“Why do you want to know?” She was throwing me one last challenge, but it was halfhearted, just for show, and we both knew it.
I told her how I'd met Linney, why I was interested.
She thought about that for a moment. “He wanted to know did Maggie say she was having trouble with anyone. Was she planning on meeting anyone that night. Stuff like that. But I didn't tell him anything.” She ran a hand through a purple patch. “I should call the cops, huh?”
“Impersonating a police officer is a crime,” I said. “Did Maggie tell you she was nervous about anything?”
“God, it's so long ago.” Cyndi sagged onto the chair Bubbie had vacated. “Half a year, isn't it?”
“Five months this week.”
Cyndi sighed. “She was a nice woman. Always smiling, always asking how I was, how's my daughter. They're still not sure she's dead, huh?”
“No,” I said, speaking for “them.” “Why?”
“'Cause she told me more than once that sometimes she felt like running away. Her husband and dad were always going at it. It was getting to her.”
Nothing new there. “Did she ever mention Modine?”
Cyndi shook her head. None of the spikes moved.
“What was she like that last day?” I asked.
“Like I said, it's been a long time.”
I tried another tack. “Did Maggie have the usual the last time she was here?”
“I can check.”
She slid off the chair. I waited while she flipped through a large appointment book on the front counter.
“Cut and a shampoo, no manicure,” she told me when she returned. She sat on the chair and frowned. “Which is strange because— Oh, now I remember. She had to get to an appointment. She said she'd come back the next day.”
I waited, hoping there was more.
Cyndi pushed her foot against the scuffed wall and swiveled back and forth. “That's it,” she said. “Sorry.”
“Did she mention anything about a tiler?”
“Tiler.” Cyndi tried out the word, and recognition flickered in her unnaturally green-blue eyes. “Tiler. Yeah.” She nodded. “It's coming back to me. He was the appointment. She was on her cell phone and said something like, ‘Tell Mr. Tiler I'll be a few minutes late.'”
That took me by surprise. “Tiler is a person?”
“As opposed to a duck? He was a lawyer.” She seemed pleased with herself. “My cousin's first name is Tyler with a y. I told Maggie, and she said this was a lawyer's last name, with an i. And I said, ‘Girl, as long as he gets you the money.'” She smiled.
An attorney. Not Linz. “Did she say what kind of lawyer?”
“No, but I remember thinking, ‘divorce city.' She talked about it once, so I figured she was going to do it.”
“Did she seem afraid that day?”
“Afraid?” Cyndi narrowed her eyes. “I don't think so. She was tense. I asked her was something wrong, and she said she'd almost made the biggest mistake of her life.”
I wondered what Maggie had meant. Putting her father in Golden Vista? I checked the list of items I'd copied from the planner and asked Cyndi if Maggie had mentioned anyone whose name began with V.
Cyndi shrugged. “No clue. Sorry.”
“Thanks a lot. You've been very helpful.” I handed her a ten-dollar tip and my card. “If you think of anything.”
Bubbie stood when I joined her at the front. She handed me her wallet and asked me to pay the cashier, but I insisted that the haircut was my treat.
“You were a big help,” I told her.
She smiled. “A regular Dr. Watson.” Bubbie is an avid mystery fan and is responsible for my love of the genre.
When we were on the sidewalk, she took my arm. “Very smart, Molly. Pretending like someone threatened you. I almost believed you myself.” A few paces later, she asked, “So how much do they charge for a haircut?”
“Twenty dollars,” I said, lopping off twenty-five. Almost four times what Supercuts charges.
“A metziah,” Bubbie said. A bargain.
Considering what I'd learned, it was.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
THE MIRACLE MILE HARP BOARD RAN A TIGHT operation. The session had begun when I entered the small meeting room at Councilman Bruce Harrington's Robertson Boulevard headquarters two minutes after seven. Taking off my coat, I slipped into the nearest seat and directed my attention to the large table at the front and the eight people seated around it, including Jeremy Dorn, who chaired the board, and Linda Cobern, who, given the dead bird, had probably come to monitor the proceedings.
