Gardening also lets me think, which explains why I was out here now in my landlord’s tiny yard while the sun was baking my SPF 30–coated legs and forearms and plastering my white T-shirt to my back. I’d protected my head and face with a wide-brimmed straw hat my mother had bought me.
When I write about true crime, I generally know who dunit. My goal is to explore the why, to make sense of what often seems senseless, to trace the origins of a brutal act so that you and I can feel reassured that something like that won’t happen to us.
I’ve interviewed a criminal who killed for twenty dollars, and a seventy-three-year-old man who shot his neighbor because a tree was littering his yard. My first true-crime book, Out of the Ashes, was about a neo-Nazi who torched a church, killing twenty-three congregants, including five children, maiming and disfiguring many others, and leaving scars that were invisible but would probably never heal. My second, as I mentioned, is about a father who injected his son with the AIDS virus so he wouldn’t have to continue paying child support.
I was writing about Lenore, but I had no idea who killed her. My talk with Nina had been illuminating and provocative, giving me details about the dead woman and the people in her life, but not enough to help me understand why someone would kill her. Because she’d killed Max? I doubted that Saunders would exact revenge a year and a half after the fact. Because she was harassing him and his fiancée? A restraining order would have done the trick, and I wasn’t even sure Lenore was harassing them. Because he was partly to blame for her hit-and-run or had left her to die in the middle of Laurel Canyon?
Saunders had phoned while I was at Nina’s, wanting to know what I’d decided to do. He was flying to Phoenix for a business appointment and would contact me when he returned tonight, or early tomorrow morning. Betty Rowan had phoned again. She sounded eager to talk to me “as soon as possible, in person.” We were playing phone tag, and I’d left another message on her answering machine and my cell number in case she called when I was out. I’d spent another hour trying to locate Darren Porter with no luck. I’d forgotten to ask Nina whether she knew him.
“Nice garden,” a voice said behind me.
I was hunched in front of my petunias. Swiveling my knees, I craned my neck up at Zack. My hat fell to the ground. “Didn’t your mother teach you to knock?”
I reached behind me for my hat, but he was faster. He picked it up and set it on my head.
“Your landlord told me you were back here. He’s watering the front lawn and saw me ringing your bell. He took pity on me.” Zack didn’t look rabbinic now in his khaki Dockers, white Polo shirt, and brown loafers.
I picked up my garden basket and stood, brushing dirt from my red shorts. “You should feel honored. He’s very particular about my gentleman callers.”
My landlord is a scrawny, bowlegged, seventy-seven-year-old three-time widower who hitches his pants practically up to his eyebrows and loves sitting on his small porch people watching. He’s looking for number four (“Companionship, sure, but I wouldn’t say no to something better”), and like Edie and Mindy, he’s concerned about my marital status, though so far he hasn’t approved of any of my dates. I’m convinced he scans my mail.
“I heard you were in shul yesterday,” Zack said, squinting into the bright light. “Why didn’t you say hello?”
“I figured the well would be dry.”
He looked puzzled. “What?”
“You were busy. I didn’t want to intrude.” I snipped dead leaves off a rosebush.
“You wouldn’t have intruded. I’m glad you came. So what’d you think of my dvar Torah?” His sermon.
“Pretty good,” I said, refusing to swell his head. “Connecting the census and counting on everyone was a nice touch.”
“I’m glad you liked it. It seemed to go over well.”
“Not with everyone. Ron’s father thought it was too long.”
“So did my dad. My mom thought it was perfect. Moms are great.” Zack smiled and wiped his forehead. “It’s hot out here. Can we talk inside?”
“About what? Are you here to recruit new members or get free editorial advice?”
He tented his brow. “Did I offend you the other night, Molly? Or is this about what happened twelve years ago?”
“I’m not offended. I’m just not interested in taking a number.”
“You make me sound like a bakery.”
“Were you out last night?” I asked, raising my arm and pointing the gardening shears at him.
