She’d used a variation of the phrase three times so far, twice in the last minute, almost like a mantra. Maybe saying it helped her believe it. “So Saturday night Lenore told Robbie she was pregnant with his child. That’s why she thought they’d be getting back together.”
“It’s ridiculous. She probably slept with someone else and used him as a sperm donor so she could trap Robbie. Robbie hasn’t had anything to do with Lenore since the divorce, aside from some business dealings. He made the mistake of putting her name on some property when they were married. Maureen warned him, but he wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“I don’t mean to be insulting, Jillian, but my ex told me he was at business meetings when he was really fooling around with someone.”
“You don’t understand. It was painful for Robbie to be around Lenore. Every time he saw her, he thought about Max. He’d come back terribly depressed, and I had to let him work it out, because he couldn’t talk about Max, not even to me or Maureen. So the last thing in the world Robbie would do is get involved with Lenore again.”
I had to admit that was a good point. Still . . .
“And why would he risk being trapped again?” Jillian added. “We love each other. We’re looking forward to a wonderful life together. He’s almost sure to win the election. Why would he jeopardize all that?”
There was a brooding quality to her voice, and I wondered whether she was trying to convince me or herself. “You’re probably right. But if he wasn’t intimate with Lenore, why would she expect him to believe the baby was his?”
Jillian snickered. “Lenore’s so doped up most of the time, she probably doesn’t know what’s true and what isn’t. Robbie told me he said as much to her. That’s when she started cursing him and threatening to kill herself.” She leaned back against the sofa. “Well, you know the rest.”
I did know the rest, and that’s why I was bothered. “She was wearing a nightgown when they found her, Jillian. And she doesn’t own nightgowns. You might want to ask Robbie about that.”
The doorbell rang. Jillian excused herself and walked to the entry hall. A moment later I heard a woman’s voice.
“. . . stop by and return the invitation proof, dear. I think the font is a little busy, don’t you? And the text—Oh, hello.”
The woman who had entered the room smiled at me automatically, then turned to Jillian, who was two steps behind her.
“I didn’t know you had company, dear.”
“This is Molly Blume,” Jillian told her. She sounded nervous. “She’s a writer. Molly, this is my future mother-in-law, Maureen Saunders.”
Mom and son resembled each other. She had the same hazel eyes and broad face, and her hair, cut in a chin-length bob, was a honey blond. She was wearing a white linen suit that looked expensive, Fendi shoes that definitely were, and a purse with the signature Chanel logo that I’m sure wasn’t a knockoff. The silk scarf draped on her shoulder was no doubt signature, too.
“A pleasure to meet you. Molly is such a charming name. You don’t hear it often these days.”
“Thank you. It’s a pleasure meeting you, too.” I almost curtsied.
“I don’t believe I’m familiar with your work.”
“I’m a freelance reporter, and I gather data for the Crime Sheet. I also write books about true crime. Out of the Ashes is my latest.” Never miss an opportunity to promote.
“It sounds rather grisly.” Maureen shuddered. “Not something my book group would be interested in, I’m afraid.” She smiled.
I’d have to live with the disappointment.
“I assume you’re here to interview Jillian about Robert’s campaign? I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have. We’re biased, of course, but we think Robert has so much to offer.” Her smile was warmer now, genuine.
“Actually, I’m writing about Lenore.” A look of unbridled hate crossed her face. A second later it was gone, and I wondered if I’d imagined it. “I know it’s a painful topic, Mrs. Saunders, but I hope you’d be willing to talk to me about her.”
“I don’t think so.” She spoke politely but with great distaste, as though I’d suggested that she go mud wrestling in her white suit. “To be honest, Miss Blume, I don’t think you do know how painful a topic it is. I lost a grandson, my late husband’s namesake. My son lost a son.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly, meaning it. “It’s not my intention to cause you pain.”
“Then what is?” She turned to her future daughter-in-law. “Jillian, I’ll wait in the dining room while you show Miss Blume out.” To me she said, “Lenore was a tortured young woman. I can only hope that she’s found some peace.”
