Dating is Murder (3 page)

“Great, beautiful,” Bing said. “Let’s move in on our dream couple. Dr. Dan, do that whole speech again, so we can get Wollie and Carlito’s reaction to it.”

My reaction was simple. How many menstrual cycles had I squandered on my former fiancé? Five. Not that I blamed Doc for moving to Taiwan, but the devotion that made him a good father to his child meant he’d never father mine. He couldn’t abandon Ruby to her wacky mother, and by the time he was free to divorce and remarry, my eggs would be in a retirement home.

“I need a bathroom break before my close-up,” Carlito said.

This was a chance for the rest of us to take five. Out came cell phones as people took care of whatever business needed taking care of at 10:57
P.M.,
mostly checking in with significant others. As I had no significant other, I kicked off my shoes and took a walk around the restaurant. The other diners were gone, and the waiters sat at a table near the kitchen, counting tips and eating a meal of their own by candlelight, roast chicken with all the fixings. Their camaraderie was evident.

Melancholy engulfed me. I wanted to mother a child almost more than I could say. If I won the
B.C.
audience vote, one prize would be six months of fertility services at Dr. Exeter’s clinic, either with my fellow winning contestant or with a man of my choice. I was keeping an open mind about the contestants, but the man of my choice was in Taiwan and although he’d come back one day, he wasn’t coming back to me, not for six years. I looked at my watch. How long before another man would look sexy to me, not merely appealing? What was the statute of limitations on true love? Longer than the working life of my ovaries?

A greeting card began to take shape in my head, featuring hens. It would be a combination birthday and condolence, something along the lines of “Happy 40th, Sorry About Those Eggs.”

A voice whispered in my ear, startling me. It was Paul, the production assistant.

“Wollie,” he said. “I’ve been, like, flipped out all weekend. About Annika. Something’s not right. She wouldn’t just not show, because every Monday she’s at the production office like an hour before call. Saturdays too. And Sundays, she always wants to watch editing, or just hang.” He looked miserable, his face tense with anxiety. Poor guy. For someone like Paul, Annika would’ve been an angel of mercy, a girl that pretty wanting to “just hang.” She’d probably adopted him as she’d adopted me, not caring that to American girls her age, he was a geek. Annika was an egalitarian. Plants, children, homeless pets, math-challenged adults—there seemed no end to the things she cared about.

“When did you last see her?” I asked.

“Friday. But we talked on Saturday. I called to see if she wanted to come on a location scout Sunday. She said she couldn’t get the car, but it sounded not right to me.”

“Not right how?”

“Just . . . you know when someone’s, like, blowing you off? Like that. Only she wasn’t ever like that.”

“Did she ask you about a gun?”

Paul took off his baseball cap and scratched his unwashed-looking hair. “She asked if I had one, and I was like, Get real, why would you even want one, and she said, Tell you later. Then she asked Bing, and Joey, and Joey was saying about the waiting periods, and Annika was like, You’re kidding, so Joey said, Talk to Henry. Henry was the contestant that night, him and Kimberly, the miniature-golf-date episode. And Henry says, Find a gun show, you can buy one on the spot, and everyone’s like, No way, you can do that? And Annika says, Okay, Paul, if I find a gun show and give you money, can you buy me one? And I go, Not this weekend, I got the location scout, and she seemed kind of bummed by that and said she’d get back to me.”

“Why would she need you to buy the gun for her?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Maybe you have to be twenty-one or a U.S. citizen or something.”

Maybe. But why would a math-whiz au pair who phoned home every Sunday want a gun? I started feeling sick again. “Have you called her today?”

He nodded. “Today, yesterday, but I just get her machine. I don’t have the number for the people she lives with.”

“Paul! Are we lined up with Munich yet?” Bing’s voice boomed from across the restaurant. “And hey, bartender! You get ZPX? I got an episode airing.”

The bartender aimed a remote at the TV screen suspended above the bar, catching our opening sequence. A ticking clock grew bigger and bigger, then metamorphosed into an hourglass, which in turn became a test tube and, finally, a baby. Disco music pulsed in the background. The faces of the six contestants came into focus, each with a big question mark like a halo suspended overhead. The girls were first: coquettish Kimberly, with perfectly ironed straight black hair. Savannah, the dazzling redhead. And me.

