by Mary Marks
“I see. How did she make you feel?”
“How would you feel if someone was trying to seduce your fiancé right in front of you? I wanted to slap the arrogance right off her face. I wanted to pull out her hair. I wanted to roast her in the oven. I wanted to—”
I stopped when I realized he was writing down my every word. And he wasn’t smiling. “Wait. Stop writing. I didn’t actually do any of those things. They were just figures of speech. To illustrate how she made me feel. I mean, you asked.”
“You had reason to see her harmed?” Jarvis didn’t wait for an answer. “That’s called ‘motive,’ Mrs. Rose.”
“Maybe so, but she disappeared before we got home from the beach. Like I told you before, when we left the house at eleven, Hadas was very much alive and healthy.”
He continued writing for another couple minutes, then shoved the papers across the table. “Please check this for accuracy and sign at the bottom.”
I reviewed the statement, crossed out the part where I said I wanted to bake Hadas, and signed my name. “Can I leave now?”
Jarvis gathered the papers, tapped them neatly on the table, and stood. “Mrs. Rose, I’m telling you what I told your friends out there. Don’t leave LA.”
I joined Crusher and Fanya outside the station and puffed out my breath as if I’d been holding it for hours. “Can you believe it? He said I had motive to hurt Hadas and told me not to leave LA.”
“You hurt Hadas? God forbid!” Fanya leaned over and rested her hand on my shoulder while studying my face. “But he does have a point, Martha. I mean, all three of us know you didn’t do anything to Hadas. But the police might see it differently. Am I right, Yossi?”
He grunted. “Maybe.”
On the walk back to the Honda, I called Giselle and explained the situation. “Can we stay at your place tonight? Noah told us CSU would probably let us back in the house tomorrow.”
“Of course, Sissy. Anyway, I’m dying to meet Yossi’s sister. What’s she like?”
“Delightful. You’ll see for yourself soon.”
“Great. I’ll have Aria cook dinner. Unless Yossi’s sister only eats kosher.” Aria was Giselle’s live-in Guatemalan housekeeper.
I was proud of all my Catholic half sister had learned about Judaism while maintaining steadfast in her own faith. “Fanya’s a vegetarian, G. I don’t think you have to worry about kashrut. We can stop on our way to your house and grab two veggie pizzas. If you prepare a salad, I think we’ll be fine.”
“Sold!”
We paid for two pizzas from Bucca Di Beppo and made our way over the Sepulveda Pass to Giselle’s house in the Pacific Palisades. Fanya gasped when we turned left on Napoli Drive and pulled into the driveway of a massive two-story French chateau-style home with gray stucco and a copper mansard roof. Dozens of lavender bushes filled the front yard, sending fragrant blue clusters on long, delicate stems.
As we got out of the car, she said, “Oy vav oy! Your half sister is in the top two percent?”
I smiled at her reaction. She seemed genuinely awed in the face of such ostentation. “Actually, Giselle’s probably in the top one percent. But she’s down-to-earth and very generous. Plus, she’s anxious to meet you. Let’s go inside before the pizza gets cold.”
Giselle greeted me with a brief kiss on the cheek and shoved me aside. Fanya stood right behind me. She was the one my sister wanted to meet. “Wow! I wondered if you’d be tall like your brother, and you are. Not as tall, but well above the average height for women. Thankfully you don’t look a thing like him. If you had his build and a beard, you’d be a lot less attractive.” She laughed at her own joke, but Fanya stared. Giselle rolled on, blissfully unaware of the confusion she stirred in her guest. “Are you hungry? Come in.”
Giselle ushered us into the dining room, where Fanya’s gaze landed on three portraits of the same woman: one as a naïve eighteen-year-old, one as a young mother in her twenties, and one in her forties. “Are those paintings original?”
Giselle glanced at me. “Yes. Our father, Martha’s and mine, painted these. He was a famous portrait artist before he disappeared.” There was much more to the story, and someday I’d tell it to Fanya. But not tonight.
A cheerful red-and-mustard-yellow jacquard cloth covered the dining room table. Stripes woven with acorns defined the borders, while pears, apples, and birds were woven into the middle. Only four places were set.
