“Larry and I think it's so sweet that you and Zack dated in high school, and now you're seeing each other again,” his mother said when were seated around a table set with gold-rimmed cobalt dishes and crystal stemware on a white cut-lace cloth that I prayed I wouldn't be the first to stain.
His mother's name is Sandy. She's around five-four, a little chunky around the waist (or maybe it was the boxy cut of her brown bouclé suit jacket), and has brown eyes and short auburn hair that Zack told me she covers only in shul. Her hem, I noted, was just at the knee. She's fifty-seven, two years younger than Larry, who looks like an older version of Zack, with the same gray-blue eyes and more silver in his black hair and a crocheted yarmulke instead of Zack's black suede one. (The kind of yarmulke you wear—crocheted in any color or combination thereof, with or without the wearer's initials in Hebrew or English; black suede or black velvet; teeny, medium, large—is an indicator of where you belong in the world of Orthodox Judaism. But that's a chapter in itself.)
Sandy and Larry are both attorneys (she handles bankruptcies, he does insurance litigation), which is why they were disappointed when Zack turned down their alma mater, Harvard Law, and they have concerns about the pressures and politics that go with being a pulpit rabbi. I know this from Zack, not his parents. They joined the shul when he replaced the retiring rabbi, and I can see Sandy beaming when Zack delivers his weekly Torah drash, so I guess they've come to terms with his career choice. I hoped that boded well for accepting his romantic choice, too.
Zack had warned me that his parents were more formal than mine. They were more soft-spoken, too, which I suppose is natural when you're a family of three, not nine, and you don't have to yell to be heard or get your point across. Or maybe like me, they were on their best behavior.
They asked about my parents and siblings and what it was like growing up in such a large family. (“War and peace,” I said, and was relieved when they laughed.) They were interested in how I'd decided to become a journalist and said they occasionally enjoyed my feature articles. (I gnawed on the occasionally. Did they mean they didn't always have a chance to read them, or that they liked only some of the articles?)
Zack had bought them a copy of Out of the Ashes, and Sandy wanted to know whether I'm ever nervous interviewing convicted criminals or suspects.
“All the time,” I told her. BACK OFF, BITCH flashed on and off in front of my eyes, neon red words on a giant marquee. “But I'm very cautious.”
Zack's parents were probably assessing how safe he'd be around me, worrying that he'd hooked up with a Modern Orthodox La Femme Nikita. I wondered if they knew I'd almost been killed.
I'm giving you the highlights. Interspersed among the questions we talked about less personal subjects—movies, an exhibit they'd just seen at the Skirball museum, historic preservation around the country (Harvard Square, they told me, was on the endangered list), the crisis in Israel and the worrisome rise of anti-Semitism in Europe and around the world. Basically, though, it was an interview. They wanted to know as much as they could about the woman their only son had brought home. I didn't blame them, but I felt a little on edge. Had I been too flip? Had I talked too much? Revealed too much? I imagine it's like giving testimony in a deposition: You probably don't remember half of what you said, and regret the other half.
Sometime during the main course—cold roast beef, a cucumber salad, and linguini—the interview was over. Zack and his dad started discussing the Torah portion, VaYerah, the one where Abraham is asked to sacrifice his beloved son Isaac to prove his love for God. Sandy joined in. I enjoyed their animated discussion—it reminded me of the way my dad and my brother Judah go at it—and I found myself relaxing and actually tasting the food, which I'd been pushing around on my beautiful plate.
At some point, I'm embarrassed to say, my mind strayed to Hank Reston and the adulterated entries in Maggie's planner. I hadn't resolved any of the questions that had plagued me last night, and when I awoke, I had a few more:
If Hank had killed Maggie and taken the planner, why had he returned it to the nightstand drawer? Did it contain something he wanted the police, or me, to learn so that we'd be led off the track?
If he hadn't taken the planner, who had? And why did that person return it?
And if—
“What do you think, Molly?” Larry asked.
I blinked and faced him. “Sorry?”
