Dream House

by Rochelle Krich

  “The shul board vice president. He asked me to meet him at Rafi's.”

  So it had been business. I allowed myself a measure of relief, then wondered if I was the “business.” “What did he want to talk about?”

  “Chanukah.”

  “Chanukah?”

  “His daughter Carole was with him when I got to the restaurant. She's starting a singles group at the shul and wants to launch it with a Chanukah bash. Hochman wants me to help. He thinks it'll be good for the shul.”

  I felt infinitely better and took another bite of the cake. “So the three of you talked. How is that a date?”

  “The two of us.” In the reflected glow of the hurricane lamp candle, Zack's face was a warm pink. “Hochman had to attend another meeting. So it was Carole and me. I couldn't just leave.” He sounded uncomfortably earnest, as though he were being audited by an IRS agent.

  “No,” I agreed. “I take it she's single?”

  “Apparently. I had to stay awhile. And I had to drive her home, because she came with her dad. It would've been rude not to.”

  “Unforgivably rude.” Poor Zack, I thought. Ambushed. My trust restored, I was beginning to find this funny. “Did she ask you in for coffee?”

  He nodded. “I thanked her and declined. I didn't want her to get the wrong idea.”

  “So why didn't you tell me?”

  “There was nothing to tell. I'm not working on the event with her,” he added. “I told Hochman.”

  “No Spin the Dreidel, huh?” I tsked. “Is that why you brought me the lilies? A guilt offering?” I teased.

  “I brought you lilies because I felt bad about what happened.”

  “I thought you said nothing happened.”

  “I mean canceling our date. Are you upset?”

  “About the lilies? I love lilies. Ron said she's a looker. Is she?”

  He leaned back and gazed at me. “You're having fun with this, aren't you?” he said good-naturedly.

  I smiled. “Kind of.” I'm the one who usually overreacts and ends up apologizing and feels flustered. So I was enjoying the moment.

  “Well, tell me when you're done.” He slipped his fork into the tart.

  I put my fork next to his, stopping him. “So what did you tell Hochman?”

  “About what?”

  “Come on.” I clinked my fork against his.

  “You know what I told him,” Zack said, his voice suddenly low and intimate, as if we were the only two people in the room. “I told him that his daughter is lovely, but that I'm in a serious relationship.” He leaned toward me so that his face was just inches from mine. “Molly,” he said, so quietly that I had to lean in, too.

  My heart thudded. “Yes?”

  “You have cheesecake on your lip.”

  “Oh.” Now my face was flushed. I ran my tongue across my lips. “Is that it?” Meaning the cheesecake.

  “No.”

  That's when he said he loved me.

  He said it again at my front door after we'd sat in his parked car talking for hours, the mist of rain fogging the windows and secluding us from the rest of the world. I told him I loved him, too, sure of my feelings, shy saying the words.

  I went to sleep euphoric and woke up the same way. The day was glorious. The rain had stopped, the sun was out. The view of the mountains to the north was so sharp it hurt my eyes. God had washed the world.

  I put on a robe and slippers and went outside to breathe in the crisp, cool air and get the Times, which the paperboy had tossed onto the driveway. I noticed that my Acura was listing to one side. Two flat tires?

  Then I saw the red-lettered message on the front windshield:

  BACK OFF, BITCH

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Thursday, November 13. 8:12 A.M. 1000 block of South Stanley Avenue. A vandal smashed a car windshield and placed an aluminum container holding a fish with a rose in its mouth on the dashboard and taped a sign reading “Stop” on the car. (Wilshire)

  “NICE MESSAGE,” CONNORS SAID, UNSMILING, HIS HANDS tucked into the pockets of his tight jeans as he viewed my vandalized windshield. “Short and to the point.”

  “Plus it's got alliteration,” I said, trying to make light of the whole thing because I didn't like the alternative. “It'll read well in next week's Crime Sheet.”

  Connors turned to me and frowned. “You think this is funny? 'Cause I don't.”

  “I don't think it's funny,” I said.

