Dream House

by Rochelle Krich

  Vaughan claims he knows nothing about those and says Linney loaned him the $43,000 and liked Vaughan's idea of making up Skoll Investment. I said, yeah, sure. I was on the other side of the one-way mirror on the ground floor at Wilshire, listening to Porter and Hernandez take turns interrogating Vaughan, who was smoking up a storm. He hadn't asked for a lawyer yet, which was lucky, because even a rookie would have told him to shut up.

  I knew Hernandez would be good. He'd had me squirming in my chair the other day. He had nothing but sympathy in his musical voice, saying he could understand how overwhelmed Vaughan must have felt by the bills, and got Vaughan to admit he'd been worried about losing his house.

  Porter surprised me. I was sure he'd be playing bad cop, but he sat across the table from the architect. It must have been rough, he said, having all those money problems when your best friend was building a $6 million home he didn't even ask you to design. Some best friend, huh? It was probably Maggie's fault, Porter said. She was the one who said, honey, take Jeremy Dorn, not your friend Ned. If it hadn't been for her, you wouldn't be sitting here today, huh?

  That's when Vaughan erupted. His face turned red, and he was like a volcano that had lain dormant for years and had begun to spew its lava and couldn't stop. Maggie was a self-centered bitch, he said, seething. If it hadn't been for him, she'd never have gotten away from Linney, never have married. And then she chose Dorn! And when Vaughan asked Linney—his mentor, his friend—to intercede, the old man said, “You know I don't lie, Ned, Dorn is a better architect.”! So, yes, that's why Ned decided to write the book. Screw the old man. He'd show the world and Linney, who didn't even recommend Ned as acting chair when he retired!

  So Maggie found out about the book, Porter said when Vaughan ran out of steam. She's got all that money, her dad's brain is scrambled, and she's harping about the book he can't even write. Go figure, huh?

  Vaughan nodded. Maggie had phoned Linney's publisher to tell them she'd be working with her father on the book, and they told her Linney had canceled the project months ago, didn't she know? And anyway, someone else was writing a book about HARP in Los Angeles. She'd phoned around and finally talked to Joan Eggers, who had a signed letter from Linney relinquishing all his rights to the project.

  That's when Maggie found out about Skoll Investment. She wanted that money back, and the advance. He mentored you, he treated you like a son, how could you do this to him? So that's when Vaughan told her about her wonderful father, how he'd cried about his wife and the nightmares that never stopped because of what he'd done. What nightmares? Ned had asked Linney. Tell me, maybe I can help you.

  Maggie didn't believe Ned. And even when she found out it was all true, she said, Go ahead, tell the world, I want everyone to know what he did. But have a check by Friday. That's money he took against the house, my mother's house.

  Vaughan stopped again. Porter said, So you really had no choice, huh, man? He clucked. She was going to ruin your reputation, you'd be in jail for money the old man lent you. Was that fair? So how did it go down? Where'd you get the key to the Fuller house?

  Vaughan had a key, he told Porter. Linney was always losing his, so one time he made an extra and kept it. He tried talking to Maggie that day, but she wouldn't take his calls. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't sleep. So he drove to the house and saw her light on. He let himself in because he knew Maggie wouldn't. He begged her for more time, he couldn't get the money overnight. Use the publisher's advance, she said, but he'd already spent that.

  She said she didn't care. She was going to phone the police, right now. He remembered grabbing her hand so she'd drop the receiver. She screamed for Linney, so he put his hand on her mouth, and she took a step backwards and lost her footing, and that's when she fell and hit her head against the desk. When he checked she wasn't breathing. He was terrified. It wasn't just the police. He could explain, he was sure they'd believe him. But Hank would kill him.

  So Vaughan decided to make it look like a home invasion and kidnapping. That's why he took the jewelry. He hadn't planned to use it. He found a pair of gloves in the kitchen. He carried Maggie down the stairs and out the back door and put her in the trunk of her car, which he drove to the backyard of the empty house on Arden. He buried her in the newly dug trench and drove her car to a mall. He never meant to kill Maggie. He didn't want to kill Linney, either, but the old man heard her scream, and several times in the past few weeks he'd said, Weren't you there that night, Ned, didn't I hear your voice? So he had no choice, not really. And what kind of life did Linney have with his mind going, and his body, too? And the nightmares about his wife? Ned was doing him a favor, when you thought about it. At least he died with dignity. He was dead before the fire started, he didn't suffer. Ned wouldn't have let that happen.