Sandy was looking at me. So was Zack.
“If Abraham believed God's promise,” Larry said, “that He would make him into a mighty nation through Isaac, then how could he believe God really wanted him to kill Isaac?”
Fifteen years of Jewish studies, and my mind was a blank. I pictured Rabbi Ingel's smirk. “Faith,” I said, because I had to say something, and because it's often the right answer.
Larry thought for a moment, then nodded. “Good answer.”
Dessert was next. I'd offered to help before, but this time Sandy accepted. In the kitchen—a square, sunny room with white cabinets and a country French décor that matched the rest of what I'd seen in the single-story house—she handed me an ice cream scoop and brought up Ron.
“I know he and Zack were good friends,” she said, slipping a slice of home-baked apple pie onto a plate. “It must be hard for you to see him when you come to shul.”
“It's awkward, but we're managing.” I placed a ball of nondairy vanilla ice cream next to the pie.
She was obviously fishing for The Reason. She wanted to assess responsibility. I wanted to alleviate her concern, but I rarely discuss Ron's infidelity. And I was pleased Zack hadn't betrayed my confidence.
“I'm glad.” She put another slice of pie on a plate. “Can I be honest, Molly?”
Never a great opener. “Of course.”
“Zack has been incredibly happy since he started seeing you, and we can certainly see why he's so taken with you. Everything he told us is true. You're lovely, Molly, and bright. And funny.” She smiled.
If there was a but, I hoped she'd get to it and be done with it. I dug the scoop into the softening ice cream.
“He also told us you have reservations about being a rabbi's wife. I don't blame you. It's not an easy life, and it's not for everyone. People will always be watching you. What you say, what you do, how you dress. Zack said he told you he was engaged four years ago?”
I wondered where this was going. “Yes.” Her name was Shani. They'd been introduced by a rabbi while Zack was studying for his ordination in New York, after he'd returned from Israel. He hadn't told me much else.
“She's a rabbi's daughter,” Sandy said. “Larry and I met her, of course. She's beautiful, refined, intelligent. She would have made a perfect rabbi's wife. Did he tell you what happened?”
A rabbi's daughter. “He said she broke it off. He said it just didn't work out.”
Sandy nodded. “I phoned her to see if I could help them patch things, although I had no idea what needed patching. Zack wouldn't tell us anything, but she did. Do you know why she broke off the engagement, Molly?”
I shook my head. She was going to give me the answer. I could think of two possibilities, neither of which I liked: (A) Even though Shani was a rabbi's daughter, she wasn't willing to be a pulpit rabbi's wife, in which case how could I possibly hope to do it? (B) Zack hadn't been religious enough for her, or his background prestigious enough, and he'd decided to set his sights lower, to compromise, but I wasn't really what he wanted.
“She realized he wasn't in love with her,” Sandy said. “He'd been infatuated with the idea of marrying a rabbi's daughter and living the perfect life. She said he knew it, too. So she broke off the engagement because he would never have done it. He wouldn't have wanted to hurt her or cause her or her family embarrassment.”
That was so like the Zack I'd come to know, I thought. But all I said was, “Oh.”
“All those years he was away?” Sandy said. “He'd have me mail him everything you published. Every article, every column, every
review. Your book. He didn't tell you?”
“No.” My face tingled.
“When we told him B'nai Yeshurun was looking for a new rabbi, he didn't even ask about the salary.” Sandy took the ice cream scoop from me and released the ice cream onto the plate. Then she took both my hands in hers. “He came home for you, Molly. He's been looking for you.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Faith.” Sandy smiled. “And he told me.”
The house was quiet when Zack walked me back to Mindy's, and I figured that everyone was taking a Shabbat nap. I let myself in and did the same, and was surprised when Mindy woke me and told me it was time for havdalah.
“So how did it go?” she asked.
“They like me, they really like me.”
She punched my shoulder. “Come on.”
“It went great.”
