Dream House

by Rochelle Krich

  “Of course she's here!” He turned back to the door. “Margaret, I insist that you open the door!”

  “Why don't you come to my house? I can make you tea or coffee, and you can rest awhile. How does that sound?”

  “My leg hurts!” Linney rapped on the door. “You know how much I love you, Margaret. Please, let me in!” He was crying as he hit the door with his cane.

  It was a pitiful sight. Tim looked at me and shook his head, then faced Linney again. “Professor, Margaret had some errands to do.”

  Linney jerked his head around. “She said that?”

  Tim nodded. “She probably forgot to tell you.”

  “She doesn't hate me?” He lowered the cane. “I did what I thought was best. I did it because I love her.”

  “She knows that.”

  Linney nodded. “When is she coming back?”

  “Maybe Hank knows. Why don't we ask him, Professor?”

  The old man's glare was ferocious. “Hank's a mean son of a bitch!” He stabbed the air with his cane. “I won't go back there!”

  “All right,” Tim soothed. “All right. Will you come with me, then?”

  “Just until Margaret returns,” Linney warned. “I have to pee. And I have to lie down. I'm tired.”

  “You can lie down in my house.”

  “I can't climb stairs. I'll fall and break my hip and die.” He glowered. “Hank would love that.”

  “You can use the spare room downstairs, Professor.”

  Linney patted Tim's arm. “You're a good boy, Tim. I'll make sure Margaret knows.”

  Ignoring Tim Bolt's offered arm, the old man walked down the two steps and made his way slowly to the sidewalk. We followed a few feet behind him.

  “What's with the daughter?” I asked in a low voice.

  “It's a long, sad story,” Tim Bolt whispered. “About five months ago she disappeared, and the police think—”

  “Are you talking about me?” Linney whipped his head toward us, eyes glaring. “I know you're talking about me.”

  With an apologetic shrug and a brief smile, Tim hurried to the old man's side.

  I tagged along to the neighbor's front door, hoping he'd invite me in and tell me the story once he'd settled Linney in the spare room. But after ushering the old man inside, Tim threw me a quick, over-the-shoulder “Thanks a lot” and shut the door behind him.

  As Billy Crystal would say, I hate when that happens.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  STILL THINKING ABOUT THE PROFESSOR, I HEADED EAST on Third to the Larchmont address. It was the farthest of my proposed stops, but the vandalism was the most puzzling.

  Why frozen lemons? Why not a rock or a brick? And if I were interested in making a mess rather than inflicting damage, I would have used raw eggs like Walter Fennel's vandals. Yolk beats out pulp any day, in my opinion.

  Minutes later I parked at the end of a block lined with well-kept houses in a mix of Colonial American, Spanish, and Tudor styles. I'd never been on this block before. I am familiar with Larchmont two blocks north, where the street takes on a New England village atmosphere with Main Street–like storefronts that offer, among other things, clothing, antiques, cosmetics, hardware, and real estate and banking services. There's Chevalier's, an independent bookstore that I frequent, and there are bistros and coffee shops with outdoor seating, including a Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf where Zack and I have spent countless hours.

  We've also spent many hours sitting on the glider on my landlord's porch and strolling along the beach and Santa Monica's Third Street Promenade. When the man who makes your heart race and various body parts tingle is a rabbi, and the way he looks at you says he feels the same way, but physical contact is verboten—well, unless you're into masochism, the privacy of an apartment is not a good idea.

  Driving down the block, I'd seen no evidence of the Lemon Bandit's assault, though I'd seen several HARP signs—some pro, some anti. I spent fifteen minutes walking up the block and halfway down the other side. Most people weren't home. Three homeowners who were home knew nothing about the vandalism, and several Hispanic housekeepers hadn't understood my pathetic high school Spanish.

  After a few pitying ¿Cómo?s I made a mental note to look up the words throw and vandalism in my Spanish-English dictionary, if I could find it.

