Bounded by Sunset Boulevard on the north, the Hollywood Freeway on the south, Boylston Street on the east, and Echo Park Lake on the west, Angelino Heights is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Los Angeles and has been called its first suburb. It's an ethnic mix—primarily Asian, white, and Latino—and an economic one, too: It's not unusual to find new immigrants living next door to a wealthy businessman. The neighborhood is also well located. It's five minutes from downtown, practically in spitting range of the nexus of three overlapping freeways, and within walking distance of Elysian Park and Dodger Stadium.
I learned all that in my HARP research. I also learned that Angelino Heights was one of the first areas to be designated a HARP. Even in the fading gray light I could see why. It's charming and old-world, and the city and the area residents would naturally want to preserve the homes—Mission Revival, Craftsman-California Bungalow, and, most significantly, the Queen Annes and Victorians.
Ned Vaughan lived on “the hill,” as residents refer to the neighborhood, on the 1300 block of Carroll Avenue in a gray two-story wedding-cake Victorian with turrets and gables, a white wraparound porch, and frostinglike medallions and other intricate architectural details.
He stood in the doorway in gray tweed slacks and a black cashmere sweater, looking more casual than he had at the HARP meeting. He looked taller, too, now that I was wearing flat boots instead of those high-heeled ones that looked divine but had blistered my toes.
“Molly Blume, huh?” He looked at my card, then up at me, a hint of patronizing amusement in his blue eyes. “I wondered about your name when you phoned me this morning. I'll bet you get teased.”
“All the time.” I smiled and gritted my teeth. At this rate I'd need them capped before long. Though if Vaughan didn't invite me in soon, I'd probably freeze to death first. The wind, wet and blustery, made me shiver right on cue. “Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,” I prompted.
“Hank said you're helping him.” Vaughan opened the door wide and stepped aside to let me enter, but he sounded only a little less reluctant than when I'd reached him at his USC office, and his “Come on in” had forced enthusiasm, as if he suspected I carried the Ebola virus.
In the entry he set my umbrella in a brass stand, divested me of my raincoat, which he folded in half so that it wouldn't drip on the heavily veined black marble floor, and invited me to wipe my shoes on an old mat.
“I don't mean to be a fusspot, but I just found this lovely antique and I'd hate to get it dirty,” he said, indicating a fringed round burgundy area rug.
I wiped my shoes well. Twice. Reassured, he disappeared somewhere with my raincoat—probably the laundry room or bathroom. The house was toasty, and by the time he returned I had warmed up.
Vaughan warmed up, too, after I told him how much I admired the exterior of his home.
“You should have seen it when I bought the place. It was covered with asphalt shingles.” He grimaced. “Taking them down was a bitch, and then we had to putty thousands of nail holes and sand the walls before we could paint. Four coats,” he added.
“But it was obviously worth it,” I said, laying on a thick coat myself.
“Absolutely. I was lucky to buy this beauty a year ago, just before housing prices skyrocketed. By the way, this block is listed in the National Register of Historic Places,” he told me, and beamed when I made the appropriate admiring response.
He took me on a tour of the living and dining rooms and three bedrooms (“Victorian houses typically have small rooms,” he explained), pointing out the hardwood flooring that had been hidden by “nasty” carpeting, ceiling and base moldings that had been stripped of generations of paint and refinished, light fixtures that had been repaired, hardware restored and polished to a burnished luster.
“Everything you see is architecturally authentic,” he told me with a lover's pride, caressing a large brass doorknob as if it were a woman's breast.
He led me to the rear window of the unfurnished bedroom where we were standing and pulled aside the drape. “In the daylight you can look out across Elysian Park to the San Gabriel Mountains. It's quite a view.”
From my bedroom window I can see the neighbor's bathroom, about six feet away. Sometimes I can hear him, too, and the program is more South Park than PBS. So I was duly impressed and envious and said so.