I looked away. If there’s anything worse than hearing my voice on tape, it’s seeing myself on television. The opening sequence was bad, the actual episodes worse. Towering over my dates even when seated, breasts too big, hair too wispy, weird facial expressions that reminded me of my mother—it was more torturous than a bad photograph. Carlito, coming from the bathroom, was drawn to the small screen like a cat to canned tuna. Fredreeq, too, although her VCR would be recording the episode, came to watch. They stood together in perfect harmony for once, like the theme music, joined in mutual adoration of their work.

I thought of Annika, who never tired of watching the show,
her
show as much as anyone’s, even though she never turned up onscreen, in the credits, or on the payroll. She was so often on the set,
Biological Clock
’s biggest fan. I could picture her here, one eye on the television as she called Munich for Bing and negotiated on his behalf in German.

It was on the set that I’d last seen her. Four nights ago, at a bad Chinese restaurant in North Hollywood. Long past midnight Bing had yelled, “That’s a wrap!” and Annika had followed me to the bathroom.

“I have a problem, Wollie,” she’d said. “I am in some trouble and I do not know who to tell who will not think badly of me. Could we talk for ten minutes? No more.”

I’d said yes, of course, knowing it would be far more than ten minutes, knowing Annika and I had never talked on any subject for less than an hour. But then Paul needed me to sign for a paycheck and Fredreeq needed to pull off the false eyelashes she’d been trying out on me, and Bing needed to discuss with us the bags under my eyes, and by the time I was alone and ready to go, Annika wasn’t around. I didn’t really look for her. I didn’t check the bathroom. I didn’t ask if anyone noticed where she’d gone. I was tired. I went home.

I hadn’t seen her since.

She was my friend, and I hadn’t even given her ten minutes.

3

I
woke up Tuesday
thinking about Carlito. We’d stopped filming a mere five hours earlier, after an on-camera discussion about Carlito’s desire to have children. His was a patriotic view of procreation, a commitment to keep America’s gene pool strong in the face of unattractive, evil, and just plain stupid people out there multiplying like rabbits. This, for me, was not Carlito’s finest hour.

Biological Clock
taped six nights a week, with a different couple combination each night, and a new expert and restaurant every three days. Bing handed off this footage to a stressed-out editor, who turned it into a week’s worth of episodes, each episode featuring all the contestants. This gave viewers the impression that the six of us partied together Monday through Friday, when in fact each contestant worked two long nights per week, never encountering their same-sex competition. We did get to know our dates. After nine or ten hours together, bonds form—the kind, I suspect, that are experienced by victims of natural disasters.

How, I wondered, had Annika stayed on the set with us all those times and got up the next morning to take care of a toddler, her real job, her job job? After four hours of sleep, I felt like mice had been chewing on my esophagus.

I made my way to the navy blue kitchen, considered coffee, opted for apple juice, and headed for the shower before the kitchen walls made me nauseous. The apartment belonged to Hubie, a friend who needed someone to water his plants while he followed the rock group Supertramp around Europe. Hubie’s offer came just as my former fiancé, Doc, left for Taiwan. The house I’d shared with Doc was expensive, the thought of acquiring a roommate depressing, so I’d moved my stuff into storage and myself into Hubie’s until I could figure out what to do with the rest of my life. I hadn’t figured it out yet, but I still had five weeks. Hubie would be home by Christmas, and it was now a week before Thanksgiving.

I left another message on the phone machine of Annika’s host family, the Quinns. Then I got dressed and hit the road.

The weather was gorgeous, the air clear and smogless in a Disney-blue sky. Halfway to the 405, the every-hour-is-rush-hour freeway, I decided instead to take Beverly Glen Boulevard to the San Fernando Valley. I was passing De Neve Square, a tiny park above Sunset, when I remembered to turn on my cell phone. There was one message, from the friend whose frog mural I was painting. His Texas twang precluded the need to identify himself. “Darlin’, take the day off. My floor guy called to say he varnished them and they’re still wet. Check in tomorrow.”

Darn. I missed my frogs. And now I was halfway to Ventura Boulevard. Disinclined to make a U-turn, I checked my mental lists to see if I had any Valley errands.

Uh-oh. The Quinns—Annika’s host family—lived in the Valley. Encino.

Forget it. I could turn around. I was smack in the middle of the low-rent section of Beverly Glen, just past Fernbush, with old, yardless houses practically falling onto the street. I could take a right on a little road called Crater and turn around, no problem.

