About five minutes later I saw a mother and a glum teenager approaching the entrance. When they exited, I grabbed the edge of the door with my free hand, smiled at the startled mother and wished her a good night, and stepped inside.
The rabbi’s study, I remembered, was to the right. I walked down the hall and raised my free hand to the slightly open door—cheesecake in my hand, a song in my heart—prepared to knock before entering, when I heard Zack’s voice.
“. . . are you, Lisa? It’s Zack Abrams. Definitely a long time.” He laughed. “I know. Most people are. What?” Another laugh. “Well, how about tomorrow night? Nine o’clock is good for me, too.”
I limped down the hall and back to my car.
Isaac had left my mail at my front door, and I flipped through the envelopes and magazines while I ate both slices of the cheesecake, which was pretty damn good. There was a hand-addressed invitation from B’nai Yeshurun for an evening with the new rabbi.
As if.
One of the envelopes, as Isaac had warned, was open. A large manila one with the same return address as yesterday’s but with thinner contents. Inside was a revised chapter from the author.
I wondered whether it was kids, as Ernie the mail carrier had suggested, or whether someone was snooping in my mail. To see if Betty Rowan had sent me the journal?
Bubbie G says that for some people the world stands on three things—gelt, gelt, und gelt. Money, money, and money. After talking to Virginia Yawley and Cathy Johnson, I was convinced that, sadly, Betty was one of those people, and that she was capable of blackmail. During the two hours it had taken me to drive back from the Cabazon outlets, I’d also arrived at a hunch as to why she’d phoned me.
Here’s what I knew: On her first call, Saturday night, Betty had been eager to discuss something that would interest me. Ditto Sunday morning. Sunday evening she was anxious, and more specific (she’d mentioned Lenore’s phone call to me and “something you should know”). And that was after the news broke that police were conducting an investigation into Lenore’s death—news that, according to Zena, had shaken Betty up so much that she’d phoned Connors and told him she was afraid. I also knew that Betty had access and opportunity to enter Lenore’s apartment.
Here’s what I assumed: Betty had gotten hold of Lenore’s journal sometime before Lenore died, probably at Saunders’s behest. She read the journal, and when Lenore died, apparently a suicide, Betty decided to cash in on the journal’s contents. She phoned people about whom Lenore had written incriminating information, and hinted or stated that she’d like to be paid for her silence. My assumption was based on the fact that she was dead, and that she had chased money most of her life.
Here’s the hunch, and I’ll admit it was just that: Betty strengthened her hand by mentioning that she could get big bucks for Lenore’s story. A book deal, a movie. In fact, a published writer was already interested in Lenore, and Betty was considering working with her unless she received a better offer.
That writer was me, of course. Even if Betty hadn’t named me, I was out there asking too many questions, interviewing everyone who had known Lenore. And when Betty had no takers, she decided to offer the journal to me—not for free, of course. You might argue that she phoned me those first two times because she suspected that Lenore had been killed. I’d considered that, but number one, she would’ve called the police, not me, and number two, she hadn’t sounded worried.
Until the police decided Lenore might have been killed. Betty must have panicked, because she realized that one of the people she’d tried to blackmail was a very bad guy. That would explain why in her last message to me she’d been anxious, and why she’d referred to Lenore’s call. I’m afraid. And why she’d phoned Connors.
That’s as far as my hunch went. I still hadn’t figured out why she’d called me that last time. Maybe she’d wanted to warn me that she’d mentioned my name, although I didn’t see her as the caring type, and she certainly hadn’t been fond of me. And why hadn’t she just phoned the police?
And I still didn’t know whom she’d tried to blackmail and whom she suspected of killing Lenore.
Someone who had killed Betty and tried to make it look like suicide. Someone who didn’t know how much I knew, or what I had.
I told myself that Betty Rowan hadn’t known where I lived. I’m not listed in the White Pages. But I can tell you that it isn’t all that hard to learn a person’s address, and how was it that Saunders had shown up at the bakery just when I was there? If he’d found me, so could anyone.
Connors had checked my apartment last night. I did it again now, searching room by room for evidence that someone had been here, had touched my things.
