Dream House

by Rochelle Krich

  “They ought to take a wrecking ball and knock the damn thing down,” he muttered. “Looks like a prison.”

  I had to admit he was right. Huge oak trees with gnarled trunks and sharp branches that reminded me of witches' fingernails stood in front of three hulking stories of unrelenting dark gray. The trees cast shadows on a lawn overgrown with untrimmed shrubs that shrouded the exterior walls. It was the perfect setting for a Gothic novel.

  “Who lives there?” I asked.

  Funny, but all those years I'd never really known. To tell you the truth, I hadn't cared to know. Knowledge would have stripped the house of its mystery, reducing it to an ugly but ordinary structure and depriving my friends and me of hours of shivery fun.

  “Charlene and Glen Coulter built it,” Fennel said. “I don't know why they needed three stories. They had one boy, and then it was the two of them. Glen died years ago, so now it's just Charlene in that monstrosity. Winnie took over a casserole when Glen died and invited Charlene over, but she wouldn't come. She didn't even invite Winnie in, just took the casserole and said thank you, although she did send a note. She almost never leaves the house.”

  Like the Stick Lady, I thought. She lives on the other side of Beverly in a black house surrounded by a black stone fence. She walks on stilts and wears her hair so that it stands straight up on top of her head. We had invented stories about her, too.

  “The whole family's always kept to themselves,” Fennel said. “I never knew what Glen did for a living. I tried talking to him a few times but finally gave up.”

  A black mark on Fennel's report card. I wondered whether the Coulters would have been more neighborly if the neighborhood had opened their arms and been less up in arms, though I had to agree the house was overpowering and ugly.

  Fennel slowed to a stroll and started pointing out houses and the features that made them historically “contributing.” Windows, doors, gables, arches, roofs. He stopped in front of a deep yellow Tudor.

  “See those aluminum side windows? Those are pre-HARP. The owners would never get away with that now. Or with that color. Mustard is for a hot dog. But for a house?”

  “Professor Linney was involved with HARP. Is that how you knew him?” Normally I do more journalistic foreplay, but at this rate, I'd never get to first base.

  “We were both with the homeowners association. Now, look at this place.” Fennel pointed to the one-story Spanish on my right. “They had an open house a few months ago. The original ceramic tile in the bathrooms is in excellent condition, but the owners plan to rip it out and put in Formica. Formica!” he repeated with disgust. “They can do it, too, because we have no say over the interior.”

  For the next hour Fennel gave me an architectural walking tour of the neighborhood: the type of home, what work had been done and when, what family lived there now, who had lived there before. I made one more attempt to steer the conversation to Linney, then gave up. Fennel was determined to show me the beauty he was trying to preserve, and barring an earthquake, nothing would divert him.

  An hour wasted, I thought as we headed back to Martel, but we turned the corner and found ourselves on Fuller. A minute later we were in front of Oscar Linney's house. A half sheet of plywood covered the shattered bottom of the front window. The remnant of a yellow crime-scene ribbon on the charred front door fluttered gaily, a streamer inviting party guests.

  I think Linney's house was Fennel's destination all along. He had fallen silent and was staring at the devastation, which was greater in the fading daylight, especially the downstairs, where whole sections had been blackened. I tried not to picture the professor lying unconscious on the landing, inhaling the fumes that would kill him. I still smelled smoke, but that was probably my imagination. For a second I thought I detected movement through one of the upstairs windows, but then it was gone. That was obviously my imagination, too, aided by the reflected sunlight bouncing against the windowpane.

  A moment later the curtain moved aside, and closed. Less than an inch. Just for a second. If I hadn't been staring at the window, I wouldn't have seen it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  SOMEONE WAS UPSTAIRS. PORTER OR HERNANDEZ? THE dark maroon Chevy I'd seen them enter this morning after they left my apartment wasn't here. Hank Reston? It was his wife's house. But there was no car in the driveway.

  “Rotten shame,” Fennel said, his voice hoarse.

  I wasn't certain whether he was referring to the burned house or Linney. I stole a glance and saw tears in Fennel's eyes. He found a handkerchief in his jacket pocket, wiped his eyes, and trumpeted his nose.