  Porter said, I figure you played a tape with Maggie's voice to get the old man upstairs, huh? Vaughan's smirk was an answer. I have to hand it to you, Ned, Porter said. The tape was clever. How'd you do that? Vaughan's smile deepened. Maggie called me a few times, he said. I kept the tapes and spliced them.

  So you planned to lure Linney to the house? Porter asked. That's when Vaughan became still. Except for his eyes. They were darting right and left, searching for a way out. You could see in his eyes that he knew where Porter was going, that Ned had been thinking about killing Linney on the night he murdered Maggie. The jury would have a good time with that.

  So how'd you get home if you left Maggie's car in the mall? Porter asked. And what about your car? We checked with all the cab companies, and there's no record of anyone dropping you off at the Fuller house that night.

  Vaughan didn't answer.

  I'll tell you what I think, Porter said. I think you used the bike we found in your garage. I think you biked to Maggie's, left your bike in the yard. After you killed her, you put it in the trunk, along with her body. And you biked home from the mall. What do you want to bet we find some trace evidence from Maggie on your bike, huh?

  That was when Vaughan asked for a lawyer.

  You're probably wondering about the planner. Turns out Tim Bolt took it that morning when Linney had pounded on his door. He'd wanted something of Maggie's to remember her by. He knew he'd done wrong, and he couldn't give it back, not when the police were asking him questions, like what was Maggie doing in your house the day she disappeared? If he gave them the planner, they'd search his house and find the room. But when Linney died, he put it back.

  Connors says Tim is convinced that Hank was abusing Linney. I don't think so. I think Hank did the best he could with a difficult man who made it clear he despised him. I think Linney did his best to break up that marriage and almost succeeded. I don't know if he helped his wife die or encouraged her to do it.

  I have ambivalent feelings about Linney. He was crabby, egotistical, manipulative, and if you believe Vivian, a murderer. But as much as I detest what he did, I have pity for the old man whose failing mind made him easy prey for Vaughan. And he didn't deserve to be killed, though Vivian would argue otherwise. I told her Linney had been plagued by her sister's death, and I wonder if, now that he's dead, her hatred for him will burn less fiercely over time or burn itself out. Probably not.

  I can see Linney hurrying on unsteady legs up those dreaded stairs toward the siren of Margaret's voice. One shaking, bony hand is gripping the banister; the other, his cane. Was Vaughan waiting for him in that bedroom? At what point did joy turn into bewilderment, bewilderment into fear? I'd like to think the Alzheimer's spared Linney the realization of Vaughan's double treachery, but I'm sure he knew. I imagine that in those last moments he was trying to escape not only his protégé turned enemy, but the truth.

  A curse is not a telegram, Bubbie G says. It doesn't arrive so fast.

  Hank was released from the hospital the Saturday after he was shot. When I visited him the day before that, he told me he wasn't sure what he planned to do with the Muirfield house. He insisted Maggie ripped out that page. She'd told him she love
d him. In fact, she'd talked about having a baby, something he'd been wanting for some time. She didn't say a word about Vaughan. She probably didn't know how to tell him the truth about his best friend.

  Hank wanted to pay me for my services, and for saving his life. I said no thanks, and anyway, you don't have the money. He had the grace to blush, but insisted the money was technically his. That's between him and the police, though so far they haven't filed charges.

  They released Modine. He's going to have to pay for all the damage and put in a few hundred hours of community service. Hank thought Modine had torched the Fuller house, to do him a favor. And Modine suspected Hank, just as he'd told the cops. Modine had bitched about the damn patio to Hank and told him he was placing the concrete that morning.

  Mr. Newman got his French door approved, by the way, but Lowenthal is still fighting about his roof. The Hancock Park Harpies got Harrington to push through a moratorium on teardowns and remodeling, and by the time you read this, HARP will probably be there to stay.

