Grave Endings (26 page)

forty

SEVEN LONG-STEMMED YELLOW ROSES AND A ROMANTIC note from Zack were waiting for me at my door when I arrived home. So was the copyedited manuscript of
The
Lady From Twenty-nine Palms,
the true-crime book I had completed three months ago.

The letter that accompanied the manuscript, which was flagged with dozens of green Post-its, informed me that I had two weeks to review the copy editor's comments and make all necessary changes. I enjoy the editing process and am grateful to my copy editor, someone whose name and gender I don't know, who reads every word and has caught numerous errors, large and small, and spared me embarrassment. But I hadn't expected the manuscript for another few weeks—
after
the wedding. I would e-mail my editor in the morning and ask her for an extension. In the meantime, I would take a first look.

I phoned the shul, but Zack wasn't in. I left a message and placed the vase with his roses on my desk so that I could look at them while I did a first read of the manuscript. I tried to concentrate, but after reading fifteen pages and responding to two Post-it queries, I set the manuscript aside.

My mind was on Randy and his discovery, days before he died, that his stepmother had known all these years that her predecessor was living in Southern California, and had sent her packing.

I no longer had his cell phone, but I remembered the basics of Alice's message: Don't do something you'll regret, Randy. I might have paid more attention, but her message had been overshadowed by the redhead's cryptic one. Now I wondered whether Randy had told Alice that he planned to tell his father what he had recently learned.

You tell him, Alice, or I will.

That wasn't in the spirit of making amends, but Randy must have been furious. And Alice must have panicked, wondering how Roland would react. I recalled my impression of her, a woman threatened by the memory of the beautiful wife she had replaced.

Before talking with Sue Ann (I couldn't think of her as Serena), I had suggested to Zack and then to Connors that Randy's mother might have been desperate to keep her old and new lives separate. I had even wondered whether her desperation had driven her to kill her own son.

I hadn't ruled her out as the driver of the SUV, which is why I had waited in the coffee shop so that I could leave after she did. But if she was telling the truth—a big
if,
I knew—she and Randy had made peace, and she had had no reason to fear him. And if she had planned to do anything, she would have done it long ago.

But Alice Creeley . . .

I pictured the black Ford Explorer I'd seen in her driveway last week. I had been in Culver City yesterday for more than three hours, talking about Randy to the Creeleys' neighbors, one of whom could have phoned Alice. . . .

My cell phone rang. I hurried to the kitchen counter where I had left it and looked at the LCD display. PRIVATE CALL. I pressed the green button and said hello.

“Are you Molly Blume?” a woman asked.

“This is she.”

“Charlie said you wanted to talk to me.” She had a soft, tentative voice.

“Right.” The friend from Rachel's Tent. I pulled over a pad and pen. “Thanks for calling. Can we meet for coffee somewhere? What's your name, by the way?”

“I'd rather do this over the phone. What exactly did you want to know?”

I wondered why she was avoiding telling me her name. “Charlie mentioned that you had a bad experience while you were at Rachel's Tent. I'd like to talk to you about it.”

“I don't want to get anyone in trouble.”

“I understand. Was it drug related?”

“Is that what Charlie told you?” She sounded jumpy.

“Charlie didn't tell me anything. It would be easier if I could call you by your name. I won't use it.”

“You can call me Melinda.”

I assumed that that wasn't her real name. I leaned against the counter. “Did you know Randy, Melinda?”

“We all did. He was around all the time.”

“Charlie mentioned that he played the field with a lot of the women at Rachel's Tent.”

“Right.”

Richard Nixon had probably been more forthcoming. “Were you one of those women?”

“For a while,” she admitted. “It was over before it started. I realized later that he was pumping me for information.”

She sounded resentful, and I couldn't blame her. “The bad experience you had, was it with Randy?”

“Look, this happened six years ago. I don't want to rake it all up, okay?”

“Rake what up?”

“Why are you interested in this, anyway?”