“Yes. Can you put those down? I haven’t had a tetanus shot in a while.”
“With Reggie the Realtor? Or were you with one of the other nubile young congregants who adore you and want to bear your children?”
“Actually, I was at the Birkensteins’. I thought Mrs. Birkenstein might want to talk.” Not a hint of a smirk, though he was entitled.
“Oh.” I lowered my hand, feeling like one of the garden slugs I’d dispatched a few minutes ago.
“Can we start over, please?”
My face was burning. “Fine.”
“In the house? Because I may faint from the heat, and I don’t think the board will approve if they find their new rabbi passed out in your flower bed.”
I sat him in the living room, cooled by an air-conditioning unit, while I undressed and splashed cold water on my face, put on makeup, and slipped into a yellow print skirt, a white cap-sleeved blouse, and a pair of sandals. When I returned he was standing in front of my bookcase, which is crammed with Judaic texts and true-crime books—the sacred and the profane—and photos of my family, some still waiting to be framed.
“This is a great one.” Zack pointed to a shot of the Blume clan.
“That was taken two years ago, at my brother Judah’s wedding. I love it that photographers are doing black-and-white now, don’t you?”
He nodded. “You’re lucky you have a large family. My parents always wanted more kids, but it never happened. Are you close?”
“Yes. But we have our moments. You don’t want to be around us then.” I smiled. “Did you have lunch?”
“No, but I don’t want you to bother.”
“It’s the least I can do after almost eviscerating you. How about tuna sandwiches and lemonade? That’s all I have on the menu.”
“Tuna and lemonade sounds perfect.”
He followed me into my kitchen, which is not much larger than an airplane’s galley but allows me to reach everything without moving. I rinsed three lemons and set them on the tile counter, then hunted in a cabinet for the lemon juicer and a pitcher.
“Let me help,” he said, moving so close that I could smell the musk of his aftershave.
I sliced a lemon and handed him half, our hands grazing, and watched him out of the corner of my eye while I took out a container of tuna salad from the fridge, along with seven-grain bread, lettuce, and my last tomato. I know this sounds silly, but there was something adorable and at the same time incredibly sexy about the way he approached his task—forehead creased in concentration, lips pressed together, his right hand vigorously twisting the lemon as if he were determined to wring every last drop.
He must have sensed that I was looking at him, because he turned to me. “What?”
“I hope you like onion and celery in your tuna,” I said with mock sternness to cover my flustered state.
“Love it.” He picked up another lemon half.
I spread tuna on the bread and topped it with tomato slices and lettuce. “She’s interested in you, you know. Potato chips or corn chips?” I may not have a well-stocked fridge, but I have a serious stash of junk food, which is why my nieces and nephews, who are nosh deprived at their respective homes, love coming to Aunt Molly’s.
“Potato. Reggie the Realtor?” Zack nodded. “I really thought she was calling so often because she wants to find me a house.”
“Hmmm.”
He flashed me a smile. “I guess I’m naive. It’s a little awkward since she’s a member of the shu
l, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s very nice.”
“You may have to marry her.”
He nodded. “Or buy a really big house that I can’t afford.”
I slipped the sandwiches onto plates and sprinkled potato chips on the side. Martha Stewart had better watch out. “So what are you going to tell her?”
“That I’m seeing someone.” He turned toward me and reached out his hand.
For a second I thought he wanted mine. Then I remembered the lemons. I gave him another half. “Are you?”
“You tell me.”
You know in Sabrina, when Humphrey Bogart is staring at Audrey Hepburn after he tells her he’s sorry he screwed up and he can’t live without her, and she’s staring back, and the camera zooms in, and the background music swells, and she’s all tingly ’cause she knows he’s going to kiss her? That’s how I felt.
“So basically,” I said, my heart racing as we stood inches apart in the tiny, hot kitchen, “what you’re telling me is that you’re using me?”
“That would be right. Assuming you’re willing to be used. It’s for a good cause,” he added.