  I walked to the end of the block, ready to cross the street to my car, but the Japanese bridge on the lawn of the corner house stopped me. It was a glossy, bright red bridge on a busy lawn bordered by a wood slat fence and crowded with groupings of shrubs and tiger lilies. The house had a wood plank exterior and a towering gabled entry, brightened by accents of that glossy red, where a statue of an Asian deity stood guard. A Shinto shrine.

  To my right was a wishing well. Its side planks and rim were red lacquered, too. On a white rectangle on the side of the well, beside the words I ' M WISHING printed in black Japanese-style characters, was Snow White.

  “Adriana Caselotti lived here until she died in 1997,” said a middle-aged, brown-haired woman who had come up next to me. She was wearing a black sweater over jeans that were a little baggy. “She left the property to a friend, but he doesn't live here. He keeps it just the way she left it, though.” A heavenly yeasty aroma wafted from the shopping bag she was carrying.

  I drew a blank. “Sorry. Should I know that name?”

  “The voice in Snow White?” The woman eyed me with mild disapproval. “Disney chose her out of a hundred and fifty girls when she was nineteen. They owned the lifetime rights to her voice, and they kept Adriana's identity secret. She couldn't act in another movie without their permission.”

  I tried to imagine being controlled like that. “Did they let her act in anything else?”

  “The Wizard of Oz. She was the voice of Juliet in the Tin Man scene. In her later interviews she doesn't sound unhappy.” The woman shrugged. “They say that's why she put in the wishing well, so people would know who she was.”

  “Did her prince ever come? Adriana's, I mean.”

  The woman smiled. “Four times. She was widowed three times. I don't know what happened to the fourth husband. Are you visiting L.A.?”

  I smiled back. “Actually, I'm a reporter. I read that one of the houses on this block was vandalized three weeks ago, but no one seems to know anything about it.”

  I handed her a business card. I never know how people will react when I tell them what I do—curiosity, anxiety, annoyance, contempt. Anger, even.

  She glanced at the card. “The lemons,” she said, her tone as sour as if she were sucking one. “It's the house at the end of the next block.” She pointed north. “I live next door. You might think it's a silly prank, but they shattered the living room window.”

  “I don't think it's a silly prank. That's why I'm here.” I'd obviously copied down the wrong block number from the Wilshire board. “Which house is it?”

  “The yellow stucco. The owners replaced the window and had bars installed on all the windows. I put up bars a few months ago,” she said with sadness. “You get used to them.”

  My parents put up bars last year, after they were burglarized. My mother still mourns the loss of the unhampered view of her garden through the family room's large picture window. “What are the homeowners' names?”

  A look of unease replaced the open friendliness. “I'd rather not say. And they're both at work, if you're thinking of talking to them.” She shifted her shopping bag to her other hand. “I have to go.”

  “One more question? Do the homeowners have any idea who the vandal was?”

  The woman hesitated. “The police think it was kids.”

  “But you don't,” I guessed.

  “I didn't say that.” The heightened color in her cheeks told me I was right. “I don't want my name in the paper. I don't want to get involved.”

  “I don't know your name.” At least she hadn't walked off. I waited. Sometimes, I've learned, that's more effective than pushing.

  “They received an anon
ymous note,” she finally said. “They're with the homeowner's group that wants to make Larchmont Heights a HARP district. You know what that is?” When I nodded, she said, “Not everyone's for it.”

  I felt a prickling of excitement. “What's your opinion?” I hoped the question would make her open up.

  “I think it's wonderful. Some of the people moving into the neighborhood don't care about its history. They just want to build bigger and bigger homes.” She swept her free hand in a wide, tall arc. “A few years ago someone tore down a 1920s bungalow that was the home of one of the original Keystone Kops. He got a permit to put on a new roof and remodel the kitchen, and ended up building a seven-bedroom house.” She pursed her lips in disapproval.

  “But how often does that happen?”

