“Shocked,” he agreed. “She was a nice gal. Pretty.” He fixed his eyes on the television screen.
“Tom and I were planning on visiting her at the hospital when we heard about the accident, but we never got around to it. And now she’s dead.” Marie sighed. “We thought it was from her injuries, but a detective stopped by and asked us all those questions. Was she depressed, things like that. He didn’t say, but I guess she killed herself.” Marie looked at me for confirmation.
“Did she seem depressed?”
“Not as far as I could tell. She was a nice woman. Quiet, kept to herself. But not aloof,” she added quickly.
Tom scooped a palmful of popcorn from the bowl.
“Do you know what kind of work she did?” I asked.
“She didn’t work,” Tom said. “Didn’t need to. She had investment income.”
Probably part of her divorce settlement, I thought.
“She had plans, though,” Marie said. “She was taking acting and singing lessons. She had a beautiful voice. And I think she wanted to be an author. I’d see her sitting at the pool, writing. It’s just so sad what happened, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Rotten shame.”
“How long was she living here?” I asked, sipping the iced tea Marie had insisted on serving me.
“Seven months,” Marie said.
“Did you ever meet her ex-husband?”
“Son of a bitch,” Tom muttered.
I turned to him. “Why do you say that, Mr. O’Day?”
He looked at me and blinked. “What?”
“Mr. Saunders was a son of a bitch?”
“Was he?” He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Never met him.” He returned his attention to the screen. “That ball was on the line, you imbecile!” he shouted.
“Tom takes his tennis seriously,” Marie said, gazing with affectionate humor at her husband.
It’s the way my dad and mom look at each other after thirty-six years of marriage. It’s what gives me hope but sets the bar high. “So I see.” I smiled. “Did you ever meet Mr. Saunders?” I asked her.
“No. I knew she’d been married, but I didn’t like to pry. She always got this sad look in her eyes when the subject came up.”
“No boyfriend?”
“Not that I know of.” Marie leaned closer to me. “Between you and me, I think she was hoping they’d get back together.”
Interesting. “Did she tell you that?”
“Not in so many words. It was just a feeling. She had their wedding picture out, and a few other photos of the two of them. I saw them once when I was in her apartment. Why would she keep those pictures out after they were divorced?”
Why, indeed. “Did Lenore tell you that her ex-husband is engaged?”
“Is that right?” Marie looked disappointed. “Well, maybe I was wrong, then. I know she wanted to get married, to have children. She loved children. She’d bring candies and little toys for our grandkids when they’d come to visit. But she seemed shy around them.”
“Move up to the net!” Tom urged.
“When was the last time you saw Lenore?” I asked.
“The detective asked us that,” Marie said. “Saturday afternoon, when she was getting her mail.”
“Did she seem upset?”
Marie considered. “Come to think of it, she wasn’t herself. She usually asks how we’re doing, things like that. This time she was in a hurry, distracted.”
“So you didn’t see her when she left the apartment late Saturday night?”
Marie sighed. “No, I’m afraid not. Her car was here, though, in her parking spot. The detective asked that, too.”
I was pleased to know that Connors had followed up, but not surprised. He is thorough. “Did Lenore have a lot of visitors?”
Tom snorted and chomped on popcorn.
“There was this woman who came by all the time,” Marie said. “Nina something. I don’t know her last name, but she moved into the next building. She came by Wednesday afternoon to pick up some things Lenore wanted. Of course, I checked with Lenore before I let her into the apartment. You can’t be too careful nowadays, can you?”
“No, you can’t,” I agreed.
“That’s about it as far as visitors, aside from her mother, and I only met her once, not counting twice this week. She was here more in the last few days than in all the time Lenore lived here. Well, I’m sure she visited other times, I just didn’t see her. And maybe Lenore had other visitors. Her apartment’s toward the back of the building, and it’s not like I’m watching it all the time.”
“Interfering,” Tom announced.