“Then how can I say no?”
There was enough chemistry between us to activate a nuclear reactor.
“There’s just one thing,” he said. “I lied.”
I braced myself. “What about?”
“I’m not a tuna and onions guy, but I’m willing to give it a try.”
twenty-two
Over sandwiches and lemonade, he told me his story. He’d been fooling around that first year at Hakotel, going through the motions of studying the Talmud during the day to justify to his parents why they’d sent him to Israel and skipping night sessions to hang out with American friends, male and female, in the hot spots along Ben Yehuda, a street in central Jerusalem teeming with activity well into the morning hours.
“Nowadays, with the fear of terrorist attacks, the schools have tightened the rules,” Zack said. “But when I was there, you could stay out pretty much all night and no one would know. And there’s no drinking age in Israel.”
I nodded. The girls’ seminaries have always been stricter, even more so now, but I’d slipped out more than once to meet friends for pizza or drinks, or guys. Liora, pure soul that she is, hadn’t even been tempted.
“Then two things happened,” Zack said.
He had been so drunk one night that he’d passed out and didn’t remember returning to the dorm. He’d slept through the entire day and feigned illness to the rabbi who counseled and supervised the young men, but he’d sensed that he hadn’t fooled him. So a week later, ready to party again, he couldn’t refuse when the rabbi asked him to tutor a student who was having difficulties. At first, Zack had been annoyed with the rabbi and with this student who was killing his fun, but as hour followed hour, he found enjoyment in helping the young man and in the material that had become suddenly more interesting in the teaching.
And in the morning he learned that the bus he would have taken to Ben Yehuda had been attacked by snipers who killed seven passengers, including one of his friends.
“I felt as though someone had slammed me into a wall,” Zack said. “If Rabbi Frank hadn’t asked me to do this favor, if I’d taken that bus. . . . It was clear to me that God had saved my life, and He wouldn’t appreciate my wasting it.”
“But why the rabbinate?” I asked. “Why not law school, the way you’d planned?”
“I was never passionate about law. It just seemed more appealing than anything else. When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”
“In utero.”
“That late, huh?” He smiled. “I wish I’d been that focused. Anyway, I started tutoring younger kids and helping them with their personal problems. I loved doing it, and I loved my studies, and I was torn between teaching or counseling when Rabbi Frank suggested I could do both as a pulpit rabbi. All of a sudden I knew this was what I wanted.” He took a sip of lemonade. “I also found out that it was Rabbi Frank who took me back to the dorm when I passed out. The nightclub manager had phoned him.”
It was odd, I thought. An act of violence had brought Zack closer to God, and had driven me away. I wanted to tell him about Aggie, but something stopped me.
Zack was still hungry. I sat at the dining room table and watched while he fixed himself another sandwich and helped himself to more chips. There’s something about a man making himself comfortable in your kitchen that suggests a certain intimacy. I liked the feeling but was afraid to trust it.
“So what brought you to my shul yesterday?” he asked when he returned to the table.
“I’m not sure.” I told him how I’d felt seeing him at the Birkensteins’, that maybe God was nudging me. “Plus my grandmother forced me. Who told you I was there? Harriet?”
“Ron. He says you still have a thing for him.”
I did, mostly pity. “Ron and I are very much over. Is that why you came, to find out if it’s true?”
“Actually, your grandmother forced me.” He smiled. “I came because I thought we had unfinished business, Molly. I phoned you earlier in the day, by the way, but I guess you were out.”
“I was interviewing someone. Why didn’t you leave a message?”
“I don’t like voice mail in general, and I wasn’t sure you’d return my call. Later your line was busy, so I figured I’d take my chances and stop by. So is this for an article or your next true-crime book?”
“It’s for a book about a true crime, but I don’t know the truth yet, or how it’ll end up.” I told him about Lenore—about my hospital visit, about her death and what I suspected, about my talks with Connors and Saunders and Nina.