I wondered if that was true.
twenty-four
The fifth-floor evening charge nurse, Mirna Zhirkovsky, was a tall woman with a bouffant blond hairdo, a thick, trunklike torso, sturdy legs, and muscular arms that could easily flip patients like pancakes.
“How can I help you?” she asked in a thick Russian accent, her h’s invested with a guttural “ch” sound.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about Lenore Saunders,” I said. “She was a patient here last week.”
Something flickered across her broad face. “I cannot discuss Ms. Saunders.”
The hospital’s legal department had probably issued a directive. “I understand.” I flashed my most sincere smile. “I’m not here to ask about her condition. When I spoke with Jeannette last week, she told me a young man brought Ms. Saunders flowers. Apparently, Lenore didn’t receive any other visitors on Jeannette’s shift, but I’m wondering if anyone visited Lenore on your shift.”
The nurse narrowed eyelids heavily shadowed in blue. “Why you want to know?”
“I’m writing a human interest piece about Lenore, just trying to reconstruct the last few days of her life.”
She kept her eyes on me while she thought that over. “Her mother comes every day,” she finally said. “Dr. Korwin, too. A very nice man. And a friend comes twice.”
“Do you remember the friend’s name?”
The nurse frowned. “Maybe if you tell me, I remember. A plain woman.”
“Was it Nina?”
She nodded. “Yes, Nina.” She pronounced it Nyeena. “She is crying when she comes, with a face like this.” Mirna assumed an elongated, hangdog expression. “I say to her, listen, you are visiting your friend, she will think things are very bad if you are so sad.”
Sound advice. “Were there any male visitors?”
“Besides husband, you mean?” She shook her head. “No one.”
“When was he here?” I asked in a casual tone.
“I see him only one time, Monday night. He does not stay long. Dr. Korwin, he comes and tells husband he must go, patient needs sleep. Then the husband talks to the mother. I’m thinking he is coming the next night, but no. Maybe he comes during day.”
“Lenore must have been happy to see him.”
She shrugged. “Happy, I don’t know. She is crying, begging him not to go. I think she is afraid she is going to die, because he tells her, don’t talk like this, is not going to happen. I don’t mean she’s afraid she is going to kill herself,” the nurse added quickly, her eyes wary. “I mean from accident.”
On the elevator to the seventh floor, I reviewed my conversations with Saunders. Had he said that he hadn’t visited Lenore, or had I assumed it? Lenore had been inconsistent, telling me that Robbie, among others, had questioned her about the accident, then bewailing the fact that he wasn’t going to visit her.
“Robbie isn’t coming,” she’d said. “He’s very angry.” Which didn’t mean he hadn’t been there before. Maybe he’d regretted sending her away, telling her to “do it right this time.”
I thought about what the Russian nurse had overheard. “Don’t talk like this. It’s not going to happen.” Had Saunders been reassuring Lenore, or warning her that her hopes of their reuniting was a fantasy?
On the seventh floor I located Sal
ly Huang, the nurse who had been in charge of Lenore the night she died. She was as petite as Mirna Zhirkovsky was large, with short black hair and black eyes and thin lips that she bit nervously while I introduced myself and told her why I was here.
She shook her head in a rapid, birdlike fashion. “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to anyone about Ms. Saunders.”
I gave her my I-only-want-to-know-who-visited-Lenore spiel. It didn’t work.
“Do you know who was Lenore’s last visitor that night?” I persisted. “I’m hoping to get an interview with him or her for my article.”
“I’m sorry. I really can’t talk to you.”
You have to know when to fold ’em, as Kenny Rogers says.
Downstairs in the lobby the gray-haired volunteer at reception peered at me through bifocals attached to a chain and told me she had no idea who had visited Lenore Saunders on Wednesday night. From her unguarded expression, I decided she hadn’t been warned not to discuss Lenore, which made sense since the hospital was worried about suicide, not murder.