“Where’s Harold?” Crusher asked.
Harold Zimmerman, Giselle’s fiancé, was the CFO of Eagan Oil, the company she owned.
“He flew to Dallas for a couple of days.”
“I love your home,” Fanya said. “You’ve managed to make a large space feel cozy. Your use of the primary colors is very French country. But have you considered having plain white walls is a bit too safe? What if you put up a French-themed paper? You could go with a traditional toile or do flowers, landscapes, even a mural on the big wall where those three pictures are. Of course, I’d have to cover the texture that’s presently on your walls. It’s too bumpy to hang a decent paper.”
“Wallpaper?” Giselle burst into laughter. “These walls were hand-plastered by the famous Boris Budinoffski. I flew him and his helper Dyann all the way from London in my private jet because I wanted a handcrafted texture on these walls. Budinoffski’s the best. There’s no way I’d cover his work. That would be like painting over the Mona Lisa because you’ve run out of canvas.”
Between the four of us, we managed to eat one-and-a-half vegetarian pizzas. We also went through two bottles of chilled pinot grigio. At ten, I pushed my chair slightly away from the table. “This has been an exhausting day, G. I need to crash.”
“Of course, Sissy. Let me show you all to your rooms.”
Fanya cleared her throat. “The police wouldn’t let me go inside the bedroom to retrieve a change of clothes for tomorrow. I’m forced to wash what I’m wearing and hope it dries overnight. I hate to impose, but do you have a bathrobe I can borrow? Martha’s was way too small for me.”
“Hmmm.” Giselle studied my statuesque future in-law. “Harold has one I think will fit. Give your clothes to me and I’ll have Aria wash and dry them.” She pointed to the artfully ripped-at-the-knee jeans Fanya wore. “Is it safe to wash your pants? Won’t they unravel more being tossed around in the washer and dryer? Forgive me for not knowing this, but I thought this style of torn jeans was strictly for schoolgirls.”
Fanya tilted her head. “Are you saying I’m too old to wear these jeans?”
“Oh, of course not. I mean, if you feel like a teenager, well, good for you.”
I could tell by Fanya’s expression Giselle had finally begun to annoy her.
“I’d be grateful if you fetch the robe and point me to the washer and dryer. I’ll do my own things. I wouldn’t dream of asking anyone else. And no, the pants don’t ravel or fray in the wash.”
Giselle shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
At ten-thirty, Crusher and I climbed into a king-sized bed and met in the middle.
“Yossi,” I yawned and snuggled close to him. “Where do you think Hadas is right now? Do you think she’s still alive?”
“Hard to say. They’ll examine her business and personal affairs. Like, did anyone else in her life know she was traveling to LA? They’ll also check her credit cards, bank statements, and phone records for any activity up to the time she disappeared.”
“Even though she’s trying to steal you away, I hope she’s okay. I feel guilty for wishing her harm.”
I closed my eyes and began to doze, my mind slipping in and out of that nimble place in between sleep and wakefulness. I replayed the scene where Hadas complained of a headache and couldn’t go with us. Suddenly, I opened my eyes and shook Crusher awake.
“Oh my God, Yossi. I totally forgot about this. I know Hadas begged off the picnic because of a headache. But right before we left, she received a phone call. What if the call is connected to her disappearance?”
“The police will check her phone records. It’s routine.”
“Yes, but I don’t want the police to think I deliberately hid information. The detective taking my statement said I had a motive to kill her. I don’t want to give them even the smallest reason to suspect me.”
“You’ll be okay.” He muttered “good night” as he turned on his left side and seconds later began to softly snore.
I slid out of bed and padded across the room to the dresser, taking care not to wake him. I unplugged my phone from the charger and tiptoed outside our bedroom through the hallway to the living room. All the lights were extinguished for the night, except one. A small lamp with a Tiffany stained glass shade cast a pool of golden light on an end table. The house was silent except for the faint sound of the clothes dryer two rooms away. I plopped on the chair next to the lamp and called Beavers.
