Dream House

by Rochelle Krich

  Another stair creak, and another.

  I opened the wardrobe doors and cringed at their squeak. Parting Margaret's clothes, I stepped inside, swallowed by the silky folds of fabric. It was pitch-black when I pulled the doors shut, and I felt choked by the cloying smell of moth repellant tinged with smoke. I covered my mouth to stifle a cough.

  The sound of my heartbeat was loud in my ears, and I had to strain to hear the footsteps.

  In the hall.

  In Margaret's room. Light seeped into the dressing room.

  There was no place to move, but instinctively I took a step back, away from the wardrobe doors. I was jolted when I felt resistance, and realized with rising panic that the hem of my black skirt was stuck between the white doors.

  The footsteps were coming closer. I flashed to the games my siblings and I would play Shabbat afternoons while our parents tried to sleep.

  Where are you?

  I'm hiding.

  Am I warm?

  You're cold.

  I tugged at the skirt.

  How about now?

  Warmer.

  Even warmer.

  For a moment I thought the fabric moved, but it was just my sweaty fingers sliding along the rayon.

  And now?

  Cooler.

  The floor creaked. Heavy footsteps were coming closer.

  What about now?

  Warmer.

  A click, and the dressing room was flooded with light.

  Hot.

  My heart thudding in my chest, I pressed my right eye against the hairline slit between the two doors. I couldn't see much, just a hand holding the pearl-handled mirror. A second later the mirror clattered to the floor, followed by the tinkle of glass breaking.

  “Shit!” A male voice.

  I flinched. My heart was pounding so hard I was amazed he didn't hear it. If he bent down, if he saw the bit of cloth poking out . . .

  With my eye against the slit of the door, I saw jean-covered knees bending. I heard a few clunks. He was probably tossing the mirror fragments into the trash can.

  His black shoes swiveled toward the wardrobe.

  I held my breath for what seemed like an eternity. If I yelled, would Tim Bolt hear me? Would he get here in time?

  The knees straightened. The light went out as suddenly as it had gone on and I was plunged back into darkness again. I loved the darkness.

  I heard footsteps walking away. Then silence.

  I let out my breath.

  The wardrobe door was jerked open. A hand grabbed my arm, yanked me out, and twisted my arm behind my back.

  I screamed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IN THE DARK, ROGER MODINE LOOKED FORMIDABLE.

  I recognized him in that split second before he twisted my arm and forced me to turn. I screamed again at the top of my lungs, praying a neighbor would hear.

  “Shut up!”

  He grabbed my other hand and held both behind my back, his fingers locked around my wrists like a vise. With his free hand he flipped up the light switch, then rummaged in the closet for a belt. He tied my wrists together so tightly that I winced.

  Fear had temporarily frozen my thoughts. Now they were bombarding me, like ammunition in an electronic game. Had Modine torched the house because he was pissed with HARP and its board members? Had he come here to make sure he hadn't left any evidence? But that meant Linney's death hadn't been planned.

  Grabbing my shoulder, Modine spun me around so that I was facing him. Up close he was a few inches taller than he'd appeared when I'd seen him across the room at the HARP meeting. He had a flat pug nose, thinning reddish-brown hair on the sides of his head, and a high forehead that blended into the large bald oval of his crown. His wide chest and muscular arms bulged under a black knit sweater, and his large hands were reddened and calloused with knuckles the size of bolts, and fingernails that were bitten off. They were the hands and body of a man who was used to lifting heavy sheets of lumber. Someone strong.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” The veins in his neck stood out like wood cording.

  I opened my mouth, but the words were stuck in my throat. It's hard to speak when you're about to vomit.

  “I want some answers, lady!”

  His bared teeth were yellowed with nicotine, and his breath and clothes stank of cigarettes. His eyes, brown streaked with yellow, reminded me of the tigereye necklace my ex-husband had given me and that I rarely wore. I loved the necklace, but not the history.

  I leaned my head back to put distance between my nose and Modine's rancid breath, and cleared my throat. What to say? “I met Professor Linney last week, and I felt bad when I heard that he died. I was curious about how it happened. What are you doing here?” I asked, struggling for cool.