“Don’t you have sign-in sheets for visitors?” I asked.
“Yes, we do,” she said cheerily. “But we only keep them for the day. And to tell you the truth, not everyone signs in. Have you checked with the nurse who was on duty? She’d probably be able to help you.”
I had learned very little at the hospital, hardly enough to warrant the parking fee. At home I checked my messages: Mindy, confirming mah jongg tomorrow night at her house. Zack, telling me what a great time he’d had even though I’d made him wipe the dishes and how much he was looking forward to Tuesday night. Betty Rowan had phoned.
“It’s about the call Lenore made to you before she died,” Betty said. “And something you need to know.” She sounded anxious, not like she had the other two times.
So did Jillian, in her message. “What I told you today is off the record, Molly. About Lenore being pregnant, and everything connected with it? Robbie’s very private, and he’ll be upset if he finds out I told you. So will Maureen. Please call me so that I know you received this message.”
If you’ve ever been interviewed, you know it’s not uncommon to have second thoughts about what you’ve revealed. You get caught up in the telling, you forget who you’re talking to, what you’ve said. It’s happened to me when I’ve given print and radio interviews, and I’m a reporter. It explains why people read quotes attributed to themselves and go, “No way did I say that!”
But aside from one comment, Jillian hadn’t asked me to keep her comments off the record. So I had every right to use the material, and I didn’t feel guilty, especially since Lenore’s pregnancy would be public knowledge soon.
Which didn’t mean I relished talking to her. I debated putting off the call, then picked up the phone. I’ve been on the other side, waiting anxiously to hear from my agent or my editor, and I’ve never liked it.
Jillian repeated what she’d said in her message. I explained my position, told her my intention was not to cause her any embarrassment or trouble, but I couldn’t promise what I would and wouldn’t use. She hung up without saying goodbye.
I phoned Betty Rowan, but her line was busy. I wondered what it was she needed to tell me. Something about Lenore and Robbie? About Jillian?
Robbie and his women. . . .
According to Jillian, Lenore had been desperate to hold on to Robbie. Maybe Jillian had been desperate, too, enough to believe whatever he told her.
Connors had said Lenore had been on Haldol, which is an antipsychotic, presumably part of her treatment. I didn’t know if she was delusional. Maybe so. But I found it hard to believe she’d imagined an intimate encounter with Robbie. More likely, they’d met to discuss business, and business had turned to something else. Maybe Robbie had been drinking, maybe he’d been lonely. Maybe they’d talked about Max and their loss. . . .
I didn’t think he’d leveled with Jillian, and I think Jillian knew it, too. Now Lenore was dead and the truth had died with her, unless she’d written it down in her journal, which was missing.
I remembered what Zack had pointed out: just because Lenore had slept with Robbie didn’t mean she hadn’t slept with anyone else. Someone else could be the father. Lenore might have written that down in her journal, too.
I tried Betty again. The line was still busy. I warmed up leftovers my mom had packaged for me, turned on the TV, and listened as a big-haired female anchor announced an update on the police investigation into the apparent suicide of a woman in a hospital as a possible homicide.
“Sources have confirmed that the dead woman, Lenore Saunders, formerly married to local developer Robert Saunders, was pregnant,” the anchor said. “Lenore Saunders was found guilty over a year ago of killing their two-month-old son in a trial that rocked Santa Barbara. The former Mrs. Saunders was being treated by local psychiatrist Lawrence Korwin, whose new book . . .”
Seconds later coverage switched to a grim-faced Korwin, who repeated “No comment” to a persistent female reporter. The psychiatrist sounded annoyed and nervous, probably because he was worrying about a prospective lawsuit.
Robert Saunders and his family wouldn’t be happy either. Neither would Connors. I phoned Hollywood station and left him a message, assuring him that I hadn’t leaked anything to the media or anyone else. Then I worked on my manuscript until my eyes were bleary and the words stopped making sense.
