Dream House

by Rochelle Krich

  “She came to Oscar in a dream,” Winnie said. She turned to her husband. “First he tells you he dreams about her screaming for help. Now he tells you she's alive.”

  “You want to make fun, go ahead.” He glared at her. “That's why I don't tell you things.”

  I wished Winnie would shut up. “How do you know?”

  “He doesn't,” she said. “He wants to sound important. Tell her the truth, Walter, and don't waste her time.”

  “You don't know everything.” His face was mottled with patches of red.

  She placed her hands on her hips. “Really, like what?”

  “Like Oscar told me he was going to see Margaret at the Fuller house on Friday.” He was breathing hard and looked like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head after having performed well.

  I hid my disappointment. “He went to the Fuller house several times to see his daughter. He was confused.”

  “This was different. He said Margaret told him she had to see him. She said it was important.”

  Winnie snorted. “And you believed him?”

  “Why wouldn't I believe him, Miss Know-It-All? I was in the room with him when she phoned.”

  Winnie stared at him, her mouth open, her hand pressed against her heaving bosom that sent ripples along the robe's zebra stripes. I was staring, too.

  “Where was she all this time?” she demanded. “Why didn't she let Oscar know she was all right? Imagine letting him worry like that!”

  “She didn't say.” Fennel sounded nervous. He probably regretted what he'd revealed. “She was afraid to talk on the phone. Maybe that's why she didn't show up on Friday.”

  “Who was she afraid of?” I asked.

  “She didn't say that, either.”

  “I can't believe you didn't tell me,” Winnie said.

  “He was so happy, Winnie. After she hung up, he kept saying, ‘You came back, Margaret, you came back.' He was crying like a baby.” Fennel's lips trembled.

  Winnie narrowed her eyes. “How did he know it was her? He was confused so much of the time. How did he know the person who phoned wasn't working with the kidnapper?”

  I'd been wondering the same thing. “Did the housekeeper take the call?” If so, maybe she could identify Margaret's voice.

  “No, Oscar did, in his room. He has his own line. He took me there because he wanted privacy. He didn't like the new Filipino gal Hank hired to take care of him. He said she spied on him.”

  “What's her name?” I asked.

  “Maria something. A long last name.” He turned to his wife. “Oscar was sure it was Margaret.”

  Winnie snorted. “As if he'd know.”

  “It was Margaret's voice,” Fennel insisted. “I heard it.”

  “You talked to her?” I asked before Winnie could.

  Fennel shook his head. “But I heard her. See, by the time Oscar got to the phone, the answering machine went on. So I heard the first few words.”

  “What did she say?” Winnie demanded.

  “‘This is Margaret.' Or something like that. Then Oscar picked up the receiver, so I didn't hear anything else. She didn't stay on long. Just a few seconds. It was her,” he said again, quietly this time.

  “You should have told me,” Winnie said. “You should have told Hank.”

  “Don't you think I know that?” Fennel's face was contorted in pain. “If I'd told Hank, maybe Oscar would still be alive. But Oscar made me swear I wouldn't tell anyone, not even you.”

  I wanted to put my arms around Walter Fennel and give him a hug. I wanted to kiss his parchment-paper cheek and tell him I understood.

  “Oh, Walter.” Winnie sighed. “Did you tell the detectives?”

  He bowed his head. “I told them Oscar was planning to meet her at the house. I didn't tell them about the phone call. I wanted to. But they'd tell Hank, and Hank would be angry with me. Everyone would think it was my fault that Oscar died. My fault.”

  Fennel started to cry. Winnie walked over and put her arms around his shaking shoulders. She patted his bald head and rocked with him. It was time for me to leave.

  I stood. “You have to tell the detectives, Mr. Fennel. But don't tell anyone else you were with Professor Linney when he received the phone call.”

  “Why not?” The fear in Winnie's eyes told me she knew.

  “The killer might think Professor Linney told your husband something that could lead the police to him.”

  “That house is bad luck,” Winnie said. “First Margaret, and now Oscar.”

  I couldn't argue with that.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE BIT OF CRIME-SCENE RIBBON WAS GONE.