  “I guess the only good thing is that he died in the house he loved,” Fennel said in a low voice.

  “The two of you must have been close,” I said, my eyes fixed on the upstairs window.

  “We were, until he moved with his son-in-law into that new house.” Fennel sniffed. “I didn't see Oscar much after that.”

  “You don't like Mr. Reston?”

  “I don't like or dislike him. I hardly know the man.”

  “But Professor Linney didn't like him?”

  Fennel didn't answer. He swiveled with military precision and hurried down Fuller. I wanted to stay, to talk to Reston if he was inside, or find out who was there. But I couldn't, not with Fennel around.

  His lips were set in a tight line when I caught up with him, and he didn't say a word all the way back to Martel. I figured the interview was over and was surprised when he invited me into his house.

  Fennel sat me at an oak pedestal table in a yellow breakfast nook with a lead glass window looking out on a deep yard. Winnie was probably taking a nap, he told me while he poured two cups of coffee in a cozy country kitchen with a blue and white tile counter. He lifted the lid of a stockpot on the stove and stirred—“Minestrone,” he said—releasing steam perfumed with sautéed onions, tomatoes, and other vegetables I couldn't identify that fogged the window and made my stomach grumble.

  “The detectives asked about Hank, too,” Fennel said a few minutes later as he brought the coffee to the table, along with white plates with a blue willow design and a matching platter piled high with brownies. “Did Oscar and Hank fight. I'm not sure I should be talking about Oscar, especially to a writer.” He picked up a brownie and took a bite. He made wet, smacking sounds as he chewed.

  I sensed he was playing coy, eager to tell, or why would he have invited me here? “The day we met, Professor Linney called Hank a son of a bitch. So it's no secret that he didn't like his son-in-law.”

  That was green light enough for Fennel. He nodded. “Oscar thought Hank was a boor. To him, that was worse than being poor. Which Hank isn't. He's loaded. He built up a floor covering business and used the profit to buy houses and flip them or tear them down.”

  Everything Linney was against, I thought.

  Fennel pointed to the brownies. “Aren't you going to try one? They're homemade.”

  I smiled. “No, thanks.”

  “You're not on a diet, are you?” He scowled at me. “You look fine to me. You young people are always dieting.”

  “I keep kosher.”

  He frowned. “What's not kosher about brownies?”

  “It could be the ingredients or the utensils.” I hoped he wasn't offended. “They look great. Winnie baked them?”

  “I did. Winnie can't bake worth a damn. Can't cook, either. She's great at canasta and bridge, though. A great kisser, too.” He chuckled and ate the rest of the brownie.

  I felt a pang of longing for Zeidie Irving, who died nine years ago. (Mindy's baby Yitz is named after him.) I used to love walking behind him and Bubbie G on the way to shul and seeing their locked hands, their heads leaning in toward each other. Zeidie was a great kisser, too. He'd place his hands on the sides of my face and touch his soft lips to my forehead and cheeks.

  Fennel was still chewing. I sipped the hot coffee while he finished swallowing. I wasn't eager to test my as yet untried Heimlich maneuver skills.

 
“How did Margaret Linney meet Hank Reston?” I asked.

  “Through Ned Vaughan. He and Hank were high school pals.”

  The name sounded familiar. Then I remembered: He was the architect at the HARP meeting who'd been engaged in an unpleasant conversation with Roger Modine until Reston had joined them. He'd left before I had a chance to interview him.

  “Ned Vaughan is with the company that did the Hancock Park historical survey, right?” I said.

  Fennel nodded. “He was also in Oscar's department at USC. Oscar would invite him to the house for dinner, and the three of them—Oscar, Margaret, and Ned—would talk architecture and history. I joined them once, when Winnie was out with the gals. I was bored silly.” Fennel took another brownie.

  “What about Mrs. Linney?”

  “Roberta died when Margaret was fourteen. Cancer,” he said, with sad solemnity. “Terrible thing. She went pretty quick, and I guess that's a blessing, because she didn't suffer. After she died it was just Oscar and Margaret. I think that's why he was so attached to her. Too attached, in my opinion.” He nibbled on the brownie, smacking his lips, sweeping the crumbs with his tongue like a cat.