Beavers’s voice was sleepy and gravelly. “What is it now, Martha? Did your missing friend show up?”
I told him about the phone call Hadas received. “I wasn’t trying to hide anything, Arlo. I would’ve said something in my official statement, but I only now remembered. I want it on record that I’m cooperating fully with the police. Hadas’s phone records should tell you who called her at eleven this morning.”
“I’m one lucky SOB.”
“What?”
“It’s not every cop who has someone like you to remind them of standard police procedure. I mean, who knows how much time it would’ve taken me to remember to check her phone? I don’t know how I’d solve anything without your special insights, Martha. It’s been a pleasure speaking to you late at night. It evokes such nice, warm memories. Good night.”
Beavers ended the call.
Was he flirting with me?
I tiptoed back through the hall to the bedroom and slipped back into bed without waking Crusher. I tossed and turned for another half hour until I finally fell asleep.
CHAPTER 6
I woke Monday morning while the sky was still black and Crusher snored softly beside me. I moved to the en suite bathroom and quietly closed the door. Hot water in the walk-in shower cascaded over my neck and back, soothing my sore muscles. By the time I dressed, the first morning light had turned the sky from black to gray. I left him still snoring while I made my way toward the smell of fresh coffee, coming from the other end of the house.
Aria, the Guatemalan housekeeper, smiled as I entered the kitchen. “Good morning, missus. I get you coffee?” Her dark eyes twinkled, and a warm smile creased her young face.
I guessed from the smooth skin on her arms and hands and neck that she hadn’t yet reached her forties. She wore a simple blue cotton dress and her long, black hair hung in a careful braid down her back.
I moved toward the coffeepot, where Aria had laid out delicate porcelain cups and saucers, cream, and sugar. “I’ll help myself.” I inhaled deeply. “Something in the oven sure smells good!”
“Five more minutes, missus. Galletas con mantequilla. Hot biscuits with butter.”
“Great!” I took my coffee to the living room sofa and sat with my feet tucked under me, staring out of the tall windows overlooking the greens of the Riviera Golf Course a little way beyond the backyard. After a good night’s sleep and hot shower, I was ready to face the task of going back to my house and cleaning the mess Hadas’s kidnappers made.
What could’ve happened to Hadas? How did someone manage to get inside my house and chloroform her, ransack the bedroom, and spirit her away? Did she know them? Did she let them in the house? If the intruders didn’t find what they were after, would they come back?
I’d already decided there must’ve been more than one person involved to be able to take an unconscious woman from the house and put her in a vehicle. Maybe one of my neighbors saw something. Even if the police already went door-to-door, I’d canvass the neighborhood.
Yesterday’s red-and-yellow tablecloth in the dining room had been replaced with a starched and ironed white linen cloth. Aria brought the silver coffee service to the dining room and set the table with four places. Then she brought out a large plate with a pile of hot, steaming biscuits. “For you, missus.” She added dishes of whipped butter and boysenberry jam.
I wasted no time relocating myself to a chair nearest the goodies. “Wow. Thank you!” I cut a hot biscuit in half and spread it with soft yellow butter that melted almost immediately. I smeared a generous spoonful of sweet, dark jam on top of the buttered halves. A few minutes later, I repeated the process with another biscuit.
When I swallowed the last bite of my second biscuit, Fanya entered the room, dressed in yesterday’s clean clothes, knees poking through the shredded jeans. Her long, chestnut hair hung without restraint in waves around her face. She poured a cup of coffee and helped herself to one of Aria’s galletas. “Mmm. This is delicious.”
“How’d you sleep last night?”
She sighed. “Not very well. I kept thinking about Hadas and wondering who wanted to hurt her and why.”
“And did you discover anything?”
Fanya shook her head, hair sweeping her shoulders.
I urged her on. “Even if something seems insignificant, it could lead to a major clue. At this point, between you, me, and your brother, you’re the one who knew her best.”
“Did I hear someone talk about me?” Crusher’s heavy boots echoed on the wooden floor as he entered the dining room. He walked over to his sister, kissed her forehead, and ruffled the top of her head.