  The slashed tires and the message, plus the fact that the writer knew where I lived, had shaken me to the core. I don't know how long I'd stood there, staring at the writing, nauseated with fear, before I ran and knocked on Isaac's door. He's an early riser, but he hadn't heard anyone, seen anyone. For all I knew, the message could have been there all night.

  “Did you call it in to Wilshire?” Connors asked.

  “Not yet.” My apartment is in Wilshire's jurisdiction, but I'd phoned Connors.

  “Do it. They'll send out someone for prints, but with the rain they probably won't find anything usable. So who have you been pissing off lately, Molly?” he asked, part concern, part annoyance.

  “I've been talking to a lot of people about Linney. His son-in-law, Hank Reston. His protégé, his neighbors, his doctor. The manager of an assisted living facility his daughter was checking out. Reston asked me to look into his wife's disappearance, by the way, so I can't see him doing this.” I nodded toward my car.

  “Maybe you should listen to the warning.”

  “I also had a little run-in with Reston's partner.” I told him about Modine. “He's the one I told you about.”

  “The one whose name you didn't want to give me. Now you don't mind fingering him.” Connors grunted. “What the hell were you doing trespassing in the house, Molly?”

  “I was trying to find something that would prove Linney was killed. Maybe the windshield is a coincidence, Andy.” Which I didn't believe for a minute. “You said Linney's death was probably unintentional, so why would anyone care if I talked to people who knew him? Unless you learned something that says otherwise?”

  He didn't answer, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was deliberating.

  “This is not for publication, okay? I'm only telling you because I want you to back off.” He scowled at me.

  “You forgot the bitch.”

  “Cut it out. If I read about this in the papers—”

  “It won't be from me. I promise.”

  “They didn't find any smoke in Linney's lungs, which means he was dead when the fire started. Cause of death was a broken neck incurred by his fall down the stairs. But,” Connors said, his voice stern with warning, “that doesn't mean someone pushed him. He could have tripped.”

  Uh-huh. “The fact that someone doesn't like my poking around says otherwise, doesn't it? Anything else?”

  “It's Hernandez's case. Talk to him.”

  “I spoke to him a few days ago. He wasn't very forthcoming.”

  “This may come as a surprise, Molly, but cops don't think it's their job to supply information to reporters.”

  “Which is why I rely on you.” I smiled sweetly. “Did he tell you anything about the tape I found? The one with the phone call from Margaret Linney?”

  Connors sighed. “You're not going to leave this alone, are you? You could get hurt, Molly. Or killed.”

  That made me shudder. “I don't have a death wish, Andy. Believe me, I'm taking that message very seriously and plan to be extremely careful. What about the tape?”

  “You want me to jeopardize my relationship with my fellow detectives?” He shook his head. “I like you, and you've always played fair. But these are my people. Plus I could lose my job over something like this.”

  He was right, of course. I felt ashamed for having asked. “Can you phone Hernandez and vouch for me? Convince him to talk to me?”

  “I can try. In the meantime—”

  “I know. Be careful.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-
ONE

  I SMELLED THE CHALLA EVEN BEFORE BUBBIE OPENED the door to her apartment.

  “Five minutes, I'm ready,” she told me when we were in the kitchen.

  She removed her red-and-white checked apron, draped it over the back of a chair she groped for and found without much difficulty, and disappeared down the long hall to her bedroom. I remained in the kitchen, deeply inhaling the aroma of freshly baked bread. To me, it's headier than the most expensive perfume, and I've often thought someone could make a fortune bottling it. Eau de Yeast.

  For as long as I can remember, Bubbie has been baking the braided loaves that are a part of every Sabbath meal and most holidays, and she hasn't let her failing eyesight stop her. We all use Bubbie's recipe, but for some reason her challas are the best—low, shapely hills with dense, cakelike insides and a thin crust evenly browned to a golden caramel.

  The problem is that Bubbie doesn't use a real recipe—not for her challa, not for her potato or onion or noodle kugels or kneidels (matzoh balls). Her fingers are her measuring spoons; her curved palm, her cup. The month before Edie's wedding, Edie went to Bubbie's several times to learn her culinary secrets. The way Edie tells it, she stood at Bubbie's side, pencil and paper ready, and stopped Bubbie's cupped hand after she'd scooped sugar or flour or some other dry ingredient she was about to add to her battered stainless steel mixing bowl. Then Edie transferred the contents of Bubbie's hands into a measuring cup.