  I waited again until he'd finished. “Professor Linney didn't want her to marry?”

  “Probably not. But he was forty-seven when Margaret was born. When his health started to go, I figure he wanted to make sure she'd have security.”

  “How did Hank enter the picture?”

  “Oscar was recarpeting the house. Ned mentioned that his friend was in the business and could give Oscar a good deal. The next thing you know, Margaret and Hank eloped. I guess she was more interested in Karastan rugs than the countries that made 'em.”

  Fennel's chuckle turned into a laugh. He laughed so hard that his face turned cherry red and tears streamed out of his eyes. I was afraid he would choke, but the laughter trailed off into hiccups. He wiped his eyes.

  I gave him a moment to calm down. “Was Margaret attracted to Reston's money?”

  Fennel shook his head, serious again. “Roberta came from money and left a nice sum. Oscar couldn't figure the attraction. Margaret was a concert pianist. She played at Carnegie and all over the world. She was writing her own music, too. And she painted. Hank has a high school education. His idea of high culture, Oscar told me, is The Lion King.”

  I was intrigued. “So what did Margaret see in him?”

  “Have you met Hank?”

  I nodded.

  “Big guy, isn't he? Determined, too. He started with one small floor covering store. Now he has stores all over the state. Residential and commercial. And there's his real estate business, too. Hank sees something he wants, he won't stop till he gets it.”

  “And he wanted Margaret,” I said. “Was she beautiful?”

  “I don't know that I'd call her beautiful, but you'd notice her. Dark hair, pretty face. A little skinny for my taste. Oscar said Hank wanted to buy a classy wife the way he buys art. He wanted someone who'd pick out his clothes and fix up his house, someone who'd make him look good.”

  Reston wouldn't be the first person to seek a trophy wife, especially in L.A. “How did Ned Vaughan react to the marriage?”

  “He was thrilled, toasted them at the reception Oscar threw when they came back. Ned knew about the elopement but kept their secret. Oscar was mad as hell.”

  Not what I'd expected. I felt a twinge of disappointment. “Ned didn't feel jilted?”

  Fennel gave a harrumph almost as good as Bubbie G's. “Relieved is more like it. See, Oscar picked Ned for Margaret. I can see why. Oscar was my friend, but he was full of himself. Ned is, too. But there was no chemistry between Ned and Margaret. Zip. Architecture and history, yes.”

  Fennel chuckled again. I was prepared for another coughing paroxysm, but it didn't happen.

  “But Ned was over at the house all the time,” I said.

  “Oscar was his mentor. Maybe Ned didn't want to disappoint him. Plus remember, he was in Oscar's department, so he wanted to stay on his good side. It wouldn't surprise me if he brought Hank around hoping he and Margaret would hit it off and he'd be off the hook.” Fennel cleared his throat. “He's seeing someone now. Diane, I think her name is. Ned is, I mean. Hank isn't seeing anyone. Well, not that I know. If he is, he's keeping it quiet. He wouldn't want Oscar to know.”

  “Were Hank and Margaret happy?”

  “To hear Oscar tell it, Margaret knew she'd made a mistake. About the marriage, about giving up her concert career, the composing. That was Hank's doing, according to Oscar. I thought he was going to cry when he told me about it. All those years of lessons, all those dreams—down the toilet. I guess she had other dreams. The couple of times I saw her with Hank they looked fine. But who knows?” Fennel shrugged.

  Anyone who had seen Ron and me together toward the end of our marriage would have thought we were fine, too. “How long were Hank and Margaret married before she disappeared?”

  “About a year. They were renting a place while they were building their dream house on Muirfield. Then Oscar was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, so Margaret and Hank moved in with him. Not the best idea. Oscar didn't like the way Hank treated Margaret, like he owned her. Oscar didn't say, but I'm sure there were fights. Oscar was outspoken.”

  “Do you think that was true? That Hank thought he owned Margaret?”