Linda looked startled to see me, then smiled stiffly, as though she were making a plaster cast of her teeth. Earlier in the day I'd returned her call, accepted her apology for being “a tiny bit tense the other night,” and explained that, while I was interested in getting “a clearer picture of what HARP does,” I didn't have the time to meet with her.
I was busy. My Crime Sheet column is due every Friday. I was interviewing people about Linney and Margaret. I was reviewing the galleys of my book. And I preferred getting the picture myself. Linney's death had overshadowed the vandalisms that had first interested me in HARP, and I hoped to learn something that might uncover the vandal's identity and, possibly, a lead to Linney's killer.
“Over here, Molly!”
Swiveling to my left, I saw a red-nosed Walter Fennel and, a few rows up, Tim Bolt. I should have figured the old guy would be here, but Bolt was a surprise. He hadn't expressed interest in HARP when we'd talked. Then again, I hadn't asked. I looked around but saw no sign of Winnie. Maybe she'd dropped Fennel off.
“Walter, we're in session,” chided a woman with a helmet of short brown hair that made her round face look like a bowling ball.
“This is Molly Blume, everybody,” Fennel announced in a high voice. He did his lip-sweeping thing. “She's a famous reporter and she writes terrific bestsellers.”
All eyes turned to me and stayed on me as I changed seats. So much for anonymity. If my publisher decided to spring for a book tour, I might consider taking Fennel along to draw the crowds.
“The first item is the second story addition on Poinsettia,” Dorn said. Tonight he was wearing a moss-green sweater and a smaller bandage, and he'd lost that glazed look. “Mr. Newman, do you want to show us your revised plans?”
A short, overweight man in suspenders stood and unrolled a set of drawings onto the table. “This is what we've done. . . .”
“That's Jeremy Dorn,” Fennel whispered in my ear. “He's the architect I told you about. You have to have an architect on the board. He became chair after me, but I don't think he has the balls for the job. Next to him is Brenda. She wanted to be chair and acts like she is. The blonde across from Jeremy is Nancy, and next to her is Roselle. She never says much. Adrian just had his gall bladder out, or he'd be here.”
Brenda frowned at Fennel, then returned her attention to the petitioner.
“You're suggesting serious changes to the original structure,” said Nancy with the long blond hair and a flat voice. “You're replacing an existing side window with a door.”
“A French door instead of a French window,” Newman said with strained patience. “So that we can walk out onto the patio. It won't change the appearance of the house.”
“Still . . .” She looked to Jeremy for support.
“About this new front door.” The architect pointed to the top drawing. “The original door isn't arched.”
“Actually, we think the original was arched,” Newman said. “We brought photos of several similar houses, and all the doors are arched. We're pretty sure this door isn't the original. The house has been remodeled several times, so I don't see how it's a contributing structure.”
“But that was before HARP,” Nancy said.
“Let's see the photos,” Brenda said.
A woman next to Newman—I assumed she was his wife—handed him a stack of photos. Newman passed them around and crossed his arms—no small
feat, considering his girth.
“Mr. Newman may be right,” Jeremy said. “I'll try to take a look at the front door, maybe next week. Would that work for you, Mr. Newman?”
“The sooner, the better.”
Nancy said, “The French door is a concern, Mr. Newman.”
“It's a minor change. You won't see a difference.”
“There's a big difference between a window and a door, Mr. Newman.” She had a condescending half smile you wanted to smack off her face.
Newman clenched his fists. “I know the difference between a window and door.”
“Well, then you can see that this poses a problem.” She turned to Brenda. “Don't you think it's a problem?”
Brenda nodded. “Definitely a problem.”
“You have a problem, you bitch,” Newman said to Nancy.
The wife tugged on his shirtsleeve.
“Not smart,” Fennel whispered to me.
“I won't be talked to like that,” Nancy told Jeremy.