  Still, Edie had only an approximation. There's no precise equivalent for a bissele (a little) potato starch or a knip (a pinch of) salt, or for Bubbie's basic instructions: Shit arayn. That's a regional pronunciation of Yiddish for Pour it (or some) in. As you can imagine, we Blume kids had great fun as adolescents repeating the phrase with feigned innocence that didn't fool anyone. My mom would sigh and shake her head. My dad would warn us to “knock it off.” Bubbie would frown, and so would Zeidie Irving, but I could see he was having a hard time not laughing.

  “Ready,” Bubbie said now. She'd changed into a navy pleated skirt with a matching cardigan and had applied blusher to her lined, hollowed cheeks, and an uneven line of pale apricot to her thin lips. I helped her into her coat and made sure she took her cane, which she doesn't always do.

  “Why are you looking around you every five seconds, Molly?” she asked as we walked to my car.

  “Just habit,” I lied.

  The auto club had towed my Acura to my mechanic, who had replaced the ruined tires. Turpentine had removed the red ink from my windshield. But the threat was seared on my mind. And while I didn't really believe I was in danger, I was as jittery as if I'd had ten cups of coffee. Also, it was one thing to risk my well-being, another to risk Bubbie's.

  I found a parking spot on Vista, a block away from Cyndi's on Melrose Avenue near Gardner, where they used to have a kosher Noah's Bagels. Bubbie usually goes to Supercuts, but she'd been more than willing to try a new place when I explained my ulterior motive. I think she got a kick knowing she'd be helping me.

  She definitely got a kick out of Melrose. Bubbie lives on Spaulding off of Oakwood, only three blocks south, but she hadn't been here in twenty years. Melrose then, between Fairfax and La Brea, was a quiet street that went to sleep at five P.M. and was lined with colorless stores that sold antiques, hardware, uninspired low-end clothing, and cemetery monuments. You can still buy restaurant supplies and groceries in bulk at the Smart & Final across the street from Fairfax High, but most of the shops have been replaced by neon-lit establishments—some funky, some more hip—that offer eyewear, tattoos, body piercings, skateboard gear, tennis shoes, and vintage clothing, and by eateries that stay open late into the night. The pedestrian population, almost nonexistent twenty years ago, is eclectic: yuppies who walk to the Starbucks from their nearby apartments; tourists; natives in tank tops or dreadlocks. Auto traffic has become so bad that the city has implemented draconian rules to curtail the number of cars and their movement, but I'm not sure how successful they've been.

  Cyndi's smelled of hair spray and dyes and other chemical products whose toxic properties I try not to think about when I'm having my hair highlighted. Cyndi herself, who was pointed out to Bubbie and me when we entered her long, narrow shop, was at her station, wrapping strands of hair around pieces of foil. She looked like a tall, thin mime—black Lycra top and pants, a white-white complexion with a slash of red for a mouth and kohl-lined eyes. Her chin-length hair was sectioned into thick spikes of purple, green, burgundy, orange, and blue. Crayola meets the Statue of Liberty. I thought Bubbie might have second thoughts, but she was as cool as the heavy metal blasting from the speakers that made it almost impossible for us to hear ourselves talk.

  Ten minutes later Bubbie sat perched on Cyndi's chair, her thin legs encased in black Easy Spirit shoes that dangled several feet above the ground.

  Cyndi ran her long, scarlet-tipped fingers through Bubbie's beautiful silver hair. “So what would you like?”

  “Half a inch,” Bubbie said firmly, her accent turning half into heff and a into ah. “The same style like I have now.”

  “Okay. You can have coffee while you wait,” Cyndi told me, pointing to an urn on a stand at the back of the room.

  “Thanks, but I like to watch.”

  With a look that said she'd added me to her list of weirdos accompanied by a suit-yourself shrug, she picked up her shears and a comb and got to work.

  “I'm glad you were able to fit my grandmother in today,” I told her after a minute or so.