“I thought Charlie told you. I'm writing about Rachel's Tent, and Randy. If you didn't want to talk to me, Melinda, why did you call?”

For a few seconds I thought she'd hung up. “It was after one of Mr. Horton's dinners,” she said. “You know who Mr. Horton is?”

I told her I did.

“Every month he invites someone from Rachel's Tent to his house to have dinner with his family. When Randy was working at the agency, he'd drive us there and back and stay for dinner. He was close to Mr. Horton and the son. When it was my turn to go, I was excited, and nervous. I didn't want to embarrass myself and use the wrong fork. It was funny when Julia Roberts did it in
Pretty Woman,
but in real life, people laugh
at
you, not with you.”

The vulnerability in her voice saddened me. I wondered if the “bad experience” had been the lingering humiliation of a faux pas she'd committed that evening.

“Anyway,” she said. “Dinner was easier than I thought it would be, and Mrs. Horton made me feel comfortable right away. She's very sweet. It's what happened
after
dinner. The thing is, I'm not even sure anything
did
happen. Even if it did, there's nothing I can do about it.”

In person, I could have encouraged her with a nod or a smile. Now all I could do was wait.

“They didn't serve wine during dinner, just fancy water. Some of the clients at Rachel's Tent have problems with alcohol. But in the car on the way home I had a beer. Except I don't think he took me home right away. I think—” She stopped. “I think he raped me.”

I was chilled to the bone.

“I think he put something in my drink,” Melinda said.

“I remember feeling a little dizzy and real hot. I thought I was going to throw up. And the next thing, I was in my bed in my apartment, but my clothes weren't on right.”

She could have been describing the effects of alcohol and Rohypnol, a drug frequently used in date rape and also called a “roofie” or a “forget pill,” for obvious reasons. The tablet has no taste and no odor and costs less than five dollars, which is why it poses such a danger to unsuspecting women.

“Did you tell anyone, Melinda?”

“They wouldn't have believed me. With my background, and all. Plus I had that drink.”

I couldn't see her, but I had the feeling she was blushing. “What about your family?”

“I haven't seen my family in years. I've been on my own since I was fifteen. I didn't want to make trouble. I was afraid I'd be thrown out of Rachel's Tent, and then where would I go? Back on the street?”

I wished I could offer some comfort, say something that would alleviate her pain and bitterness. “Couldn't you tell your therapist?”

“There was this girl at Rachel's Tent,” Melinda said. “Iris. I don't know her last name.”

“Right.” I was puzzled by the non sequitur. “Charlie told me about her. The one who left the agency?”

“That's what they said. I don't know if that's so.”

I had a prickly feeling at the base of my spine. “What do you mean?”

“We were in group together, and we got to be friendly. I talked to her the day before she left, and she didn't say
one word
about leaving. The same thing happened to her, after she had dinner at the Hortons'.”

“He raped her?”

Randy was a liar and a manipulator, a thief and probably a murderer. I hadn't pictured him as a rapist. He was handsome, charming. He could have had any woman he wanted. But rape isn't about sex, I reminded myself. It's about control, and rage. Rage at his mother?

“She thought he put something in her drink, just like with me, but it wore off,” Melinda said. “She woke up in his room, but pretended she was out. She was afraid of what he'd do. He was making a video. Anyway, Iris told her social worker.”

I tensed. “Aggie Lasher?” It had to be Aggie.

“Right.” Melinda sounded surprised. “Ms. Lasher was pushing Iris to go to the police, but Iris was afraid. She said no one would believe her unless she had proof. And then a few weeks later she told me she
had
proof, and she was going to the police. And then she disappeared.”

“Melinda, even without proof, why wouldn't the police believe you and Iris over Randy? He was an ex-convict, a dope addict.”

