounded ridiculous to my ears.

I drove to Vine, then to Sunset, then back up to Hollywood and the address on Selma.

I circled the block slowly. Zack didn't see anyone lurking near Trina's two-story building, so I parked. He took a flashlight from the glove compartment and told us to wait while he made sure no one was in the apartment.

“I don't want you going in there,” I said, but he was already sprinting up the walkway to the front door. A moment later he was inside.

I had many questions for Trina and exercised great effort not to ask them. I didn't know what she was thinking. We waited in silence for Zack to return, which took about five minutes but felt considerably longer.

“All clear.” He handed me the flashlight. “Molly, go with Trina. I'll watch from here. Make it fast. Don't turn on any lights.”

I put my phone on vibrate mode and told Trina to do the same with hers.

Inside the apartment, I shut the door behind us and switched on the flashlight. We were in the living room.

“That bastard!” Her face was pinched with anger and fear.

Even with only the light of the narrow beam, I could see that someone had done a thorough job of ransacking the place. The sofa had been overturned, its underside and cushions ripped. The backings of several framed posters had been slashed. The contents of the wood-tone TV stand—DVDs and videocassettes—were on the floor.

“I need stuff from my bedroom,” Trina said.

I handed her the flashlight and followed her down a short, narrow hall. Her mattress had suffered the same fate as her sofa, and the contents of all six drawers of her dresser had been emptied onto the carpeted floor.

She gave me the flashlight. I focused it on mounds of clothing, which she pawed through. She stuffed a pair of sweats, underwear, and sweaters into a suitcase she dragged out from the closet, then added slacks and two pairs of shoes.

The contents of her medicine cabinet had been dumped onto the tile floor. Trina took a makeup bag and a vial of sleeping pills (“I've been having trouble sleeping,” she told me) and left the remainder.

The kitchen floor was a puddle of egg yolks, sugar, and flour. A recipe for heartache.

“I had four hundred dollars in that canister,” she told me, pointing to a shattered ceramic jar shaped like a hen. She started to cry.

“I can lend you money,” I said.

She shook her head. “I have a credit card and enough in the bank. It's not the money, it's the violation.” She picked up a piece of the jar and put it on the counter. She hugged her arms. “I don't think I can live here again.”

Michael Jackson said the same thing after police searched Neverland last November. I guess it doesn't matter whether you're a salesperson at Frederick's living in a one-bedroom apartment on Selma or an international celebrity with a multimillion-dollar home in Santa Barbara.

Trina took a last look around.

Then we left.