Linda Cobern had the helpless, frozen look of a mother whose children have turned on a porn video in front of guests.
Dorn said, “Mr. Newman, I understand that you're agitated, but you have to be civil.”
“Civil?” With rising color in his neck and face, Newman exploded: This was his third time before the board in five months. His architect had redrawn the drawings twice to meet the board's conditions. He was beginning to think the board would never approve his plans.
“My wife and I and our five kids are living in a two-bedroom house with one bathroom because you don't want us to put in a French door!”
Nancy stood and held up a large, opened booklet as if it were the tablets containing the Ten Commandments. “These are the rules from the Department of the Interior for historical preservation zones,” she said in that same monotone that made me want to scream. “Would you like me to read them to you, Mr. Newman? I don't make these up.” She pressed the booklet to her bosom.
Fennel made a clicking sound. “She's a tough one,” he said with admiration.
Dorn said, “Mr. Newman, can you make a copy of the drawings for us so that we can study them?”
“I've made copies. Twice. I think you people ate them.”
He rolled up the drawings and twisted them into a tight rod that I'll bet he wanted to use on Nancy's head. He muttered “Fine” and returned to his seat.
Five months of living in cramped quarters could equal serious frustration with HARP, I thought as I watched him leave with his wife. I wrote his name in my notepad, shielding the paper from Fennel's eagle eyes.
The next petitioner wanted to paint his house pale yellow instead of its present white. That took about ten minutes of discussion regarding the definition of pale and yellow, after which he won approval, pending his submission of paint chips.
A homeowner who wanted to install security bars on his second-floor windows met stiff opposition until he threatened to hold the board liable if one of his young children fell out a window.
Another homeowner received permission to redo his driveway with the stipulation that he use the same material.
“Our last item is the roof on Vista. Mr. Lowenthal.” Dorn nodded at a heavily freckled, red-haired man sitting next to Tim Bolt.
“I want to get this resolved,” Lowenthal began. “I'm paying two mortgages, which I can't afford.”
“Mr. Lowenthal, we've been over this. If you restore the original Spanish tile roof, the city will remove the lien, and you'll sell your house.”
“I told you. The ceiling joists were damaged by rain. The ceilings would have caved in from the weight of the tiles.”
“He put on a composition roof,” Fennel whispered to me, his lip curled in disgust.
“A structural engineer can help you solve the problem,” Dorn said.
“I met with an engineer. He said I'm talking tens of thousands of dollars that I don't have. For a roof.”
“We have an obligation to preserve the integrity of the architecture,” Nancy said. “You don't put a composition roof on a Spanish Colonial.”
“Damn straight.” Fennel nodded.
Lowenthal ignored Nancy. “I'm going to lose the house, Mr. Dorn. You people have to help me out here.”
Jeremy said, “The roof—”
“Listen.” The man ran a hand across his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration. “I lost out on two prospective buyers. I can't afford to lose another. Tell them, Tim.”
Bolt nodded. “I have a client who's ready to buy the Vista property. But with the lien . . .”
So Bolt had come here as a Realtor. I half listened to the continuing exchange (and a running commentary from Fennel) with mixed feelings, happy the decision wasn't mine to make. Fennel had no such problem. I'd developed a fondness for the old man but found his pro-HARP zealousness irritating and sad. I also wondered whether HARP rules had placed other homeowners in situations like Lowenthal's, or worse. According to Ned Vaughan, Reston and Modine were having problems with several properties. HARP problems?
Maybe Tim Bolt knew. When the meeting ended at eight- thirty, with no resolution for Lowenthal, I went up to Bolt and invited him for a cup of coffee.
“Wish I could.” He slipped an arm into the sleeve of a navy wool jacket. “I'm giving someone a ride home.”
“Walter Fennel?”
Bolt looked surprised. “Yes. How do you know Walter?”
“I talked to him about Professor Linney. You probably know they were good friends.”