  The driveway was still empty, and there were no cars in front of the house. I doubted that anyone was inside, but I rang the bell and knocked when I didn't hear the chime that had played the other day. The fire had probably burned out the wiring.

  I turned the doorknob and was surprised to find the door locked. Firemen had axed it to gain access to the house, so it was hardly a deterrent to anyone who wanted to get inside. Like the someone I'd spotted half an hour ago?

  Careful to avoid splinters, I slipped my hand through a gaping hole, felt around for the knob, and twisted it. Although the breaking had already been done by others, if Reston or Detectives Porter or Hernandez came by, I'd have some 'splaining to do. But I was determined to find out who had lured Oscar Linney to his death and had used my story to make the death—the murder—look like a tragic coincidence. Along with the sadness and the guilt that were my constant companions, I was beginning to feel anger.

  The house reeked of smoke and mildew. In the fading afternoon light I viewed the scorched remains in the dining and living rooms—the mahogany baby grand, its ivories stained like an old man's decaying teeth; the tattered drapes; the disemboweled sofas and chairs, their stuffing bloated with water from the firemen's hoses. Here and there I found hints of beauty that intensified the poignance of loss. Chenilles and stiff cotton brocades in maroon, cream, a touch of green. The singed ends of a gold tassel. A patch of dark burled veneer on a mahogany table that had escaped the conflagration. I tried to imagine the rooms before the fire had blackened the walls and consumed the furnishings, before firemen's boots had tracked mud on the sodden, half-eaten rugs.

  The entry was darker than the living and dining rooms. That was one reason I'd avoided it till now. The other reason was that Linney's body had been found at the foot of the stairs. There was no chalked outline. Connors told me that's a Hollywood cliché, and a violation of the crime scene. But in my mind I saw the old man lying there, heard the thump, thump, thump as his frail body hit the wood steps, heard his pained, frightened cry.

  Had he yelled for help when he'd smelled the smoke? For Margaret? Had the fall killed him, or had he been alive, gasping for air, when the smoke smothered his lungs?

  My hand went to the light switch at the foot of the staircase, but I pulled it back. I didn't want to advertise my presence. Even without full light I could see that the bottom two steps of the oak staircase were gone. The rest looked seared but intact, like grilled steaks.

  Holding on to the wood banister with both hands, I stretched my right leg to the third step, then pulled myself up and gingerly rested my weight on the step. It held. The stairs creaked as I climbed—normal house sounds—but with each step I braced myself for disaster, and I expelled a relieved breath when I reached the landing.

  The ceilings were blackened, but the smoke was less noticeable here, blown away by a strong current coming from the two open doors to my left. I walked into the first room and sucked in the cold air from the open French window facing the backyard.

  It was Linney's office. When you're selling a house, Realtors recommend showing it furnished and giving it an inviting lived-in look. That's probably why Reston had left touches of the old man. On the wall were photos of Linney posing with other men and the occasional woman, probably university colleagues. Linney standing in front of various buildings. There wer
e squares and rectangles of lighter paint where other framed items had hung. Phone books were stacked on a black metal filing cabinet near a love seat upholstered in a navy and taupe plaid, and the bookcases on both sides of a handsome dark wood desk held a few novels and nonfiction works. Linney had probably insisted on taking his architecture texts to the Muirfield house.

  The next room had twin beds and a dresser with a framed wedding photo of Linney and his dark-haired bride. One bed was covered with a navy-and-tan spread with a geometric print. The other bedspread was gone, along with the bedding—no surprise, since the police believed Linney had been lying on the bed. They'd no doubt wanted to check the spread and bedding for hair and other evidence.

  They'd left the white mattress pad—stark, clinical, final, as though Linney had never existed, as though his essence had been bundled up with the bedding and whisked away from this house that he'd never wanted to leave. I was surprised at how sad I felt over a man I hardly knew. But maybe it wasn't just about Linney. Maybe it was about going with my mother to Zeidie and Bubbie G's apartment after Zeidie died in the hospital nine years ago, about helping her strip Zeidie's bed and put on the bedspread and pretend that everything would be the same.