“Not
Randy,
” she said. “Mr. Horton's son. Jason.”

forty-one

THE UNDERGROUND PARKING GARAGE AT RACHEL'S TENT had assigned slots for staff. Driving slowly, I passed the empty spot reserved for DR. WILLIAM BRAMER and spotted Barbara Anik's, a hundred feet from a door above which a sign said EXIT. I found a visitor's spot and, sitting in my rented Taurus, glanced at the door every time it opened.

At a little after five-thirty Barbara stepped into the garage. Behind her was a bearded young man. He turned left. Barbara turned right.

I caught up with her just as she was opening the door to her silver Volvo.

“Dr. Anik?”

She whirled around and pressed her hand against her chest. Her face was mottled with red. “You scared me to death!” She dropped her hand. “What are you doing here, Molly?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you. I need to talk to you, Dr. Anik. It's urgent.”

I had been nervous about confiding in her and enlisting her help. But Aggie had respected and trusted her. And I suppose I felt a bond, because of her past and my grandparents'.

“Then you can phone for an appointment,” she said, her voice taut with irritation or anxiety, maybe both. She turned back to the car.

I put my hand gingerly on her shoulder. “This can't wait, Dr. Anik.
Please.
”

She turned to face me, her keys in her hand, indecision in her gray eyes. “All right,” she finally said, her reluctance echoing in the dark garage. “Five minutes. My husband is waiting for me.”

“Can we talk in your car? I don't want Dr. Bramer to see me.”

She looked at me as though I'd lost my mind, but after a brief hesitation she unlocked the passenger door and walked around to the driver's side.

“What's so urgent?” she asked when we were both inside.

“The client Aggie was concerned about, the one who left Rachel's Tent? Her name—”

“I can't discuss any client with you, Molly.” She pinched her lips. “I thought I made that clear.”

“Her name is Iris,” I said. “What I'm going to tell you is confidential, Dr. Anik. You can't tell anyone, not even Dr. Bramer.”

“I
work
with Dr. Bramer,” she said sharply. “I can't be put in this position. And I can't see why you would want to keep information from him.”

“He has close ties to the Horton family, Dr. Anik, and the Hortons are very involved with Rachel's Tent.”

She looked at me quizzically. “Dr. Bramer admires Mr. Horton a great deal, and with good reason. I don't see the problem.”

There was no easy way to say this. “Six years ago Iris was raped by Anthony Horton's son, Jason. She's not the only one.”

It took a few seconds for my words to register.

“I don't believe you.” Barbara stared at me. “Where did you hear this?” she demanded.

I relayed my conversation with Melinda and saw the therapist's certainty crumble. “Melinda says she knows three other women who think they may have been raped by Jason.” Women who were vulnerable, easy prey. “The pattern was the same. Jason offered to drive them home. In the car he would give them a drink laced with Rohypnol and wait until it took effect. Then he would take them to his room, rape them, and drive them home. They weren't sure what had happened, and were afraid to say anything. They had no proof.”

“Dear God.” Barbara shut her eyes for a moment and exhaled deeply. “He did this in his parents' home?”

“That's what Iris told Melinda. Jason has his own suite in a wing that's away from the rest of the family. He counted on the drug working until he got his victims home, so they wouldn't remember anything. But with Iris, it wore off too soon. She knew where she was. She was aware of what was going on but didn't let on. Iris said he videotaped what he was doing. I'm assuming he videotaped everyone.”

Jason, the ventriloquist's dummy, speaking only when spoken to. Jason, an emasculated, pale copy of his charismatic, controlling father. Maybe he had violated women from Rachel's Tent to violate his father's dream. Doing so in his father's home, virtually under his nose, must have given him a perverse pleasure and a measure of control.

Barbara sat awhile without speaking. “Why did Melinda tell you this
now
?” she asked, the skepticism back in her voice.

“A week ago she heard that Randy died, and then she heard I was looking into his death. . . . When Iris disappeared, Melinda suspected that Jason was responsible. She was terrified that if she said anything to the police, something would happen to her, too. She's still afraid, and she doesn't want to be involved, but she couldn't keep quiet any longer.”