“Stop it!” Fanya batted his hand away and sighed. “I’ll never be a grown-up in his eyes. I’ll always be the kid sister!”
Crusher chuckled and bent to kiss my lips. “Morning.”
“Good morning. We were talking about Hadas.”
He poured a cup of coffee. “Not surprised. Come to any conclusions? Insights?”
I shrugged. “Not yet. But I’m going to ask around. Maybe one of the neighbors saw something.”
Giselle padded into the dining room on softly slippered feet, wearing a pink silk dressing gown tied around the waist. She greeted us with a cheerful smile. “Good morning, everyone. I see Aria has already started you off with a little prebreakfast.” She helped herself to the last cup of coffee in the pot. “If everyone is up for it, I’ll ask her to make a frittata with mushrooms and veggies.”
“Count me in.” Crusher took a giant bite out of a biscuit and washed it down with a gulp of coffee.
Giselle disappeared for a moment to the kitchen and returned. “Aria’s amazing. I didn’t have to tell her anything. A frittata is already baking in the oven. She says it’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.” Then she checked out Fanya and smiled. “I’m glad to see you managed to launder your clothes last night. So,” she scanned our faces. “What is everyone planning for today?”
“I’m going to canvass my neighbors,” I said.
Giselle scrunched her forehead. “Do you know who would want to hurt Hadas?”
“That’s the problem, G.” I licked a drop of boysenberry jam from where it spilled on my finger. “We don’t really know enough about her to dig into her personal life. Not yet, anyway.”
“I thought you two were friends, Fanya.” Giselle worried the corner of her lip. “Surely you must have an idea about who could’ve come after her. Was she wealthy? Do you think the kidnappers took her for ransom?”
Aria appeared in the dining room with a new pot of coffee.
Fanya lifted her cup for a refill. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t they have contacted us already?”
“Maybe you’re on to something,” I said. “I mean, let’s take another look at this. If someone wanted to kill Hadas, they could’ve done it right there in the house. But they didn’t. They drugged her with chloroform, probably to keep her from resisting, and took her away. Which tells me they want her alive. At least for a while.”
“Yeah, but aside from me,” Giselle said, “none of you has the kind of money a ransomer would demand.”
&
nbsp; “Maybe she’s being held for something other than money. I mean, they ransacked the bedroom looking for something. If they found whatever it was, they could’ve left her behind, either alive or dead. But they abducted her, which suggests to me that if they didn’t find what they wanted, they would try to force her to give it up. Of course, as soon as she gives them what they want, they’re going to have to kill her. She could ID them.”
Everyone at the table grew hushed. The silence was broken when Aria appeared with plates of frittata, an eggy omelet baked with onions, mushrooms, spinach, and tomatoes topped with dollops of sour cream.
As I enjoyed the subtle flavors of the food, I wondered if Hadas was still alive, would she be hungry? I felt almost guilty for diving into our breakfast with such gusto. Almost guilty, but not really. Although I didn’t wish her any harm, I didn’t want Hadas back in our lives. Why couldn’t she just give Crusher a divorce and get on with it? Was there something else behind her coming to California? Was there a hidden reason she needed Crusher’s help?
Out of courtesy to the others, I’d put my cell phone on vibrate, which it was now doing in the pocket of my jeans. I looked at the caller. Beavers! I excused myself from the table and moved to the living room to talk. “Hello, Arlo. Have you found her?”
“No. I called to tell you CSU has finished with your house. You can go back inside.”
“Did you find anything useful you can tell us about?”
“No.”
“No you found nothing useful or no you’re not telling?”
“Right.”
I clenched my teeth. “God, I hate when you get this way. A crime was committed in my house and I want to know what you are doing about it. I have a right to know.”
“I’ll only give details to her next of kin. As far as I know, that would be Yosef Levy. Am I correct?”
“Are you saying you will only talk to Yossi?”
“Yosef Levy is her husband of thirty years, right?” I could tell by the lilt in his voice he was enjoying every bit of this conversation.
“Only technically. But not for real.”
“Well, technically, he is the one I’ll talk to.”