I was in bed when Zack phoned. We talked well into the night, past two o’clock, and I remember saying, aren’t you worried that you won’t be able to get up early for shul, but I was the one who fell asleep with the receiver at my ear. I’m pretty sure I was smiling.
twenty-five
Monday, July 21. 1:38 P.M. 6600 block of Yucca Street. A man was thrown from a fourth-floor apartment balcony by a suspect who approached the victim, asked if he was OK, then offered to provide the victim with protection. When the victim declined, the suspect demanded money, then threw the victim from the balcony. (Hollywood)
The Korwin Clinic was housed in a two-story, beige-pink stucco building in Reseda in the San Fernando Valley. The offices, examining rooms, and common areas (game room, dining area, exercise room, visitors’ room) were on the first floor; the bedrooms for residential patients, on the second. In its prior life the structure had been an assisted-living facility.
I learned all this from Eileen, the pleasant, matronly brown-haired receptionist, while I waited in a small anteroom to see Lawrence Korwin, with whom I’d scheduled an appointment before leaving my apartment this morning to do my rounds at the various police stations, gathering data for the Crime Sheet. I had visited Northwest, Culver City, and Wilshire. I still had West Hollywood and Hollywood to cover (the Crime Sheet hopes to expand coverage to include the Valley soon), but I wanted to do the latter when Connors was there. I’d phoned the station several times, but he was out in the field.
There were handsome, full-color brochures on a wood coffee table in the reception area. I picked one up and learned that the clinic was staffed by a team of psychiatrists, psychologists, and other experts with vast experience in the field of women’s mental health, including but not limited to mood disorders and premenstrual, natal, postpartum, and perimenopausal depression.
“We’ve been open only two years, and we’re really doing well,” Eileen informed me proudly. “Many of the women are outpatient, but we’re getting so many new residential patients that we’ll have to start turning people away. Six months ago I didn’t know if we were going to make it.”
“Have you been with the clinic long?”
“From the start. This is a dream come true for Dr. Korwin. He was nervous about doing something on such a large scale, even with backing. But the book’s prepublicity helped, and now that it’s out, we’re getting calls from women all over the country. It just came out last week. Have you read it?”
Lenore had the book, so Korwin had probably given her an advance copy. “Not yet. But I plan to.”
I’d looked
up Korwin online on the Google search engine and had read about the thirty-eight-year-old psychiatrist’s background and accomplishments. Pages and pages of dissertations, and several reviews of his new book. I hadn’t heard of it until I’d seen the copy in Lenore’s apartment, but plenty of others had: He’d made the L.A. Times and New York Times nonfiction bestseller lists, and his Amazon ranking as of this morning was forty-three. That was in Stephen King and Grisham territory. My best Amazon ranking for Out of the Ashes was 987, and that was only for an hour. The next hour the book plummeted to 5,081, where it hovered for a day before settling into the twenty thousands. This morning it had been at 76,892, which isn’t bad, considering the book has been out for a year. (Have I mentioned that I’m compulsive?)
“It’s absolutely wonderful.” Eileen handed me the glossy hardcover sitting on her desk. “Dr. Korwin publishes medical monographs all the time, but he wanted to reach women who didn’t have easy access to a mental health practitioner or didn’t realize they needed help.”
I looked at the cover. Rock-a-bye Baby: When Baby Blues Won’t Go Away. Below the title was a drawing of an empty cradle rocked by the hand of a shadowy figure of a mother. Underneath that was Korwin’s name. Below that, What every woman needs to know. The back cover was crowded with testimonials from medical practitioners to Korwin, whose friendly, bearded face smiled at me from the back inside flap, above an impressive alphabet of degrees.
“He’s doing Good Morning America and The Today Show, “ Eileen said. “He’s been asked to chair a symposium in the Netherlands next year. It’s been amazing and overwhelming. You’re lucky he had a cancellation, or he wouldn’t have been able to see you until next week.”
I wondered if he still had time for his patients. “Is Dr. Korwin married?”
Blues in the Night Page 15