  Had Linney lain down while he waited for Margaret to arrive? Had he been half-asleep when the fire started? Had he smelled the smoke and, in a panic, rushed to the landing and lost his footing on the stairs?

  But if his leg hurt and he was afraid of falling, why hadn't he waited downstairs?

  The police had dusted for fingerprints. I recognized the telltale black powder residue on the cream-colored door and window frames and sash, the silver residue on the bedroom dresser, on the desk and filing cabinet in the office. In the desk drawers I found a red leather coin pouch, a compass and ruler, a handful of rubber bands. The file cabinet was empty, its contents no doubt moved to the new house along with Linney's other possessions. My fingers were sooty from the layer of ash that had settled on everything like a shroud, and would probably continue to settle over the next few days.

  Maybe the person pretending to be Margaret had lured Linney upstairs. “I'm up here, Dad!” Or did she call him Daddy? Did he hurry up the steps, bad leg and all?

  And then what?

  Across the hall was the bedroom where half an hour ago someone had parted lace curtains.

  It was a woman's room, with pale mauve walls and off-white trim and hardwood floors. It smelled of lavender and jasmine and was dominated by a mahogany four-poster queen-size bed covered with a scallop-edged, white matelassé spread. A mahogany secretary with Queen Anne legs stood against one wall. The desk chair had a needlepoint seat with a forest motif that was repeated in the pillows on the olive green velvet window bench. Framed watercolors—still lifes and florals—hung on the walls. I glanced at the signatures. Margaret Linney. Margaret Reston.

  Margaret and Hank had slept in this room, on this bed. Had they made careful love, aware of her father just across the hall? If Winnie and Walter were right, and Margaret had a lover, had she brought him here, too?

  From the moment I stepped into the room I'd sensed that something was off, and now I realized why: Someone had removed the mist of ash. The same person, probably, who had scented the room to camouflage the smoke. I sniffed the air. Perfume, I decided, not freshener.

  Someone had perfumed the adjoining bath, too, and wiped away whatever ash had fallen there. The bath was large and all white—tub, pedestal sink, commode, tiled shower and floor, cabinets, throw rugs. The fixtures and hardware were satin chrome, the towels shades of burgundy and mauve, the scented miniature soaps a pearl gray. Feeling very much like the intruder that I was, I opened the medicine cabinet. Aspirin, hand lotion, a plastic box with hairpins, hair spray, birth control pills, a depilatory cream, nail polish remover.

  Between the bath and bedroom was a dressing room with a two-door wardrobe on one side, a vanity table and ornately framed mirror on the other. On an antique silver tray, lipsticks lined up like soldiers formed a protective circle around a brush, comb, and mirror with mother-of-pearl handles, and perfume—a bottle of yellow Bulgari, a frosted bottle of Quel Que Violet. The crime ribbon was gone, so the police were done here. I picked up the brush and pulled out one of the black strands of Margaret Linney's hair entwined among the boar bristles.

  The housekeeper. That's whom I'd seen at the window. Tim Bolt had said she came every week. She'd probably been here today, dusting the vanity tray, arranging the lipsticks, freshening the air. It was odd, given the damaged condition of the rest of the house, but Reston had probably asked her to do what she could in the upstairs rooms, and she'd paid particular attention to Margaret's bedroom and bath. Maybe Reston had asked her to. Or maybe she was a Mrs. Danvers, keeping the lady of the house alive by preserving her possessions.

  In any case the mystery of the person at the window was solved. I smiled and shook my head, grateful that I hadn't run to Connors with my suspicions. I could practically hear his snicker. “Seeing ghosts, Molly?”

  Wrapping the strand around my finger, I sat on Margaret's olive green velvet stool and closed my eyes. According to Tim and Winnie, the police had found signs of a struggle in her bedroom. Had she been sitting on this stool, brushing her hair, when the intruder attacked? Or had she hurried downstairs to answer the door, possibly for someone she knew?

  Her lover?

  Her husband?