The tour over, Vaughan walked me back to the living room, where he turned on Tiffany lamps on both ends of a dark green brocade sofa with a wood frame, ornate carved legs, and a seamless bench seat that looked punishing but was actually comfortable. The light from the lamps cast a subdued jewel-toned glow on the ecru moiré papered walls and on a parquet floor Vaughan had stripped and restained.
He sniffed the air. “You can still smell the protective finish. I hope it doesn't bother you.”
I had the feeling that to Vaughan, the scent was as heady as an expensive perfume. “You've done a wonderful job with the house.”
“It's coming along.” He looked pleased. “I haven't touched the kitchen or either bathroom. Restoring is much more expensive than remodeling. More time-consuming, too. But it's worth it, and I'm in no rush.”
“Professor Linney loved his home, too,” I said, grabbing the opening. “I understand that you were in his department at USC.”
“Oscar was my mentor. More than that, he was a good friend.” Vaughan's eyes filled with tears, which he blinked away. He clamped his lips together, fighting for control. “I still can't believe he's dead. Did you meet him?”
“Once, a week ago.”
“Then you didn't know him. He was a brilliant architectural historian before the Alzheimer's took its toll. It was frustrating and terrifying for him. He was aware he was deteriorating. Seeing it broke my heart.”
I tried to imagine being in Linney's situation and felt fresh pity for the old man. “Did his personality change? I know that can happen with Alzheimer's.”
“Are you asking if he was crabby before? Yes, he was. Sometimes I thought he was proud of it.” A smile softened the architect's angular face. “The disease made him worse, but he was always demanding of himself and others. He didn't brook mediocrity or ignorance.”
“How did he feel about his son-in-law?” I asked, jumping right in.
Vaughan frowned and opened his mouth to say something. Then he laughed. “Hank warned me that you're direct. He made his first million when he was twenty-four, by the way, so I wouldn't sell him short. But no, he and Oscar weren't a match made in heaven.”
“I understand you and Hank have been close for years.”
“Since high school. I helped him with his papers. He kept the bullies from picking on me.” Vaughan smiled.
“I'm surprised he didn't hire you to design the Muirfield house.”
“Between USC and my consulting job, I'm way too busy. And mixing business with friendship is never a good idea.”
“So they say. By the way, who took over as department chair after Professor Linney became ill?”
“Robert Langhorn is acting chair. I don't envy him. Being chair is no picnic. Endless politics.” Vaughan crossed one leg over the other. “Hank says you're helping him find out what happened to Margaret. No offense, but do you really think you can do more than the police?”
I didn't blame him for being skeptical. I was, too. “I doubt it. But sometimes a fresh pair of eyes is helpful. When did you last see Margaret?”
“I spoke to her that Wednesday. She called to confirm that I would keep Oscar company while she and Hank went to a dinner. I saw her about a week before that. Hank was out of town, and I had dinner at the house with her and Oscar.”
“Just like old times,” I said.
He threw me a sharp, reproving look. “Margaret and I were friends, nothing more. Sure, Oscar was dying for us to be together. I'm a great guy.” Vaughan smiled. “But we didn't click. And I wouldn't have wanted to be Oscar's son-in-law. I loved the man, but dealing with him at USC was enough. I didn't need him controlling my life.
Don't get me wrong,” he added quickly. “I owe Oscar everything. He groomed me. He got me on the tenure track. His recommendation got me a consulting job with a large firm.”
“Anderson, Finch, and Mulganey. Your firm did the Hancock Park historical survey, right?”
“Right.” Vaughan's eyes showed surprise.
“I covered the HARP meeting last week for the Times,” I told him. “Someone pointed you out.”
“I thought you looked familiar.” He studied me as though he were seeing me for the first time. “A lot of angry people at that meeting, on both sides of the issue.”
“Like Roger Modine. You and he were going at it.”
Vaughan seemed taken aback. Then he laughed again—a little nervously, I thought. “You are observant. Modine is a sore loser. He didn't like the results of the survey.” He shrugged. “We didn't invent the statistics. And we don't benefit one way or the other.”
“Aside from the fee. How much did the city pay your firm? Two hundred fifty thousand, wasn't it?” I'd checked the details for last week's story.