I had double-locked the front door but checked it again, and all the windows. I rummaged through my purse for Connors’s card, debating whether to call him about the opened envelopes, but decided to wait until morning.
It was a long night.
thirty-two
Wednesday, July 23. 10:07 A.M. 100 block of South Flores Street. A man approached a house and knocked on a window several times. When a woman answered, the man told her, “It’s good to have a lot of money because of bail.” (Wilshire)
There were more flowers than people at the funeral. Sunlight streamed through the chapel’s rainbow-colored stained-glass windows onto the rich mahogany of Lenore’s lily-bedecked casket. Tall bouquets of lilies and white roses stood on easels on either side of the casket and near the organist, who played mournful chords as people filed into the pews.
I sat at the back, a row behind Connors. I had checked with him that morning, expecting that the funeral would be postponed because of Betty Rowan’s death, but the Saunders family had decided to proceed. I suppose they wanted to get the whole thing over with and pretend Lenore had never existed.
Robbie was in the front row, flanked by Maureen and Jillian, who had cast a nervous look at me when she walked into the chapel. She was talking to the middle-aged couple sitting next to her. Probably her parents. I wondered to what length Donald Horton would go to protect his major investment with his future son-in-law. A handful of people were seated in the pews behind the Saunders family. Probably some of Robbie’s friends, maybe his closest political associates. Some of them had looked familiar as they’d entered the chapel.
Dr. Korwin was there, and Nina. She’d passed by me without seeing me, her eyes glazed and puffy, the black of her shapeless dress accentuating her deathlike pallor. She was probably the only true mourner here. Korwin must have been worried about her, because every once in a while he glanced at her with a furrowed brow. I’m sure there were friends from Betty’s side, and Lenore’s friends and other patients and staff from the clinic.
At one point Robbie turned around and our eyes met. A moment later Horton (at least I assumed that’s who it was) turned around, too. Fingered, I thought, but the coldness in his eyes wasn’t funny.
The service was short—only one eulogy, delivered by a somber, rail-thin pastor who did his best with the usual platitudes (“so young,” “so tragic”), considering that the funeral was being paid for by the ex-husband and the deceased had killed his son. We all filed out of the chapel, and I waited in the narrow foyer for Connors, who was off in a corner talking with someone.
“Miss Blume.”
I turned around and faced Maureen Saunders. “I’m sure this is a difficult day for your family,” I said, unable to think of anything more neutral. “Sad” would be untrue. “Great,” though tempting, would be tacky.
“This isn’t the time or place, so I’ll make it short,” Maureen said in a voice so low I had to lean closer to hear her. Her face was strained by a stiff smile she probably wore for the benefit of anyone watching. It made her look constipated. “If you continue to harass our family, we’re prepared to take legal action. And I’d be careful about what you say in print. Suffice to say, we intend to be vigilant.”
Maureen probably thought she’d have me shaking in my Escada pumps,
but I’ve heard this before. I’m always careful about what I say in print, especially when I write about real people. My publisher expects no less, and although we’re both insured, I don’t relish a lawsuit. But my concern and care are to be accurate and truthful, not diplomatic. Otherwise, I’d be a political speechwriter.
Maureen joined Saunders, who was talking with a salt-and-pepper-haired man. He glanced at me, said something to Saunders, and left.
I watched mother and son exit the foyer through the double glass doors and walk down the concrete pathway toward the burial site. I wondered where little Max Saunders had been laid to rest.
Connors came up to me. “You don’t look like you’re having a good time. Who were you talking to?”
“Robbie Saunders’s mom. She brought up the L word.” As in libel.
“She’s threatening you?”
“Only for four generations. You think he’s here?” I asked in an undertone.
Connors looked around and leaned close. “Zorro?” he asked in a theatrical whisper.
“Are you done?”
“Oh, you mean the killer.” Connors smiled. “If he is, he’s not wearing a label.”
“Did you get the autopsy report?”
“This morning. She was five to six weeks pregnant. They found toxic doses of Haldol in her blood, urine, and stomach contents. That explains why she didn’t bleed as much from the wounds to her wrists. The meds slowed her blood pressure.”