He glanced at Fennel, who was in conversation with Brenda. “Right. Of course.”
“What about after you drop Mr. Fennel off? I have a few questions.”
“Actually, tonight isn't a good idea, Molly.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I can come to your house, if you want.”
“Why don't we meet at Starbucks at eleven. The one on Detroit and Beverly?”
“I'll be there.” He seemed distracted, or maybe he was just eager to get home. I remembered that his wife had been ill. “I hope your wife is feeling better, Tim.”
“A little better, thanks.”
“Who's better? You're feeling sick?” Fennel had walked over, looking like a mummy with his red shawl covering part of his chin. “Don't breathe all over me if you are.”
“I'm fine.”
“I'll go with Molly. She doesn't have a cold.”
“I'm waiting to talk to someone,” I told him. Jeremy Dorn, who was having a conversation with the other board members. He didn't look happy.
“I'm in no rush.”
“Your wife will be wondering where you are,” Bolt said. He sounded annoyed. “And it's out of Molly's way to drive you home. I'm just around the block.”
“Oh, all right,” Fennel muttered.
A few minutes later Dorn was putting on his brown suede jacket. I was headed his way when Linda Cobern accosted me. I figured that, like Sony and Nikon, she was eager to give me that “clearer picture.”
“You probably won't believe me,” she began, “but tonight's meeting wasn't typical.”
“I was just lucky, I guess.” I smiled, but I could see that she didn't appreciate my humor. “You don't have to worry. I'm not doing a piece on the HARP process.”
“Frankly, I wish you would. So does Councilman Harrington. You have to admit your article was slanted. I could show you statistics that—”
I looked at Dorn. He was halfway out the door. “Would you excuse me? I have to go.” I hurried toward him.
“You're not interested in being fair, are you?” she called after me. “You write incendiary journalism and don't care about the ramifications.”
I'll admit the incendiary made me wince, although I wasn't sure if she'd chosen the word for its irony or had pulled it out of her I-hate-all-reporters phrase book. I was tempted to defend myself, to tell her that I'd been scrupulously fair, that she was trying to blame me for the divisiveness
HARP had caused and the anger that had pushed someone to multiple acts of vandalism.
I didn't say a word. I've learned that there is no dignity or purpose in arguing with the reviewer who has just trashed your work, even if he or she has misread, misrepresented, taken things out of context, etc. And there's certainly no winning. All you can do is write the next book, or article, and develop a thicker skin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I CAUGHT UP WITH DORN AS HE WAS ENTERING THE elevator, and managed to get inside before the closing doors slammed into me. I wasn't sure if he remembered me.
He acknowledged my presence with a nod and pressed B.
“I'm Molly Blume,” I said as the elevator rumbled and began its descent. “We met at the HARP meeting. I'm—”
“The reporter. I was wondering when it would be my turn.”
I smiled. “I'd like to talk to you about Margaret Linney, Mr. Dorn. Do you have a few minutes?”
He sighed deeply. “We weren't having an affair,” he said in a bored tone that implied he was tired of defending himself. “Is that what you wanted to ask me?”
Talk about direct. “Among other things. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open.
“No thanks,” he told me after we'd exited into a parking garage that was still dank from yesterday's rain. “Tonight was the end to a long, tiring day, and I'm looking forward to going home, having a glass of wine, and taking my dog for a walk. He doesn't give me attitude. Don't quote me on that.” He started walking.
I followed. “Fifteen minutes?”
“Ten.”
He had a long stride and I had to hurry to keep up. When he reached a black Ford Explorer, he stopped and leaned against the driver door.
He crossed his arms. “So what are the other things you wanted to know?” His voice echoed in the garage.
“For starters, is it really such a big deal if someone puts in a French door instead of a window?”
“Off the record?”
“Off the record.”
He eyed me, probably deciding whether he could trust me. “It's ridiculous. One of the reasons I got on the board was to end that kind of stuff, but as you could probably tell, I'm outnumbered.”
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