“Oh, go on now.” Marie shoved him playfully.
“Do you think you could show me Lenore’s apartment?” I asked. “Of course, I wouldn’t touch anything, and you’d be right there the whole time.” I had few clues about Lenore, and seeing how she lived might give me a sense of her personality.
Marie widened her eyes and looked as if I’d asked her to strip naked. “Oh, I couldn’t do that! It wouldn’t be right. I even had to stop Lenore’s mother from going in yesterday afternoon, because the detective told us not to touch anything until he had a look, although I don’t know why. It’s not as though she was murdered.”
“I think it’s routine.” I felt a flicker of interest and wondered whether, despite his denials to me, Connors suspected foul play, or whether he was just being careful. “Do you know a Darren Porter, by the way?” I repeated the description Jeannette Plank had given me.
Marie shook her head.
“Double fault,” Tom muttered, disgusted.
I couldn’t have said it better.
fourteen
“Lenore was at my house that night,” Robert Saunders said with the air of someone determined to be gracious. “But I didn’t see her after she left.”
We were at The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. With the temperature in the high eighties and not much of a breeze, my white cotton blouse was sticking to me like Saran Wrap. I would have preferred the air-conditioned, coffee-scented indoors, but Saunders had practically insisted on sitting at one of the small round outdoor tables. He probably figured that whatever he told me would be dissipated into the air or drowned out by the throaty rumble of cars forming a steady caravan along Beverly Boulevard and the clatter and groan of the buses belching fumes.
It’s not Paris, but on cooler days I enjoy sitting outside, feeling très cosmopolitan sipping a cappuccino as I watch the foot traffic and ponder life or my work or a sale at Nordstrom’s. Down the block are several banks and medical offices and Jerry’s Famous Deli, where I ate nonkosher sandwiches in my rebellious years, and the former site of a mystery bookstore I frequented that relocated to Westwood a couple of years ago. Up the block is Robertson, which has evolved from Decorators’ Row to a boulevard that has added to its furniture showrooms high-end dress salons and movie theaters and features The Ivy, a posh restaurant you’ve probably heard of. You have to be careful at Robertson and Beverly, though, because it’s one of those intersections equipped with a camera that will take a photo of your license plate if the light changes red before you get to the other side. The DMV will send you the photo in the mail, along with a $270 citation. I know, because I got one a few weeks ago and am still debating whether I should go the Comedy Traffic School route or do it online.
“What was Lenore doing at your house?” I asked, taking a bite of the mozzarella-and-tomato French bread sandwich Saunders had insisted on paying for, along with a blueberry scone. Many of the products at the Coffee Bean in L.A., in case you’re wondering, are kosher, but not conspicuously so.
“What are you planning to do with what I tell you?” Saunders countered, holding a losing hand but unwilling to throw in his cards.
“I don’t know.”
“At least you’re honest.” With a smile so strained it looked painful, he leaned toward me over the small table, his hands cupping a cardboard container of steaming coffee. “I’m in a tough spot, Mol
ly,” he said, his voice and the use of my first name suggesting an intimacy of longtime friends. “Jillian’s not thrilled that I didn’t tell her about Lenore’s visit, and—”
“Why didn’t you?” I interrupted.
“Because I knew she’d be upset—not with me, with the situation. It’s not as though I invited Lenore to come over. And whether you believe me or not, Lenore’s death is extremely painful for me, not to mention for Lenore’s mother. Lenore was all she had. I don’t see what’s to be gained by publicizing all of this, except creating more pain. It’s a private matter.”
“And you’re running for public office.”
A frown flitted across his handsome face. “I suppose you think that makes me fair game for media scrutiny. I’d agree, if this were about me—my character, my background, my track record. But it’s not. It’s about Lenore.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked. “Why are we here?”