“You said she bled to death.”
“It’s unclear whether it was the meds or the cuts, or a combination.”
“Which means what?”
“One, she sedated herself, then slashed her wrists. The M.E. says that’s a typical suicide scenario. Two, the wrist slashing was a dramatic touch. It’s her m.o., right? Three, the killer, if there is one, did the slashing to simulate her other attempts. I pick one or two.”
I frowned. “Wouldn’t the fact that she had toxic levels of Haldol indicate that someone killed her?”
“Not necessarily. Like I said, she was getting Haldol through injection and pills, so there were traces in her mouth and esophagus. And she may have swallowed pills she’d hoarded. Your original thought, remember?”
I remembered. It seemed like six years ago, not six days. “What about the angle of the wrist slashes?”
“Consistent with self-inflicted wounds or homicide, so that’s no help. At least with Betty Rowan, we know. Her autopsy’s scheduled for this afternoon, but it’s definitely a homicide. She was strangled, and there’s evidence that she was killed in her den and dragged to the bathtub after she was dead. FYI, we found a Kinko’s receipt in her purse dated last Wednesday for photocopies. From the amount charged, I’d say she copied quite a few pages.”
“Lenore’s journal.” Maybe she’d mailed selected pages to potential buyers. Saunders, I was certain, was one. Messer, a possible second. And who else? “I take it you didn’t find it?”
Connors shook his head. “Assuming she had it, it’s gone. There’s no sign that anything was taken.”
“How did the killer get in?”
“Side door. There are scratches on the lock, but a credit card would’ve done the job. The Lopost woman said Betty had been complaining that the dead bolt was jammed, but she hadn’t gotten around to having it fixed.”
I told Connors about yesterday’s trip and what I’d learned. I also told him about my conversation with Scratchy Throat, naming Brad Messer but leaving out the connection with Mindy.
“Brad Messer, huh. How’d you hear that?”
“I can’t tell you my source. I’d like to figure out a way to talk to him.”
“Well, you just missed your chance.” Connors turned and pointed toward the glass doors. “He was talking to Saunders two minutes ago. I met him once. He seemed nice enough.”
It was broad daylight, but I felt a quiver of unease. “I wonder what he was doing here.”
“Paying his respects, like everybody else. So what else do you have?”
I didn’t mention my hunch, even though what he’d just told me strengthened it. I often write scenarios that seem to soar off the page but plummet to the earth like lead the next morning, and unlike Icarus, I wasn’t willing to risk having the heat of Connors’s sarcasm melt my wings.
“Basically, Betty Rowan liked money,” I said, “and so did Lenore, the Lady from 29 Palms.” I’d heard the song last night while visiting the town’s Web site, and the Andrews Sisters’ jaunty swing rendition kept playing in my head, making Lenore’s life seem that much more pathetic.
He nodded. “Jimmy Durante, Freddy Martin, the Andrews Sisters, Vic Damone, P. Pastor, and a couple of others. I like the Sisters’ recording best. Allie Wrubel wrote it in ‘forty-seven. He lived in Twentynine Palms and used to play his hits on weekends in places like the Persian Room, which is now the Back Alley Bar. ‘Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah,’ ‘The Lady in Red,’ ‘Venus Rising.’ He died there, too.”
Connors surprises me once in a while.
He went outside, leaving me alone in the foyer. I walked over to the guest book and flipped through the lined pages. Mostly names of people I didn’t know, along with their addresses. I did recognize a few—Donald and Susan Horton, who I assumed were Jillian’s parents. Lawrence Korwin, Nina Weldon. A few politicians, the ones whose faces had seemed familiar.
And Darren Porter.
thirty-three
If Santa Barbara had an orthodox community, I’d move there in a heartbeat, or at least buy a vacation home. It’s about an hour and a half by car from L.A. on the 101 North, a pleasant drive that turns beautiful once you’re in Ventura County, where the scenery is lush and serene. I’ve been to Santa Barbara several times with my family and have enjoyed the hiking paths, the gardens, and (my favorite) long walks on the beach. (Ron and I won fifteen hundred dollars at a Chinese auction, which we applied toward a belated three-night honeymoon at the just-opened Bacara Resort and Spa. What can I tell you? It’s nice to be rich.)