  Fennel considered for a moment, his tongue doing an extra few sweeps of his lip. “Oscar gave a party for his department and some other folks a couple of weeks before Margaret disappeared. She played hostess. She knew all the guests, of course. Hank hardly knew a soul. He was watching her all night. A couple of times when she was gabbing with the men, he looked ready to punch their lights out.”

  “There you are.” Winnie stood in the doorway. She'd traded the sweats for an ankle-length, zebra-print velour robe. Not the best choice. “I thought I heard voices.”

  “I'm telling Molly about Margaret and Hank.”

  Winnie came to the table and frowned at the brownies. “How many of these did you eat, Walter?”

  “Just one.” He waited until she turned to me. Then he winked at me.

  “His sugar is borderline, but he doesn't give a hoot,” she told me, sitting down. “Don't go filling her head with nonsense, Walter.”

  “I'm just saying what Oscar told me.”

  “Well, you don't know that everything he told you is true. He was ill, remember.” She tapped her finger against her temple.

  “When did you last see him?” I asked Fennel.

  “The Thursday before he died.” Saying the words saddened him. His face sagged. “Winnie drove me to Hank's house. I'm not supposed to drive.” He scowled at his wife, but I could see that his heart wasn't in it. “I hadn't seen Oscar in over a month. He looked like he'd aged ten years.”

  “Because of Margaret.” Winnie clucked. “Grief did him in, not the Alzheimer's. It broke his heart and his spirit.”

  I could believe that. Bubbie G is resilient and a fighter, but some of her spirit died along with Zeidie Irving. “Did he talk about his daughter?”

  “He talked about Hank.” Fennel glanced at his wife defiantly. “He said Hank hit him.”

  “He said that about the caregivers, too. It's the Alzheimer's.”

  “He had all his marbles,” Fennel insisted.

  I thought about the bruises I'd seen. “The day we met he thought Margaret was still living in the Fuller house.”

  “Did he?” Fennel frowned. “When I visited on Thursday, he knew she'd disappeared.”

  “He said that Margaret hated him, that he'd acted out of love. Do you know what he meant?”

  “No, I don't.” Fennel sounded disappointed. “Maybe he meant because he was always saying nasty things about Hank.” He reached for another brownie. Winnie moved the plate. “Maybe he thought he drove her away.”

  “She didn't run away,” Winnie said. “She was kidnapped, and killed. There was blood in the house, blood in the car, which the police found in some ma
ll lot.” It was a dry, impatient recital of the facts, and I sensed that she and Walter had gone over this before.

  “Maybe she left it there, with some of her own blood, to make it look like someone kidnapped her,” Fennel said. “That's what Oscar told me Thursday.”

  Winnie snorted. “You're watching too many movies.”

  I thought about Joseph's coat, smeared with animal's blood by his brothers to convince their father he was dead.

  Fennel reached past Winnie and grabbed a brownie.

  “You want to kill yourself, go ahead,” she said. “I'll have a good time with the life insurance. There's lots of places I haven't been to.”

  “What's the point of old age if you can't enjoy it?”

  “Paris. Italy. Scandinavia.” She counted off the names on her pudgy ringed fingers.

  “Don't forget China. You always wanted to go to China.”

  With Matrix speed she lunged, wrested the brownie from his hand, and moved the plate to the white tile counter. “I'm doing this because I love you.”

  “Love me a little less,” he grumbled into his coffee.

  I bit my lip to keep from smiling. “I understand that Hank was out of town when Margaret disappeared.”

  “He's out of town a lot on business,” Walter said. “That's hard on a marriage. And like I told you, Oscar said Margaret knew she'd made a mistake marrying Hank.”

  “Do you think she was having an affair?”

  Winnie and Walter looked at each other.

  “Oscar thought she liked the architect,” Walter said. “I don't know if they were having an affair, but she was spending a whole lot of time with him.”

  Winnie crossed her arms. “And maybe Hank found out, and paid someone to kill her. Or maybe he came back early and did it himself.”

  “Is that what Professor Linney thought?” I asked.

  “I told you, he thought she was alive,” Fennel said, impatient. “She is alive.”

  Winnie rolled her eyes. “You're as crazy as he was.”

  Fennel clamped his lips together.

  “How do you know she's alive?” I asked him.

  “I just know.”