Do you think they can really get Jason?
she'd asked.

“You have to tell Dr. Bramer,” Barbara said. “If this is true—”

“He's too close to the Hortons, Dr. Anik. Melinda and the others think he suspected that something was going on but didn't want to know.”

The therapist shook her head. “I can't believe that. Rachel's Tent is his life.”

“What if he worried that the agency would be shut down if this came out?” I waited to let her digest that. “Melinda talked with Iris the day before she left Rachel's Tent. Iris didn't say anything to her about leaving the agency.”

“That's not unusual. I've had a number of clients who terminated therapy without warning. And I seem to remember Aggie telling me she received a note from the client a week or so after the woman left the agency.”

“Anyone can write a note,” I said. “Melinda said Iris had proof she was planning to take to the police. I think she got hold of the videotape.” That was probably the package Jim wanted. “Do you remember when she left Rachel's Tent?”

“Not exactly.” Barbara considered. “I think it was a week or so before Aggie was murdered.”

“If you could take a look at Iris's records,” I said. “Maybe Melinda is wrong. Maybe there'll be contact information and you can find out if Iris went back to her family.”

“You know I can't do that.” The therapist sounded anguished.

“What if Jason killed her, Dr. Anik? Or maybe Randy did, or they did it together? And no one knows that Iris is dead because no one is looking for her.”

I told her about the clipping Randy had kept. “They found a woman's torso in a grave in Griffith Park ten days before Aggie was killed. What if that's Iris?”

The stairwell from the parking garage led to the first floor. In the darkened lobby the mural of Rachel's Tomb looked somber, the blues almost black. There was no one at Reception or in the offices on the way to the storage room where I followed Barbara.

Barbara turned on the light. I had offered to help, but she made me wait just inside the door while she searched through banks of files that contained records of clients who were no longer with Rachel's Tent. Dead files, she called them. The term took on an ominous note.

Some time later—a half hour or more—she turned to me and shook her head.

“It's not there.”

“Could it have been misfiled?” I asked.

“The records are filed by year, then by name. Last and first. I checked all the files for that time period and couldn't find anything for a client named Iris.”

“Could the file be in someone's office?”

“After six years?” She brushed the dust off her hands. “I'm afraid someone must have taken it.”

“Would Aggie have taken it home?”

“It's possible. Although why would she have kept it after the client left Rachel's Tent?”

On the way back to the parking garage, I asked Barbara again about the parties Horton hosted twice a year.

“One to celebrate July Fourth, the other around Christmas,” she said. “Why?”

The body had been found July 13, just over a week later. “I'm trying to figure out how Iris got hold of the videotape. Were all the clients invited?”

Barbara nodded.

“So she could have sneaked upstairs to Jason's room that night,” I said. “No one would have noticed her.”

“It's possible. There's always a crowd at the Hortons' holiday parties. I always enjoy myself. Everyone does.”

“Except Aggie,” I remembered. “You said she seemed nervous at the last party. She dropped food on her dress?”

“Meatballs and duck, all over the front of her dress. It was a mess. The next day at work she laughed about it, but not that night.”

Aggie wouldn't have eaten meatballs or duck. She kept strict kosher. I told that to Barbara. “Someone else must have bumped into her and spilled the food on her.”

“There were meatballs and pieces of duck on her plate,” Barbara said. “I don't know whether she had a chance to eat them before they landed on her dress. Some people keep kosher at home, but not when they're out.”

Not Aggie. “You said she changed her clothes?”

“Mrs. Horton gave her something to wear. Aggie was gone for some time. She told me it was such a huge house that she got lost and almost didn't find her way back.”

The green Infiniti was in the driveway, but I didn't see a navy SUV. Dr. Lasher opened the door and greeted me with his usual warmth. He didn't seem angry or uncomfortable. I was the one who felt awkward, and I was relieved when he told me Mrs. Lasher was at the market.

“I don't recall that Aggie had any work files in her room,” he told me. “If there had been any, we would have returned them to Rachel's Tent right away.”