“Something like that. There's a great deal of research involved, Molly, and if you calculate the cost per hour, it's not high at all.” He managed to sound patronizing and defensive at the same time. “I didn't set the fee. I certainly didn't see much of it.”
“I was just curious.” I'd succeeded in annoying him, which didn't bode well for eliciting information. “What's your view about HARP?”
He tugged on an exposed inch of patterned maroon sock. “Obviously, I'm all for preserving the beauty of L.A. Take this area, for example. The homes in the 1300 and 1400 blocks of Carroll Avenue represent the highest concentration and best collection of Queen Annes and Victorians in the city. And it has a rich history.” The architect was in his element now, relaxed, expansive. “Mary Pickford and Gloria Swanson had homes here, and they filmed the Keystone Kops chase scenes on these streets. But if developers had their way, they'd tear down some of the older structures and build high-rise apartment buildings.”
“Professor Linney was for HARP, too, correct?”
Vaughan nodded. “Preservation was his passion. He talked about writing a book on the subject, before the Alzheimer's. He even wrote down some notes and came up with a title, but that's as far as he got. It's a shame.”
“Why don't you write it?”
“Oscar was pushing me to do just that. About a month before he died, I said okay.” Vaughan sighed. “A few weeks before that I'd surprised him with photos I'd taken of structures in the different HARP areas. I thought he'd be pleased, but he barked at me. ‘What the hell do I need these for?'” Vaughan had imitated Linney's high, whiny voice well. “Seeing them probably made him realize he'd never write the book.”
He was silent, no doubt thinking about Linney, and my thoughts went to Bubbie G. She's been stoic about not being able to drive her car anymore, but I know she misses reading and doing the needlepoint that used to keep her company most evenings, and my heart aches for her when she can't make out the faces of her family and friends. So I understand better than I did before why, in our daily prayers for the sick, we ask God to grant them “a healing of the soul and a healing of the body.”
Vaughan stood abruptly. “Excuse me a minute.”
He left the room and returned with a pack of cigarettes and a cut crystal ashtray that he set on the mahogany coffee table. “I stopped smoking three weeks ago,” he said, sitting down, “but Oscar's death kind of ended that. Do you mind?”
I shrugged. I hate cigarettes—what they do and how they smell. But this was his house, his lungs. His teeth, too, although unlike Modine's, they weren't discolored, and his breath didn't reek. I was surprised that he wasn't concerned about the effects of the smoke on the expensive upholstery and drapes and rugs he'd chosen with such care. I also wondered if lacquer is easily combustible.
Vaughan lit up and dropped the match into the ashtray. He took a luxurious puff and exhaled slowly, sending a mini-tornado-like plume into the air inches from my face.
“I imagine that Professor Linney and Hank didn't agree about HARP,” I said, moving my head back and resisting the urge to fan away the smoke.
Vaughan smiled. “Among other things.”
“That must have been rough on Margaret, playing referee.”
“It made life hell for her. Sometimes I think I should never have—” He stopped. “It was hard on everyone.”
“You should never have what? Introduced Hank to her?”
“Maybe.” He took another, longer puff. “Because things turned out so tragically. You know what I mean.”
I didn't know, and I didn't think that's what he'd meant. “But not because Hank and Margaret met,” I said, a question in my voice. “He's not responsible for her death, or Professor Linney's.”
Vaughan stared at me. “Of course not.”
“Do you think she ran away and faked the kidnapping?”
He attacked the cigarette again. “The idea crossed my mind,” he finally said. “Because sometimes it was awful in that house. You could feel the tension. She loved Oscar. She loved Hank. What was she supposed to do? But not to leave a note?” He took another puff. “Hank told me she phoned Oscar on Thursday, so I guess she did. Run away, I mean. But where the hell is she now?” he demanded with a flash of anger. “Where has she been all this time? How could she put her father and husband through this?” Leaning forward, he mashed the butt against the hapless ashtray.
“Some people I've talked to said Hank was possessive.”