  “Next week it starts getting crazy, with Thanksgiving coming, and then the holidays.” She studied me critically with teal eyes—probably tinted contact lenses. “Who does your hair?”

  I told her.

  “You could use a good conditioning, and I'd put in a few more low lights so it doesn't look brassy.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” I waited another minute, watching a shower of hair speckle the white linoleum with gray. “Someone I know used to come here all the time.”

  “Oh, yeah? Who's that?”

  “Margaret Linney. You may have known her as Maggie Reston.”

  Cyndi stopped midsnip and turned to me, a wary expression on her white face. “Who said I knew her?” she asked, her voice as sharp as her shears.

  This was not going well. “Actually, I didn't know her. But I know her husband. He told me you did her hair.”

  “Is that right?” She sneered at me.

  I threw Bubbie a quick look. She seemed to be taking everything in stride, but bringing her probably hadn't been the best idea.

  “You're not here for a cut,” Cyndi said. “You're here to pump me about Maggie. And you're using your grandmother as a shill. Shame on you!”

  I was grateful for the loud music I'd found so annoying. “You're right, and I'm sorry. I am hoping to get information about Maggie.”

  “Why didn't you just ask me? Because you figured I wouldn't talk about her, that's why,” she continued before I could answer. “You people,” she said with disgust.

  Bubbie G was rigid as a statue.

  “Somebody killed Maggie,” I said. “And last week somebody killed her father. I'm trying to find out who.”

  “I'm going to finish Grandma's cut. It's not her fault you dragged her here.” Cyndi turned her back to me and bent to shape the hair along Bubbie's nape.

  “Somebody warned me to back off.” I met Bubbie's startled eyes in the mirror and winked. “They know I'm onto something.”

  Cyndi ignored me.

  “The police haven't had any luck finding her,” I continued. “Her husband's a wreck. He can't get on with his life until he knows what happened. Maybe Maggie told you something that could help him, or the police.”

  Still no answer.

  “Excuse me,” Bubbie said. “Who are the other people?” Bubbie pronounces ths as ds or ts.

  Cyndi frowned. “What people?”

  “You said, ‘you people.' Somebody else bothered you?”

  I stared at my gr
andmother. Way to go, Bubbie. I turned to Cyndi. “Right. What did you mean by that?” There was no way she could have known I was a reporter.

  “I meant people who are nosy and pushy,” she said. “A cop was here yesterday. He asked me a hundred questions.”

  At least someone had succeeded. “I hope you were able to help him.”

  “Who says I answered them?” She lifted a strand of Bubbie's hair with her comb, narrowed her eyes, and snipped an almost imperceptible amount. “All done. How do you like it?” she asked Bubbie, lowering the chair.

  “Beautiful. Thank you.” She scampered off the chair. “I'll wait by the front, Molly.” Grabbing her cane, she walked to the bench we'd sat on earlier.

  I returned my attention to Cyndi. “Why didn't you answer the detective?”

  “I thought I was gonna puke from his breath, if you want to know, and I couldn't wait for him to leave. He smelled like a chimney.”

  “He smoked?”

  “Am I not speaking English?”

  I'd never seen Porter with a cigarette, and I didn't see Hernandez as the type to smoke. Then again, I wouldn't have pegged Ned Vaughan as a smoker, either.

  “What did the cop look like?” I asked.

  “Why? Are you planning to date him?”

  “I know a few cops. I'm wondering which one talked to you.”

  “I don't remember his name. He looked like a bulldog. Thickset, beefy, red-faced. Red hair, too, what was left of it. Nothing on top,” she said with vicious pleasure.

  Roger Modine. I felt a prickling of unease at the base of my spine. “He wasn't a cop, Cyndi.”

  She smirked. “Uh-huh.”

  “I know the two detectives on this case. Porter and Hernandez.” I described them to her. “You can phone them and ask them if they were here.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  I gave her the number to Wilshire. “I think you talked to Roger Modine. He's Maggie's husband's partner.”

  “Shit.” Cyndi's hands were shaking. She dropped them to her sides. She licked her lips. “Did he kill Maggie?”

  “I don't know. What did he ask you?”