Zack had been shaking his head every once in a while.
“You think I shouldn’t be getting involved?” I asked, prepared to bristle. I suppose Connors was on my mind.
“Not at all. I admire your passion, and I find all this fascinating.” He took a bite of the sandwich. “You may be right about the journal, Molly. In which case Saunders is a likely suspect.”
“But why would he steal her journal? What could Lenore have written that he’d want to suppress?”
“That she was pregnant with his child.”
I shook my head. “Even if the police thought Lenore killed herself, Saunders had to figure they’d know from the ER doctors that she was pregnant. Which they did.”
“But not necessarily with his child. We don’t know that either.”
“Nina told me Lenore was still in love with him, Zack,” I reminded him. “The apartment building manager suspected the same thing.”
“Which doesn’t mean Lenore wasn’t intimate with anyone else.”
“Why would she sleep with someone else if she was in love with Saunders?” I said with some impatience.
Zack shrugged. “Loneliness? Anger? Maybe she wanted to make him jealous.”
“Maybe.” I pleated my napkin. “Well, if Saunders isn’t the father, who is?”
“I didn’t say he’s not the father. I said the police wouldn’t know that unless she wrote it in the journal.”
I pressed my palms against my temples. “Is this Talmudic discourse? ‘Cause you’re giving me a headache.”
“Just establishing the facts,” he said seriously. “You have to examine all the possibilities. Who else would have worried about Lenore’s journal?”
He was really involved. I was amused and pleased and unprepared, because Ron had shown little interest in my work. “Whatever floats your boat, babe,” he’d say, as though I were crocheting doilies. I think he was surprised when a publisher bought my first book, and not unhappy that my advance was modest—I wasn’t showing him up.
“The fiancée may have stolen it, to protect Saunders,” I said. “That would explain the vandalism. She must have resented Lenore a great deal. And there’s Lenore’s mother.”
“The mother?” Zack looked skeptical.
“She left two messages saying she wants to talk to me.
I can’t think why, unless Saunders asked her to get me to back off. Maybe she stole the journal to protect him. The building manager says she only saw Mrs. Rowan visit Lenore once, aside from a few times last week, and according to Nina, Mrs. Rowan and Saunders are still tight. That’s odd, don’t you think? And she hasn’t been very forthcoming.”
“In what way?”
“She implied she didn’t know why Lenore was on Laurel Canyon Saturday night. As if she didn’t know that Saunders lives there.” I tried one of Bubbie G’s harrumphs, but didn’t do it as well.
“You can’t blame her for not wanting to tell all to a reporter, Molly. No offense.” He smiled.
“Offense taken,” I said, but he had a point.
“I can see the mother stealing the journal,” Zack said, “but not killing the daughter. Which means we’re dealing with two people. Quite a coincidence.”
I took a few chips from his plate. “Suppose the mother believes it was suicide but thinks the police will investigate as though it were a homicide. I thought so, until Detective Connors told me differently this morning. So she steals the journal for Saunders, or because she doesn’t want it to be a Book-of-the-Month-Club pick.”
“Okay.” Zack nodded. “But if the mother stole it, why would she vandalize the apartment?”
I rolled my eyes. “To make it look like a burglary.”
He frowned. “Why bother? How would the police know the journal is missing if they didn’t even know it existed?”
That was a good question, and I’d already considered it. “People knew about the journal. Nina, Dr. Korwin—he has all his patients keep journals. I knew about it, and Lenore probably told some other people. What if one of them mentioned the journal to the police, and the police discovered that it was missing?”
Zack didn’t answer right away. “Does the mother have a key to her daughter’s apartment?”
“She must, because the manager told me she stopped Mrs. Rowan from going into Lenore’s apartment on Thursday afternoon. Detective’s orders.” I frowned.
“What?”
“I had a thought, but now it’s gone.” I shrugged to make light of it, but I hate when that happens. “Oh, well. It’ll come back to me.”
Blues in the Night Page 13