  “Not often,” she admitted grudgingly. “But who's to say it won't happen more and more? Next time they'll tear down Adriana Caselotti's house and build some mansion that sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  Snow White's house was whimsical, but was it historically significant? And what about the Keystone Kop's bungalow? Who decides what constitutes history?

  “Some people feel that no one has the right to tell them what they can and can't do with their homes,” I said.

  “No one's dictating.” She squared her shoulders, prepared for battle. “HARP brings people together to maintain the beauty and integrity of the neighborhood. That's what it's done in other neighborhoods.”

  She sounded as though she'd memorized the brochure. “Do you know what the note said?” I asked.

  “‘Bad neighbors make bad fences.' It's a twist on a line from a Robert Frost poem. ‘The Mending Wall'? The writer called them Harpies. It's so mean.”

  The same lovely phrase Mindy had used. “Why the fence reference?”

  “A couple on Arden put up a wrought iron fence around their property. It's handmade—exquisite craftsmanship. But it's higher than the city code allows, and the association wanted the owners to scale it down.”

  “I read about a house on Arden that was recently vandalized. A patio was torn up and a wrought iron fence was damaged?”

  “That's the one. My friend lives next door. They pulled off most of the brick and cracked the concrete. I don't think it's right, destroying people's property.” She sounded defensive. “I don't like what's happening around here. It's getting ugly.”

  “So much for community harmony,” I said, and earned a frown. “How much higher was the fence than the code?”

  “Two inches. I thought that was ridiculous, myself,” she added quickly, her face flushed, as if I'd accused her of making the ruling. “So did other people.”

  “You'd probably have to redo it.” A handmade gate, I knew, was thousands of dollars. And a handmade fence?

  “Probably,” the woman agreed, unhappy. “It wasn't just about the fence. The fighting started over the patio. The homeowners wanted to cut down a beautiful lemon tree to build it. People from the neighborhood picketed and took turns for a few days forming a circle around the tree, but the police threatened to arrest them.”

  People are passionate about saving trees. Not long ago police with a warrant finally convinced a Pacific Palisades man to quit his weeks-long residence in a four-hundred-year-old oak tree that tree preservationists had named Old Glory.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  “The homeowners cut down the tree and built the patio practically overnight, and a few weeks ago they cut down another lemon tree to build the fence.”

  That explained the lemons, though sour grapes would probably have been more fitting. “So someone damaged the fence and patio, and someone else retaliated and vandalized your neighbors' house. The fence owners?”

  “Or one of their supporters. Or their contractor.” She seemed to brighten at the idea. “I heard he lost several jobs because of the delays, and my friend told me he was fuming when they vandalized the patio. I can't blame him.”

  “Who's the contractor?”

  “Roger Modine. He does a lot of work around here.”

  The same contractor whose sign I'd seen on Highland. “Were any other homeowner association members' homes vandalized?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Then why this house, do you think?”

  Again, the woman hesitated. “The owner is the most outspoken proponent of making this a HARP district. In fact, she's on a HARP board in Angelino Heights.”

  I felt sorry for the homeowner, but I'll admit I was excited. I had a story. “Did they mention all this to the police?” I hadn't seen any details in the report.

  “They decided not to. They didn't think the police would find out who did it, and they were afraid to start a war.” She frowned. “I hope that's the end of it. I hope no one gets hurt.”

  After picking up a hot chocolate and a scone at the Coffee Bean, I headed for Arden. The house was easy to spot from the black wrought iron fence that was indeed exquisite, except for the damaged section. I found a NO TO HARP sign next to the RM Construction sign on a rising lawn, but no RM.

  The gate was open, so I walked to the backyard, where two men were laying brick on a raised concrete slab that ran the width of the house. Three steps led from the patio to the garden.

  Both men wore headsets, and I had to yell to make myself heard.

  “Mr. Roger, he left a few minutes ago,” the worker standing closer to me told me after he removed his earplugs. A red bandanna kept the sweat off his forehead, but his yellow T-shirt was plastered to his skin with perspiration.

  “When will he be back?” I asked.