Saunders took a sip of coffee. “Detective Connors told me you’re not about to let this go, and the information is there for you to dig up. He also said you’re ethical. I’m hoping once I explain everything, you’ll agree to keep this to yourself.”
“I can’t make promises. And if I can find the information, so can others.”
“There was a small mention in the Times two months ago. But if you start asking questions . . .” His voiced trailed off. “How about this: I talk to you now. If you agree it’s not of public interest, it stays between us, unless someone else starts investigating. In which case I give you an exclusive.”
“If I agree,” I said. “I’ll have to corroborate whatever you tell me.”
“It’s not all that complicated. Can I ask you something, Molly? What’s your interest in Lenore?”
“I read about her accident in a police report, and I was intrigued.”
Saunders sighed. “There’s nothing intriguing about what happened. Pathetic, maybe, and tragic, now that Lenore’s taken her life, but hardly intriguing.”
“She was wearing a nightgown when she was struck by a car about two miles from her home, at almost two in the morning. I find that intriguing.”
“I didn’t invite her to spend the night, if that’s what you’re implying.” He was prickly with defensiveness.
“I’m not implying anything. You lied to the police, and to me.”
“I didn’t owe you a statement,” he said with a trace of yesterday’s irritation. “And I didn’t lie to the police. They asked me if I’d witnessed the accident or knew anything about it. I hadn’t. And I had no idea the victim was Lenore until her mother told me what happened.”
“But you didn’t mention that Lenore was at your home just before she was hit.”
“I didn’t think the two events were connected.”
“And I don’t write fiction, Mr. Saunders.” I took another bite of my sandwich.
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. “Okay,” he said a moment later, his tone grudging. “I suspected. But Lenore’s visiting me had nothing to do with what happened to her, and I didn’t want Jillian to be upset. I did tell Detective Connors everything this morning. I know I should have done that right away.”
His sheepishness was convincing and charming. I decided he’d make a great politician. “So why was Lenore at your house?” I asked again.
“She needed help. She showed up after midnight, in her nightgown. She was agitated, disoriented. She said she was afraid she might hurt herself if she was alone and asked to spend the night.”
I frowned. “Why at your place? Why not her mom’s?”
“I don’t know.”
I gave him a look that said, try harder.
“She’s always depended on me,” Saunders said, clearly reluctant. “Even after the divorce.”
“Whose idea was the divorce?”
An expression I couldn’t figure out crossed his face. Pain, anger. “Mine.”
“It’s odd that she’d come to your house, now that you’re engaged. Unless she knew that your fiancée wouldn’t be there?”
“I don’t see how. She just wasn’t thinking clearly. Anyway, I told her she couldn’t stay and offered to drive her to her mother’s house, or to a friend’s. She was irrationally angry—probably because of the drugs. That’s when she stormed out.”
“How did she get to your house?”
“She told me she took a cab. She was a little woozy from the meds when she showed up. I guess she was afraid to drive.”
“In her nightgown,” I said.
“She probably didn’t realize what she was wearing.”
I supposed that was possible. “So she stormed out, yelled at you, threatened to kill herself, and you said, ‘Go ahead, do it right this time.’ ”
“That wasn’t my finest moment.” His face was flushed. “Lenore was always threatening to kill herself. She was manipulative, needy. I didn’t take her threat seriously, but I was worried about her. So I got into my car a few minutes later to give her a ride home, but I couldn’t find her.”
“How many minutes later?”
“I don’t know. Five, maybe? I didn’t check my watch. At first I thought she was lost, because the streets here curve, and they can be confusing, especially at night.”
“Lenore was struck on Laurel Canyon just north of Lookout,” I said. “How is it that you didn’t see her when you exited on Willow Glen?”
“Because I didn’t take Willow Glen,” Saunders said, allowing himself a small satisfied smile. “I drove up and down the streets looking for her, then took Mount Olympus to Laurel Canyon. I figured Lenore would go that route because it would take her closer to home, and it was safer.”