  Maybe she was alive. Maybe Fennel was right. Maybe she'd staged her kidnapping and called her father last week and asked him to meet her here.

  I didn't think so. In spite of the sweet smell of lavender and jasmine in the air, there was death in this house, and not just Linney's. I felt it.

  Her clothes were still in the wardrobe, a pastel rainbow of dresses, skirts, blouses, slacks. All fine quality, classic, nothing trendy. They'd need airing to get rid of the faint smoky odor. Neatly lined up on the bottom were designer shoes I recognized and, under different circumstances, would have coveted. I told myself I was looking through Margaret Linney's things because I needed to find out what she was all about if I had any hope of understanding what had happened to her and to her father, but I still felt like a voyeur.

  Maybe Linney had never lain on the stripped bed. Maybe the impression on the bed had been made by the person who had lured the old man to the house and up the stairs. Everyone knew Linney was confused. He'd often wandered here to look for his daughter. So he'd come here again, and rested awhile. So sad, who could have known he'd be there?

  It was only five o'clock, and night was creeping in like a cat. Another few minutes and it would be dark. I miss daylight saving time. I suppose some people appreciate the extra morning hour of daylight, but there's something oppressive about the shortened day, something that makes me want to turn on all the lights and the radio or TV. I wasn't going to turn on the lights here, so if I was going to search Margaret's room, I had to hurry.

  From the mahogany armoire in the corner I learned that she had exquisite taste in lingerie, that she liked Victoria's Secret bras and low-cut panties and sexy, lacy nightgowns, and Banana Republic and Ann Taylor cashmere sweaters. In the desk drawers I found art supply catalogs, a box of oil pastels, blank music composition sheets, other sheets with penciled musical notations.

  Walking to the nightstand, I spotted a pair of white satin mules under the bed. The slippers bothered me more than the perfectly arranged towels and the spotless chrome faucets, more than Margaret Linney's monogrammed cream-colored stationery on the desk, or the magazines on the mahogany nightstand. Town and Country, Architectural Digest, Vogue, all dated June of this year. Five months ago, when Margaret Linney disappeared.

  The slippers spoke of hope. They told me that time had stood still in this room, that someone had been waiting for Margaret to return.

  Her husband? Her father?

  This was where she'd struggled with her kidnapper. Had she invited him up here, unsuspecting, or had he followed when she'd tried to escape? Or had he let h
imself in?

  I knew so little about Margaret Linney and the circumstances surrounding her disappearance. Porter would die before he told me anything, and I didn't think Hernandez would be much better. That left Connors.

  It was dark in the room, and the only light came from the pale moon peeking through the lace curtains. There was a slim drawer in the nightstand. I opened it and found a burgundy leather-bound daily planner with an address book. I always carry a small pen-size flashlight with me. I sat at Margaret Linney's desk, flipped through the planner until I reached June 12, and beamed the thin point of light on the penciled entries.

  Cyndi's.

  Granite.

  Kitchen flooring.

  M / Drop off info re HARP.

  Golden Vista!!

  It seemed a mundane way to spend the last day of your life. If she was dead, I reminded myself. I looked at the entries again. I'm no expert, but the handwriting of the first four appeared uniformly even, unlike the fifth, which took up several lines.

  I turned back a page, to Wednesday.

  Bath fixtures.

  Marble/entry/bath.

  Beverly Wilshire.

  Call V.

  Mtg w/ Dr. E.

  D.?

  The last two items had been underlined twice, and the handwriting again seemed bolder. Tuesday was dedicated to more house stuff. Monday's entries were more interesting:

  Lighting.

  Pool tile.

  Call pb?!

  Tiler!!

  Over the weekend, Margaret and Hank had gone to dinner and a movie with friends. Friday had been another Muirfield house day, with some additional entries:

  Kohler showroom.

  Wood flooring.

  D/MS??

  Bank? HELC?

  A door slammed. For a few seconds I didn't breathe, and I could feel my heart pounding. I noticed sudden light coming from the hall. A stair creaked.

  I shut my penlight, slipped the planner into my purse, and tiptoed to the dressing room.