  Modine glared at me. “I'm asking the questions.”

  “Which I answered.” Beneath the bluster I heard defensiveness. That reassured me. “Now it's my turn. You don't live here, Roger. Why are you here?”

  That startled him. I'd read in a woman's magazine that it's a good idea to take the offensive in situations like this, not to show fear. Plus I told myself that if he'd intended to harm me, he would have done so by now. And maybe he was worried that a neighbor had heard me scream.

  “How do you know my name?” He stared at me.

  So far, aggressive seemed to be working. “I've heard about you and your work. Which I understand is excellent. It would be a good idea if you untied me now, Roger.”

  “It would be a better idea if I called the cops.”

  My luck, Porter would show. He'd love that. But at least Modine wasn't threatening violence. “Fine. Then you can explain why you tied me up. I think that's kidnapping. It's a felony, Roger.”

  “You have chutzpah, lady.” He grunted. “You're the one who broke into this house. That's a felony, too.”

  “Actually, I think it's a misdemeanor. But untie my hands and we'll call it even, okay? I won't press charges.”

  He pulled a key out of his pocket and dangled it in front of me. “The owner asked me to stop by and assess the damage from the fire. Where's your key?” He was smirking.

  I didn't blame him.

  He cocked his head. “So what are you, one of those nosy parkers without a life? You hear someone got killed, you have to find out all the gory details?”

  “Yup, that's me. It's a bad habit, but I can't seem to stop.”

  He glowered at me. “You have some mouth, lady.”

  “I get like that when I'm tied up. Look, I'm sorry,” I said in my most conciliatory voice. “Untie me and I'll leave. I shouldn't have come here. I won't do it again.”

  “What's your name?”

  “Untie my hands and I'll tell you.”

  “I don't think so.” He reached behind me and yanked on the belt, sending shooting pain up my arms.

  I let out a small yelp. Apparently, taking the offensive doesn't work all the time. Maybe I'd read that advice in the same issue that talked about how to wax your legs like a professional, which I've never been able to do.

  He gave another tug. “What's your name?”

  I winced. “Molly Blume.”

  “I want to see some ID.”

  My name didn't seem to ring any bells, which was more than fine with me. “My wallet is in my purse on the floor of the closet.”

  “I'll get it. Make a funny move, and you'll be sorry.”

  I decided to take his word for it.

  He was still holding on to my leash, so when he bent his legs, I did, too. He felt around on the bottom of the closet until he found my purse, then straightened up. I did the same. When I'm nervous—and believe me, I was nervous—I tend to get sassy and try to fill voids with conversation. I considered making a quip about synchronized bending as a possible Olympic event, but he didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would appreciate the humor.

  He dropped the belt. Moving to the doorway of the dressing room, his feet spread apart, his wide frame blocking any a
ttempt at escape, he unzipped my red Coach bag and fished out my wallet. He flipped it open, looked at me, at my driver's license, back at me. He frowned.

  “I have more highlights in my hair now,” I said, “and I was five pounds thinner then.” He was still frowning. “Okay, seven.”

  He dumped the contents of my purse on the vanity table. Lipstick, receipts, a tampon. Margaret's daily planner. He picked it up. In the light I noticed the initials M R embossed on the leather cover.

  “You stole this,” he said.

  I flushed. “I was looking at it when I heard someone coming into the house. I panicked and put it into my purse. I don't know why I did it.”

  “You were afraid you'd be caught.”

  “I thought I was in danger. I wasn't thinking clearly.” Humiliation, I found, could be harder to swallow than fear. I considered telling him I was Edie's sister, hoping that would give me some points, but decided it wouldn't make a difference. And why involve Edie?

  He hefted the planner in one large hand, as if weighing it would tell him the truth.

  “I have to call Mr. Reston,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  WE SAT IN LINNEY'S OFFICE WHILE WE WAITED FOR Reston. Modine appropriated the desk chair, which he'd pushed into the doorway. I was on the love seat. He'd untied my hands, but had held on to my purse, into which he'd stuffed all my belongings, minus Margaret's planner.