“Could you take another look, just in case?”

“We cleared out everything a few years ago, Molly. I turned Aggie's bedroom into a project room for Mrs. Lasher. Sewing, crafts. She's thinking of taking art lessons.” He peered at me through his bifocals. “Why are you interested in the file?”

I hesitated, but decided that he had a right to know. “Aggie had a client who left the agency a week or so before Aggie died. Her file seems to be missing.”

Dr. Lasher frowned. “You think there's a connection?”

“I don't know. It could be nothing. Well, thanks anyway. Please give my regards to Mrs. Lasher,” I said, as though this were a normal visit.

“I will. I'm sorry I couldn't be of any help, Molly. By the way, I met with Detective Connors. He seems like a fine man. Honest, straightforward. I explained about the phone calls. I think he believes me.”

“I hope so.” I know I sounded nervous. From the way Dr. Lasher was looking at me, he must have picked up on it, and maybe I wanted him to.

“Did Detective Connors say something to you?” he asked.

“He told me you don't have a solid alibi.” My face was flushed. “There was something else, but he wouldn't say what. If you're keeping something back from him, Dr. Lasher, tell him now. He's very bright and very good at what he does.”

“I didn't kill Randy Creeley, Molly.” His mouth twitched with impatience.

“I believe you. But Detective Connors doesn't know you the way I do. And if he finds out you lied to him . . .”

“He knows I was there that night,” Dr. Lasher said, not quite meeting my eyes. “At Creeley's apartment. I knocked on the door, but no one answered. When he didn't answer the door, I thought, it's just as well. I didn't go with vengeance in my heart, Molly. I wanted to talk to him. But who knows what I might have done? Hashem protected me. I told all that to Detective Connors.”

He walked me to the door. “About the file,” he said. “Someone else asked about it, but that was a short while after Aggie was killed.”

“Who?”

“The director. What's his name? Kramer? No, Bramer.”

Aggie had ruined her dress so that she could search Jason's room for the tape.

I was certain of it and had thought about little else on the way to the Lashers'. I thought about it now as I sat at my desk, Zack's flowers just inches away.

Iris must have described the layout and told Aggie how to find Jason's room. I pictured Aggie standing among the guests, not having to feign being nervous and jittery because she was waiting for the right moment to drop food on her dress and set her plan in motion. I heard her self-conscious laugh as she followed Mrs. Horton up a wide staircase.
This is so kind of you, I'm
so embarrassed, I'm never this clumsy.
I watched her as she walked down a hall and maybe made a wrong turn before she found Jason's room, felt the rapid beating of her heart when she shut the door carefully behind her, too late to turn back now, and rifled through drawers and closets and bookshelves, jumping at every unexpected sound, her palms clammy, nerves jangled even after she found the videotape and bundled it in her soiled pastel silk dress that she put in the trunk of the person who had given her a ride to the party.

Jason must have panicked when he realized the tape was missing. A day after the party? Two days? Not much later, because Iris disappeared a week or so before Aggie was killed. He probably assumed that one of the women he'd raped had taken the tape during the party. Or maybe he'd heard about Aggie's clumsiness and suspected that she had taken the tape for one of her clients.

But which one?

He asked Randy to find out.
Help me out, man.
You're there all the time. Find out.

Barbara Anik had caught Randy snooping through Aggie's files. Maybe he'd tried to search through other therapists' files, too. And when that failed, he'd invited clients to confide in him. Like Iris, who had disappeared.

Jason probably paid him to do it.
Find the girl, Randy.
Find the tape. Get rid of her. I'll make it worth your
while.
Maybe Randy was desperate for money. Maybe he felt a twisted sense of loyalty and gratitude to the Hortons, who had treated him almost like family.

Not
quite
family. I was certain that Jason had killed Randy. To stop him from implicating him in the murders. To get back the copy of the tape Randy had made as insurance. Randy would have been stupid not to make a copy.