“He was crazy in love with her. He'd waited a long time to find someone like her.”
“He made her give up her career.”
“Who told you that?” Vaughan scowled. “That was Margaret's idea. She didn't want to travel all over the country. She wanted to be with Hank. They were newlyweds, for God's sake. And after they moved in with Oscar, they didn't have much privacy.”
“So he wasn't possessive?”
Vaughan reached for another cigarette, tapped it on the table. “I thought you're trying to find out what happened to Margaret. Why the third degree about Hank?”
“Maybe she ran away because he was possessive. Maybe she was afraid of him.”
“That's ridiculous! Hank would never hurt her! And he'd kill anyone who did.” Vaughan was glaring at me now.
“I'm trying to understand her motivation, Ned.”
He lit the cigarette and puffed. That seemed to calm him. “Okay, Hank can be possessive,” he allowed. “Margaret was his whole world, and he wanted her to feel the same way about him. The thing is, aside from me and one or two others, he doesn't have many friends. Margaret—well, she knows everybody.”
“What about her male friends? Was Hank jealous of them?”
“So we're back to Hank?” he asked in a warning tone.
“Again, motivation. If Margaret thought he was jealous . . .” I let him fill in the rest.
Vaughan sighed. “He didn't like the way men looked at her or talked to her. Margaret is outgoing, friendly. She played hostess at all of Oscar's parties. Hank had a hard time sharing her. But he trusted her one hundred percent. One hundred percent,” he repeated.
The architect was protesting a bit too much, it seemed to me. Protecting his best friend? “Was Margaret a flirt?”
He frowned. “I wouldn't say a flirt. She liked men and was comfortable with them. I don't think she realized the effect she had on them.”
“Men like who?” Jeremy Dorn, I thought.
He hesitated. “If I tell you, you'll tell Hank.”
“Not necessarily. I'm not in his employ.”
“I thought you're doing this for him.”
“I'm doing this because I write about true crimes, and because I met Professor Linney, and I want to know what happened to Margaret. Men like who?” I repeated.
“Roger Modine.”
That was a surprise. “Margaret liked him?” I couldn't picture the concert pianist with the crude, oxlike Modi
ne. Bubbie G would have called him a bulvan.
“Not particularly. Hank may not have a college degree, but he's a gentleman. Modine is vulgar and he's a brute. Hank doesn't like him much, but they're partners in some real estate deals, so Margaret had to make nice. Modine obviously thought there was more to it.”
“How do you know?”
Vaughan hesitated again. “She told me. Oscar threw a party a few weeks before she disappeared. Modine was doing work at the Fuller house and saw the preparations. He got Hank to invite him.” The architect crinkled his nose as if he'd sniffed something offensive. “Modine had a few drinks too many and cornered Margaret when Hank wasn't around, said some pretty suggestive things.”
I raised a brow. “To his partner's wife?”
“I told you, he's a pig.” Vaughan grunted. “He'd sell his mother for the right price.”
I wasn't surprised by Vaughan's assessment. My encounter with Modine had left me unimpressed. “So what did Margaret do?”
“That's the thing. There were people nearby, and she didn't want to make a scene. So she laughed it off.”
And maybe Modine thought she liked the attention. “She didn't tell Hank later?”
Vaughan shook his head. “Bad timing. Hank and Modine were having problems with some of their properties.”
I sensed from his tone that there was something else, and that he was deciding whether or not to tell me. “And?”
He studied the fiery tip of his cigarette. “He'd told Margaret a few times that she was too friendly, that guys could get the wrong idea. She told him he was being silly.”
Now I was confused. “Too friendly with Modine?”
“Too friendly with everyone. But you can see why she didn't tell him about Modine. And she was afraid Hank would overreact if she did.”
I decided to think about that later. “What about Jeremy Dorn?”
“What about him?”
I could tell Vaughan was being coy. “Did Hank think Margaret was too friendly with him?”
“If he did, he didn't tell me about it.”
I wasn't sure if I believed him. “You mentioned that Hank and Modine were having problems with some properties. What kind of problems?”
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