  I'd been hoping to talk to Modine, but not under these circumstances. He wasn't much of a conversationalist. I tried safe topics—what he thought of HARP, did he enjoy his work, was he a sports fan. I gave up after a few minutes of watching him study his abused fingernails. At one point Modine jerked his head toward the door. After warning me with a glare, he stepped around the chair into the hallway. A few minutes later he was back.

  “The wind,” he said.

  It was another ten minutes before Reston arrived, but the itchy silence made it seem like a year. Time is relative. It's like the routine from the Yiddish comedy team, Dzigan and Shumacher, whose tapes I'd listened to several times with Zeidie Irving: Sit naked on the lap of a beautiful young woman, and time goes by like a flash. Sit naked on a hot stove . . . Yiddish, by the way, has a wealth of ribald jokes that they never taught us in school.

  The front door slammed shut.

  “Roger? Where are you?”

  “Up here,” Modine called. “Watch out for the bottom two steps.”

  He moved the chair back to the desk and smirked at me again—the teacher dragging a student to the principal's office. I stared him down. My fear had subsided, and I was more embarrassed than nervous. I doubted that Reston would file charges, and I wanted to talk to him.

  Judging from the rapid creaking, Reston was bounding up the stairs. No hesitation for him. A moment later he was in the doorway, his eyes widened with surprise. Modine had given him my name over the phone, but apparently Reston hadn't connected the name with the woman who had accosted him at the HARP meeting.

  I stood, trying to muster a semblance of dignity. “I want to apologize, Mr. Reston. I had no business coming into your home without your permission. I meant no harm.”

  “She stole your wife's planner,” Modine said with the glee of an adolescent tattler. “If I hadn't showed up, Hank, there's no telling what else she would have taken.”

  “Where's the planner?” In the auditorium, Reston's voice had been muted by the crowd, and I'd missed the slight drawl. Even with the drawl, he sounded deliberate, confident, a man who took charge.

  Modine handed him the planner. Reston ran his finger over the embossed monogram, then flipped to the back.

  “It's Maggie's,” he said with anguish and a touch of wonder that puzzled me. He looked at me. “Where was it?”

  Was he testing me? “In her nightstand.”

  “She had it in her purse,” Modine offered.

  “He broke your wife's mirror,” I retaliated like a three-year-old.

  Modine's face was instantly red. “That was an accident. I'll buy a new one.”

  Reston gave him a look that would freeze water. “What were you doing with Maggie's mirror?”

  “I just picked it up. Come on, Hank. It's a mirror.”

  “I asked you to check the downstairs. That was it.”

  “I wanted to make sure nothing up here needed fixing. Why don't you ask her what she was doing up here?” He pointed to me. “I found her hiding in your wife's closet.”

  Reston returned his attention to me.

  “Can we talk alone?” I asked him.

  He eyed me, assessing me as if I were one of his carpets and he was checking for a problem with the nap. “Why don't you come back tomorrow, Roger.” Still gazing at me. “Take a look and give me an estimate.”

  “Sorry about the mirror, Hank. I can probably find one just like it, or have the glass replaced.”

  “I'll take care of it.”

  It was a dismissal, and a cold one at that. Modine made a hasty exit. I sat down on the love seat and Reston settled his large frame on the chair.

  “You're the one gave my father-in-law a ride the other day,” he said. “You talked to me at that meeting.”

  “I'm terribly sorry about Professor Linney's death, Mr. Reston. I felt bad for him that day we met, and I feel responsible for what happened. That's why I came here.”

  “Call me Hank. Why are you responsible, Molly? You didn't start the fire, did you?” He smiled grimly.

  There's a subtle change when people are on a first-name basis. It's something I try to establish in every interview, and now he was doing it. I wondered if he was trying to show me what a sincere, open person he was. Generous, too, considering that I'd trespassed in his home.

  “I'm a reporter,” I said. “I wrote an article for the Times about the HARP meeting and all the vandalisms that seem connected to HARP.”

  “I read it,” he said, his tone noncommittal.

  “Then you know I mentioned that houses of HARP board members were being targeted. And that night Professor Linney's house was torched, and he died in it. So I feel there's a connection, and I needed to see where he died.”

  “You're lying, Molly,” Hank said calmly, as though he were commenting on the price of paper towels at Kmart.