  The man turned toward his coworker. “¿Jorge, donde está Roger?” he yelled.

  There was a rapid exchange. I picked up the words downtown and what sounded like the Spanish for permit.

  I thanked the men and left. My dad's a contractor, and I wondered if he knew Modine, or about him.

  McCadden was next. I found the house, and a YES TO HARP sign, but the owners weren't home, and knocking on doors on both sides of the street elicited nothing other than the fact that most people are out during the day.

  Porter wasn't in when I stopped at the Wilshire station, which was fine with me. I scanned the board where new crimes are listed and copied down two of interest:

  Monday, November 3. 7:45 P.M. 100 block of North Hudson Avenue. A vandal, possibly with a pellet gun, shot at the victim's house and car windows. Broken glass injured the person inside the house.

  Monday, November 3. 11:20 P.M. 900 block of Schumacher Drive. A vandal threw bricks through the front window of a house and injured a woman inside.

  Wishing may have worked for Snow White and Adriana Caselotti, but it hadn't worked for my Larchmont tour guide: The vandalism was continuing, escalating in violence. And two people had been hurt.

  The first house was in Hancock Park. The second was in Carthay Circle. I checked the pages I'd printed during my online research.

  Carthay Circle was a HARP district.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wednesday, November 5. 9:32 A.M. 10700 block of Washington Boulevard. Officers responded to a possible bomb threat at an electronics store. “I'm going to place bomb chips all over your store,” a caller said, then laughed and hung up. The victim said the caller's voice was very high, like a chipmunk's. (Culver City)

  I DID FORTY MINUTES ON MY TREADMILL, HALF-ASLEEP because I'd stayed up way too late talking on the phone with Zack. My sister Edie, who set us up, says that given all the time we spend together, we may as well tie the knot. I tell her I'm not ready. After one failed marriage, I want to take things slow, and I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a rabbi's wife. And Zack hasn't asked.

  After reciting my morning prayers, I did the Times crossword while eating my usual breakfast—an English muffin topped with tuna, tomato, and part-skim-milk mozzarella cheese. I figure that compensates for the chocolate. Then I phoned Hollywood Division and asked to speak to Andrew Connors. Connors is one of the detectives who make my data collecting easier and
the experience more pleasant. I've known him four years, since I began doing the Crime Sheet. Though I know little about his personal life (he's mentioned an ex-wife in his native Boston but nothing else), I like to think we're friends.

  “I'm crushed,” he said in his flat accent when he came on the line. “You don't call, you don't write.”

  “I'll remind you of that the next time you complain that I call the station too often. How are you?”

  “Overworked, underpaid, eating way too much junk food. You?”

  “Ditto about the junk food, but I can't complain about the rest.” Which was true.

  “How are you really, Molly?” His voice was lower, quieter. “Still having nightmares?”

  “Not as many,” I lied. Three months ago I'd almost been murdered, and even after undergoing therapy, the scene plays in my head and shakes me awake more often than I admit to my family, or Zack. “I need information, Andy.”

  “Changing the subject, huh? Dial 911. Or try Google.”

  “Seriously.”

  “And here I thought you were calling to ask me out.” He sighed. “Okay. You have five minutes.”

  I swiveled in my chair. “I'm writing a piece about home vandalism for the Times.” I didn't mention HARP, but the rest was true. The assistant editor at the “Calendar” desk—my contact—wanted to run the piece on Friday. I have data in my Crime Sheet files, but I don't enter every case I read about. The column can run just so long. I try to list crimes that are representative, and the bizarre ones.

  “What about the DO sheets?” Connors asked, referring to the photocopies of the Daily Occurrence sheets he's kind enough to give me.

  “I toss them after the respective Crime Sheet edition comes out. Otherwise, I'd be drowning in paper.”

  “So what do you need?”

  “Any case of home vandalism that took place during the past two months. I need specifics. The nature of the vandalism. Whether there was an injury involved. The neighborhoods where the crimes took place, which homes.”