After havdalah I packed, kissed Mindy and the kids, and drove home. Inside my apartment I looked through my mail and checked my answering machine. Four messages—three from telemarketers, one from Ned Vaughan. He sounded stressed. I tried his number, but it was busy.
I showered and dressed and had my coat in my hand before Zack rang the front doorbell at a quarter to seven. We were headed for his car when Isaac came out and called my name. I turned around and smiled at his Big Bird parka.
“Next time you have a problem with the phone, you ought to tell me first,” he said.
My smile disappeared. I walked back to the porch. “What are you talking about, Isaac?”
“This guy came around on Friday, after you left. He said you reported static on your line, from the rain. All I'm saying, Molly, is next time let me know.”
I stood there for a moment, unable to speak. I swallowed hard. “Did you let him into my apartment, Isaac?”
“No way, José.” Isaac pursed his lips. “Something's missing, you'll blame me. That's why I said, let me know.”
“I didn't report a problem with the phone, Isaac.”
Zack had walked over and was standing next to me. “What's going on, Molly?”
Isaac's jaw dropped open. “It's the guy who did that to your car, right? I knew it!”
“What car?” Zack said. “What guy?”
“Someone vandalized her Acura a couple days ago,” Isaac said. “She didn't tell you? The cops were here and everything.”
“I didn't want you to worry,” I told Zack. I turned to Isaac. “What did this guy look like?”
“I couldn't tell. It was dark out, and he was wearing a jacket with a hood.”
“Was he a big man?” I was thinking about Reston and Modine. And, yes, Tim Bolt and Ned Vaughan. Anyone I'd talked to in connection with Margaret Linney's disappearance. Fear has no logic.
Isaac narrowed his eyes. “Like I said, it was dark. He was tall, I think.”
That didn't tell me much. Isaac is around five-six, so just about anyone would appear tall to him.
“I knew he was up to no good!” Isaac said with the surety of hindsight. “I saw him walking around the back, so I came out and asked what he was doing. He said you'd reported static, and all that, and he needed to check the wires inside the house. I did good, huh?”
CHAPTER FORTY
Sunday, November 16. 10:22 P.M. 6300 block of Green Valley Circle. When the results of an apartment complex's board elections were announced, a man complained, “The crooks are back on the board.” When another resident told him he could always move, the loser stepped on his neighbor's feet and punched him in the temple. (Culver City)
NED VAUGHAN WAS THE LAST TO SPEAK AT THE FUNERAL. He followed several of Linney's colleagues from the University of Southern California, who talked about the Professor's directness and intelligence and sharp sense of humor, and a portly, gray-haired dean who went on and on about Linney's contribution to the field of architecture and to the university. Ned's eulogy was more personal, more eloquent. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he choked up a number of times as he narrated anecdotes about the man who had been his mentor and friend.
The room, overly air-conditioned and scented by sprays of flowers, was practically filled, mostly with people I didn't know. Colleagues and students, I assumed; the friends who'd attended all those parties. I did know some people. The board members I'd seen the other night—Brenda, Nancy, the woman whose name I couldn't remember and who'd barely said a word. Jeremy Dorn. Linda Cobern was sitting next to a distinguished man whom I finally recognized as Bruce Harrington. Elbogen was there, too. I saw the doctor when I entered the chapel. He looked startled when our eyes met and quickly averted his head.
I was sitting toward the back with Winnie and Walter. Winnie was composed and magnificent in black velour, like a giant cat. Walter's eyes were red and his nose was leaking. Every few seconds he blotted it with a balled handkerchief, although a few times I watched nervously as a drop clung to his nostril, and hoped the handkerchief would get there before the drop fell to his lips and he did his tongue sweep. Tim Bolt was across the aisle to my right. He'd been sniffling throughout the service, and at one point had bowed his head and sobbed. Having lived next door to Linney all these years, he probably felt the loss more than anyone else in the room.
“Tim's taking it real bad,” Fennel said, looking at Bolt and echoing my thoughts. “His own dad wasn't around much, so maybe he saw Oscar like a replacement. Plus he takes things hard in general.”