“And when you didn’t find her, you didn’t think that maybe she took Willow Glen?”
Saunders shook his head. “Why would she head farther north?”
“Because, as you said, it was dark, and she was confused by the streets, and her pills. Obviously, that’s where she did end up.”
“Obviously.” Saunders nodded. “But at the time, it didn’t occur to me that she’d take Willow Glen. At first, when I couldn’t find her, I figured she’d managed to get to Laurel Canyon before I did, so I drove south. When I didn’t see her, I assumed she’d heard my car when she was heading down Apollo and hid until I passed. Lenore was very stubborn, Molly. And she was furious with me.”
I understood stubborn and angry. I’d stormed out of the house once after a fight with Ron and refused to get into his car when he’d followed me. “How far did you drive down Laurel Canyon looking for her?”
“Past Hollywood Boulevard. When I didn’t see her, I figured she was hiding, like I said, or she’d flagged a cab. So I turned around and took Mount Olympus home.”
“And all this happened before the car hit her,” I said, not bothering to hide my skepticism.
“I have no idea when she was hit. Willow Glen and Mount Olympus at Laurel Canyon are over a mile apart.” Saunders stared into his coffee container. “I keep going over it in my mind. What if I’d caught up with her and persuaded her to let me take her home? What if I’d taken her threat more seriously and let her stay the night?” He looked up at me. “Even if I had, she probably would have killed herself, if not yesterday then some other time.”
“Why?”
That pained, angry look crossed his face again. He shifted restlessly on his seat and gazed up the street, as if searching for an escape. I thought that, like Connors and Betty Rowan, he would avoid answering, but he cleared his throat and I tensed in anticipation.
“I haven’t talked about this for some time.” He spoke so softly that I had to lean closer to hear him above the noise of the traffic, but I couldn’t miss the quiet despair in his voice. “Last March, almost a year and a half ago, Lenore killed our two-month-old son.”
I don’t know what I’d expected, certainly not this. My heart felt heavy with sadness, and a sort of regret at what I’d pried loose. “I’m so sorry,” I said, the words
lame to my ears. Even if I hadn’t been shocked, I don’t think I would have known what other words to offer.
“She was suffering from postpartum psychosis,” he said, still not looking at me. “You hear about it more these days, and I guess the signs were there, but I didn’t see them at the time. Afterward, of course, it was so clear.” His voice was bitter with anguish and self-recrimination. “Max was colicky and fussy. Lenore was nervous and weepy. She wasn’t eating, she couldn’t sleep. She was tired and listless, and little things would set her off. She’d stay in bed except for getting up to check on Max, which was all the time. She kept asking me if I thought he was okay, did he seem normal.”
I remembered my sister Edie’s wildly fluctuating moods after her second child was born. Laughing one minute, sobbing the next. But that had lasted only a few days.
“I figured most mothers go through that, you know?” Saunders said, turning to face me, and I found myself nodding in sympathy. “Having a baby is an adjustment, and it takes longer for some women to get into a routine that works. I thought Lenore was tired because of the sleepless nights. And she didn’t have a support system. We’d moved to Santa Barbara just before the baby was born. In retrospect, the timing was a mistake. Her mother and mine were in L.A., and I was setting up an office in Santa Barbara, but I had to be in L.A. quite a lot. I know now I should have been home more, but I thought I was doing what I could. I hired a full-time housekeeper. I offered to hire the nurse we’d had the first few weeks after Max was born. We all thought it was a good idea—me, my mother, Lenore’s mother. Lenore refused. She accused me of doubting her ability to mother her own child. She insisted she was feeling better every day, stronger, more confident.”
Saunders stopped, and I made no move to prompt him.
“I realized later there were things she didn’t tell me. She didn’t want me to worry. She wanted to prove she could do it. But she wasn’t herself. She was a different person, not the woman I’d married. Then one Thursday . . .”
Blues in the Night Page 8