  I have mixed feelings about that and historical preservation in general. According to the National Trust, demolitions are reaching epidemic proportions in historic neighborhoods all over the country. In L.A. we've razed a lot of buildings: the Gilmore Bank that made way for The Grove. Rudy Vallee's Pink Palace. Irving Gill's Dodge House. The Peerless Hardware building with a mural painted by Ernesto de la Loza that paid homage to manual workers. The Carthay Circle Theater I told you about.

  The verdict's still out on the Ambassador Hotel, but the Shubert Theater is facing the bulldozer. The Capitol Records building on Hollywood, the one that's circular and looks like a stack of records with a stylus on top, is a state historic resource, but other historic structures have been leveled.

  There are buildings I want saved, some I don't care about as much. Who am I to judge? Who should judge what's historical? Is it fair to infringe on the rights of the individual so that you can pass by an old house and admire it? And what about those you hate?

  Last week I baked chocolate chip cookies and took them to Charlene's. We had tea in the living room, and she cooed over the princess-cut diamond engagement ring Zack gave me last Saturday night. It was the second night of Chanukah, and he'd put it in a large yellow plastic dreidel along with Godiva chocolates, so how could I say no?

  Charlene had the gardener tame the shrubs. She's thinking about painting the house a light gray, but I said, only if you want to. Come by again soon, she said, and kissed my cheek. I said of course I would. I love Paris.

  The Bible talks about a house that has leprosy. It's a stain that comes from slander spoken inside the house, Zack told me, from the misuse of the power of speech. The priest would shut down the house, and after seven days, if the plague persisted and spread, he would order the afflicted stones to be hacked out and thrown outside the city, along with their dust. Sometimes the entire house is malignant. In that case, Zack says, you had to demolish the entire structure and take the debris outside the city.

  I thought about that three days ago when I watched a bulldozer tear down Oscar Linney's dream house.

  Hank was on the lawn, looking on as the bulldozer crunched the top left corner of the house. His feet were spread apart, his large hands splayed on his hips. The December sun lit his broad face.

  At one point he walked to a truck in the driveway and lifted out a sledgehammer. He took long, slow strides toward the living room and stood there a moment, holding the hammer in his hands, his face tight with concentration. Then he raised the hammer high and swung it into the wall.

  Whenever I think of Hank, I see him as he looked that day, and I'm reminded of a poem by E. A. Robinson. “Reuben Bright.”

  Because he was a butcher and thereby

  Did earn an honest living (and did right)

  I would not have you think that Reuben Bright

  Was any more a brute than you or I;

  For when they told him that his wife must die,

  He stared at them, and shook with grief and fright,

  And cried like a great baby half that night,

  And made the women cry to see him cry.

  And after she was dead, and he had paid

  The singers and the sexton and the rest,

  He packed a lot of things that she had made

  Most mournfully away in an old chest

  Of hers, and put some chopped-up cedar boughs

  In with them, and tore down the slaughter-house.

  Some things you have to do yourself.

  BUBBIE G'S CHALLA

  2 ounces fresh yeast

  1 tablespoon salt

  (4 squares)

  1⁄2 cup oil

  2 cups warm water

  2 eggs plus 1 egg, beaten

  3⁄4 cup plus 1 tablespoon

  sesame or poppy seeds,

  sugar

  optional

  8 cups flour

  In a medium metal or glass bowl, dissolve the yeast in 1⁄2 cup water. Stir in 1 tablespoon sugar. In an aluminum bowl mix the flour, sugar, and salt. Create a well in the center and slowly pour 11⁄2 cups water into the well. Add the oil, 2 eggs, and yeast mixture. Mix wet and dry ingredients with a wooden spoon until you can no longer move the spoon.

  Bubbie G kneads the dough by hand until it's smooth and elastic and doesn't stick to the sides of the bowl—about ten minutes. (You can use a mixer with a dough hook for 2–3 minutes, but don't tell.) If the dough is too sticky, knead in small amounts of flour until it's smooth.