Roger Modine was a few rows up. He'd scowled at me as he'd passed my pew, looking stiff and uncomfortable in a navy sports jacket that strained across his barrel chest. Last night I'd speculated about the possibility that the contractor had tried to gain access to my apartment. He'd impersonated a police detective to obtain information about Margaret's last day. Maybe he was worried that I'd discovered something that would incriminate him. Like what? I wondered again now.
Hank Reston was sitting in the first pew, of course. He'd greeted me when I arrived and thanked me for coming, but I could tell he was distracted. He hadn't delivered a eulogy, but he'd introduced those who had. He'd probably arranged for the funeral, too. According to Walter, with Margaret gone there was no one else to do it.
“Oscar has a sister-in-law,” Walter told me. “Vivian. But she and Oscar haven't talked in years, not since Roberta died. A shame, too, because Margaret loved her and it probably would've been good for her to have a woman around. I thought maybe she'd be here today, but I don't see her.”
After the service, which was closed casket, I waited in the foyer to sign the guest book. There were five people ahead of me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ned Vaughan. He was a few feet away with an attractive blond woman who had her arm linked through his. The girlfriend, I thought. He had his eyes on Roger Modine, who was talking with Linda Cobern. Then Ned turned his head and saw me.
A moment later he was at my side, alone. “I left a message on your answering machine,” he said, his voice tight with accusation.
“I tried phoning you Saturday night, but your line was busy. Was there something you forgot to tell me?”
“Detective Hernandez came to see me Friday afternoon about Modine. I asked you not to involve me. Aren't reporters supposed to protect their sources?” A vein pulsed in his forehead.
“You asked me not to tell Hank. I didn't. But you don't have to worry. Hernandez pointed out that there were a lot of people at the party who could have overheard Modine. He promised he wouldn't tell Modine how he knows. I think you can trust him.”
Ned's smile was grim. “I don't have a choice, do I?”
“By the way, Margaret consulted an intellectual rights attorney. Do you know if that was related to her music?”
“I suppose so. I don't know.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and put it back. “I'm going outside for a smoke.”
I signed the guest book. I didn't see Winnie and Walter. They were probably walking to the burial site. I was heading to my car when I saw Porter with the USC dean. The dean was doing the talki
ng. Porter was nodding and looked bored to death. I hoped he wouldn't notice me, but of course, he did.
A second or so later he was standing in front of me. The morning sun brought out the glints in his blond hair, the kind I pay good money for.
He planted his feet apart, the way he probably does in target practice or when he's about to take someone down. He oozed male authority. “Why am I not surprised that you're here, Blume?”
“Because you're psychic?” That annoyed him, but I didn't care. “You're here, too.”
“Police business. Standard procedure.”
“Well, you should thank me. I gave you an excuse to get away from the dean. He does go on, doesn't he?”
Porter scowled. “I hear you've been kissing up to Detective Hernandez.”
“We exchanged information. I can kiss up to you, too, if you want. I wouldn't want you to feel left out.”
He leaned toward me. “I don't like your attitude, Blume.”
“If it makes you feel better, you're not the only one. Did you want to tell me something, Detective, or are you just determined to give me a hard time?”
“Your friend Hank Reston is offering a hundred thousand dollars for information that leads to the discovery of his wife's body.”
“I heard the news on the way here.” It had me thinking again that with Linney dead—and soon buried—it was an opportune time for someone to “find” Margaret's body. “He offered a reward before, right after his wife disappeared. And he's not my friend, by the way. He—”
“I'm surprised you haven't found the body yet. You've been digging around enough.” Emphasis on the digging.
“And that bothers you?” I'd been about to tell him about the alterations in the planner, but now I was annoyed. Let him find them on his own.
“This is a lark for you, isn't it, showing up the cops? It'll make good material for one of your articles.”
First Elbogen, then Linda Cobern. I was fed up with being maligned. “Have I published one word since the fire?”
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