  Sure, I was lying. I wasn't about to tell him I suspected that someone had lured Linney to his death, especially when that someone could be Reston. Who had conveniently been out of town the night his wife disappeared and the night his father-in-law died.

  “My father-in-law didn't die in Maggie's room,” Hank said. “So what were you doing in there?”

  “Okay.” I sighed with exaggerated chagrin. “I heard about your wife's disappearance. I figured as long as I was here, I'd look around. I'm sorry. I realize I caused you pain.”

  He was studying me. “You want to know all the details, don't you? What she had for breakfast that day. What she was wearing. When was the last time I saw her, what was the last thing she said to me. Where did they find her blood. What did I do when I found out she was gone. Do I think about her often.”

  His voice was filled with pain and contempt, and I found I couldn't answer.

  “There's not a day goes by, not an hour, that I'm not thinking about Maggie, wondering where she is, is she alive. Did they tell you I hired a detective?”

  I nodded.

  “The best in the business. I also offered a reward for information. The detective couldn't find out a damn thing. He thinks she's dead. So do the police, but nobody knows where her body is.” He leaned forward. “You want to know what I think, right?” he asked quietly.

  “If you want to tell me.”

  “I think she's dead.” Hank sagged against the chair. “I don't want to believe it, but I'm not a stupid man. At first the cops thought it was a home invasion that turned into a kidnapping. I said to myself, ‘Okay, we can handle this. It's only money.' I have buckets of money, and I'd have given every cent to get Maggie back. But he never called. The son of a bit
ch never called.” His voice broke, and he pinched his lips together.

  He sounded convincing, and his face was scrunched in pain. But killers have wept convincingly while proclaiming their innocence to me. “Sometimes people are unhappy and run away,” I said, dipping my toe into unknown waters.

  “Who told you that?” He glowered at me. “That's bullshit. Maggie and I—” He stopped, brought his face and voice under control. “Maggie and I had something special. You've probably been talking to people, so you know I'm not as educated as she is, or cultured. So what? So effing what? I made her happy. I may not know much about art, or who wrote what symphony, but I made her laugh. And you don't need a Ph.D. to appreciate the colors in the sunset.”

  You certainly don't. “What about Professor Linney?”

  “I don't think he ever looked at a sunset. Too busy with his books.”

  “Did he approve of your marrying his daughter?”

  Hank wagged a finger at me. “You know he didn't, so why the games, Molly? Oscar didn't think the man existed who was good enough for Margaret.” He pronounced the name with sarcasm and a poor attempt at a British accent. “He certainly didn't think it was me. You know what? He was right. But I sure had every intention of trying to be that man. Look, it's not like I forced Maggie to marry me. She was thirty-two. She loved her father, she respected him, but she wanted to live her life, not one he chose for her.”

  I thought about Adriana Caselotti, bound to Disney all those years, forced to keep her identity a secret. Maybe Margaret Linney had felt bound, too, by a possessive father. Maybe like Snow White, she'd wished that the one she loved would find her and free her.

  Or had she been bound by Reston? Had she been infatuated with him and realized she'd made a huge mistake? That's what Linney had told Walter Fennel.

  “As long as we're being candid, Mr. Reston?” I said.

  He nodded. “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide. The police grilled me for days when Maggie disappeared, so this is a piece of cake.”

  “Professor Linney told people you were rough on him. The day I drove him here he called you a son of a bitch.”

  “Plus a few other choice names.” Reston's laugh boomed through the small room. “You spent what, twenty minutes with him? He was a handful, right? I lived with the old man twenty-four/seven. Listen,” he said, serious. “I felt sorry as hell for him. A man whose whole life is learning and books, it probably drove him crazy knowing that down the road—a year or two, maybe less, maybe more—he might not even recognize the people around him. And naturally, things were worse after Maggie disappeared. He was devastated. We all were. But he was a pain in the ass. Not just to me. He drove the caretakers crazy. He'd hit them with his cane. He'd bite them, call them names, accuse them of hitting him. Why do you think the caregiver didn't show Friday? 'Cause she wasn't getting paid enough to take the crap he was dishing out. Why do you think the housekeeper skipped?”