The superior courthouse is on Anacapa, only eleven blocks from the ocean. I could smell the salt in the air and was tempted to detour, but it was five to two, and I had a two o’clock appointment with Donna Bergen, the prosecutor who had tried Lenore’s case. I would have arrived earlier, but after the funeral I’d stopped off at Darren Porter’s Hollywood apartment and left a note in his mailbox, asking him to phone me. I entered the three-story building from the Santa Barbara Street side, and after passing through a metal detector, I was directed to the prosecutor’s ground-floor office.
Donna Bergen was in her late thirties, tall and thin with a mop of curly black hair and brown eyes magnified by the thick lenses of her tortoiseshell frames. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows, and her beige blouse was half out of the navy skirt whose matching jacket hung on her chair. She had a Diet Coke six-pack on her desk with four cans gone from their plastic holders, which probably explained why she was so wired. She took a can and offered me the last one, which I declined because I’m trying to watch my caffeine. I think she was relieved.
“True crime, huh? I’ve been waiting for someone to pick up on this case,” she told me. “If I had any talent, I would’ve written a book about it myself. Or better yet, a screenplay.”
“What’s so special about this case?”
“Come on, can’t you see it?” She formed a camera box with her hands. “A poor but beautiful young woman marries rich. Her older husband is cheating on her. She kills her baby and walks free. I’m thinking Gwyneth or Nicole, Richard Gere or Pierce Brosnan. Maybe Catherine Zeta-Jones, but she’d probably want to bring her husband along, and damn, but I hate his sneer. So what’s your angle?”
I wondered if Betty Rowan had gone that far in her speculations—if, in fact, I was right. I told Donna Bergen about the hit-and-run and my suspicion that Saunders had contributed to the accident or witnessed it. “Now I’m trying to figure out if Lenore killed herself or was murdered. And if she was murdered, did Saunders do it. I assume
you know she’s dead?”
“Yeah, well, cry me a river.” The prosecutor snapped off the tab from her can, then lifted the can in a salute. “Here’s to justice, late though it is.”
“The jury and judge apparently believed that Lenore killed her baby because she had postpartum psychosis.”
Donna snorted. “And I have a million dollars.”
From reading about several infanticide trials after my visit with Korwin, I knew that prosecutors are often skeptical about a postpartum defense. But Donna Bergen sounded bitter. “You don’t think she was depressed?”
“Sure I do. Her husband was hitting the sheets with someone else while she was overwhelmed with being a new mom to a cranky baby. Who wouldn’t be depressed? But that doesn’t mean you get to walk after killing your two-month-old.”
“You think Lenore really knew what she was doing?”
“I thought she had a bad day and too many diapers to change, and the baby wouldn’t stop crying, so she lost her cool and shook him to make him stop and ended up breaking his neck. No intent to kill, but it’s still reckless and conscious disregard of human life. So I was going for murder two.”
“And the fact that Saunders was cheating on her played into it?”
“No proof.” The prosecutor shook her head. “Saunders was careful. But even if I had proof, I don’t know that I would have used it.”
That surprised me. “Why not?”
“It’s a double-edged sword.” Bergen bent her head back and took a swig of her Coke. “Say I showed that he was screwing around with his former fiancée. If I argue that Lenore knew about it and was enraged and killed the kid to punish Saunders, then it’s premeditated and I should be going for murder one. Which I would lose.”
“Why?”
“A, I didn’t believe that was the case. B, even if I did buy it, how would I convince a jury that Lenore knew about the affair, that she was enraged, and that she took out her rage on her own baby? Why not kill the husband or the lover? C, the jury loved her. The jury usually feels sorry for the mom. Your average person doesn’t want to believe a mother would intentionally kill her own kid, even though it’s happened. Plus Lenore was extremely convincing, and she looked like a grieving Madonna—not the singer.” The prosecutor smiled. “Lenore was smart, too, smarter than Andrea Yates.” She took another, longer swig.
Blues in the Night Page 21