  Brush the top of the dough with oil, cover with plastic wrap and a towel, and let rise in a warm room for 1 to 11⁄2 hours, until double in size. On a floured board divide the dough into two or three parts. Separate each part into four strands and roll each strand into a thick rope.

  Place strands side by side and press tops together. Working from left to right, take the outside strand (#1) and weave over the next strand (#2), then under #3, then over the last (#4). To continue, take strand #2 (now on outside), weave over the next (#3), under #4, and over the last. Proceed until braid is completed. Pinch ends together and place the challa on a baking sheet sprayed with Pam. Brush the top of the challa with beaten egg. If you desire, sprinkle with sesame or poppy seeds.

  Repeat braiding and egg glaze with the other dough. Let the loaves rise another hour. Preheat oven to 350 and bake challa for 25–35 minutes until the challa is golden brown and sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom. Cool on wire racks. Makes two to three challot.

  If you're ambitious and want a taller challa, e-mail me at www.rochellekrich.com for instructions on making a six-braid version.

  GLOSSARY OF HEBREW AND YIDDISH

  WORDS AND PHRASES

  Az es iz nisht vi ich vill, vill ich vi es iz If it's not as I want it, I want it as it is. Yiddish proverb.

  Baruch Hashem (ba-ruch´ ha-shem´). Thank God. Literally: Blessed be God.

  beitzim (noun, plural, b-a´-tzim). Eggs; slang for “balls,” meaning gumption. Use with caution!

  Birkat hamazon (noun, bir-kat´ ha-ma-zon´). Grace after meals.

  bissele (noun, diminutive, bis´-se-le). A small amount (of), a little.

  bubbie (noun, bub´-bee). Grandmother; also, bubbeh, babi, babbi.

  bulvan (noun, bul-van´). An oxlike man; a boorish, coarse, rude person.

  chalesh (verb, cha´-lesh). To faint or swoon. Colloquially, to crave. Also, cha´-lesh-ing , fainting. “I'm chaleshing for . . .”

  challa (noun, chal´-la or chal-la´). Braided loaf of bread. Plural is challot (chal-lot´) or challas (chal´-las).

  Chanukah (noun, cha´-nu-kah). Eight-day Festival of Lights in the Jewish month of Kislev, which usually falls in December.

  chutzpah (noun, chutz´-pah). Audacity; gall.

  Der emess iz a kricher (der e´-mess iz a krich´-er). Truth is a slowpoke. Yiddish proverb.

  drash (noun). Sermon.

  dreidel (noun, dr-a´-del). A four-sided top used to play games on Chanukah.

  emess
(noun, e´-mess). Truth.

  Gemara (noun, ge-ma´-ra). Collection of commentaries that, together with the Mishna, the oral law, forms the Talmud.

  glezele (noun, diminutive, gle´-ze-le). A small glass.

  gut (adjective). Good.

  Gut voch A good week. A phrase uttered after the Sabbath ends to wish someone a good week, and the title of a song. In Hebrew, Shavuah tov.

  HaMavdil (ha-mav´-dil). Literally, “He who separates.” A song following the havdalah ceremony.

  havdalah (noun, hav-dal´-lah). Separation. The blessing that marks the end of the Sabbath and separates it from the rest of the week.

  kenehoreh (ke-ne-hor´-eh). Also, kenayn-e-horeh (ke-nain´-e-hor´-eh), a frequently used phrase that is an elision of keyn ayin horeh (k-an a´-yin ho´-reh). Let there be no evil eye.

  kiddush (noun, kid´-dush or kid-dush´). A prayer recited over wine at the beginning of a Sabbath or holiday meal. Also used to refer to refreshments served after synagogue services on the Sabbath or other Jewish holidays.

  kneidel (kn-a´-del). Matzoh ball.

  knip (noun or verb). A pinch, or to pinch.

  kugel (noun, ku´-gel). A puddinglike dish, usually made of vegetables (like potatoes or onions) or noodles.

  L'cha Dodi (l´-cha´ do-di´). Sabbath song, part of Friday night prayer service. Literally, “Come, My Beloved.”