Yes, problem,
said a voice in my head. Ruta. My childhood babysitter, dead for years, still talking to me.
They don’t answer their phone, these people, you should go visit them.

“In L.A. you don’t just drop in on people,” I said. “It’s not done. I don’t know how they do things in Germany, but I don’t think Mrs. Glück expects me to run all over the San Fernando Valley, bothering everyone.”

Of course she expects it,
Ruta said.
She is a mother. This is her little girl.

“Plus, they have a dog. A guard dog, probably. A pit bull. Mr. Snuggles.”

Not to mention the fact that I didn’t know where in Encino they lived. I could go home, get Mrs. Glück’s number, call her in Germany, get the address, and visit the Quinns some other time. Immediately I felt better.

Until I remembered directory assistance. To my annoyance, 411 gave me an address on a street called Moon Canyon Road. What kind of people, I wondered, are listed in directory assistance? I tried to recall what Annika had said about them. A mom with some home-based business, a doctor or lawyer dad, a child Annika adored. I did not want to barge in on them.

None of this would’ve happened if you had taken more math in high school,
Ruta said.
Or finished college when you were supposed to, instead of futzing around, in and out, in and out all these years. Then you wouldn’t have need for a math tutor. Then you wouldn’t care so much about this girl. But you didn’t, so you did, and you do, so now you must.

I wished I were someone else: the kind of person who can be rude to telemarketers, who doesn’t recycle, someone who’d simply get herself another math tutor and to heck with somebody’s mother in Germany. I wished I’d given Annika ten minutes last week.

I was nearing Mulholland now, the summit of Beverly Glen, where the road was wider, the real estate costlier, and the view spectacular. I pulled over and searched my trunk for the Thomas Guide, a book of maps as common to Southern California cars as Gideon Bibles are to hotel-room drawers.

Fifteen minutes later I was in the wilds of Encino. I hadn’t even known Encino had wilds. I thought of Encino, when I thought about it at all, as suburbia, inhabited by women with standing appointments to “get their hair done” and men who maintained the lawn. Or hired immigrant workers to maintain the lawn. This Encino, however, was enchantingly rural, marred only by distinctive white trucks at the end of the street indicating a film shoot. Film shoots, around L.A., are as common as surfboards.

I drove slowly down Moon Canyon Road, enjoying the multicultural architecture: a Spanish hacienda next to an Italian villa opposite a Tudor manor. I came to the number I was looking for, which was painted on a rock, and parked on the street. An electronic gate stood wide open—a sign from the universe, if you believe in such things. The gate was wood and managed to look quaint rather than high security. I walked through it and followed a flagstone path through a yard that was half garden, half forest, complete with a pond inhabited by koi. The house was traditional American, butter-yellow clapboard with white trim on the shuttered windows. I looked up. A balcony extended from a second-story room. Wind chimes tinkled on a porch, and when I rang the doorbell harmonizing chimes sounded somewhere in the house.

The response was immediate. Set in the front door was a small window at face level, and through the glass I could see a small furious canine head—not a pit bull’s—appear and disappear, appear and disappear, as if the animal was jumping up and down repeatedly on the other side of the door, although how this was achieved without a ladder I couldn’t understand. The yapping would drive a reasonable person to drink. “Hi, Mr. Snuggles,” I said, and awaited the appearance of a human or the sound of a voice telling Mr. Snuggles to shut the heck up.

None came. I rang the doorbell again, which brought on another of Mr. Snuggles’s jumping fits. Was anyone home? I looked around for cars, but the driveway was some distance from the house, presumably leading to a garage or carport in the back. Maybe the family was simply out of town, and Annika with them, in a place without telephone access. A canoe trip, for instance. An impulsive, spur-of-the-moment canoe trip. Perfectly good explanation, I decided, and I descended the porch steps, preparing to leave.

A big white bird waddled up the flagstone path to meet me. Too fat for a swan, too white for a turkey, it was, I deduced, a goose.

“Hello, Goose,” I said, walking toward it.

The goose took exception to this, flapped its wings violently, and honked. I backed up.

This was a mistake. The goose lunged at me, enraged, honking and hissing. I turned to get out of its way and stumbled over a rosebush, and the goose was on me, pecking my calf through my painter’s pants. This hurt a lot more than one would think. I became a little enraged myself, and more than a little scared, and tried to kick the bird. As I was wearing Keds, the damage would’ve been minimal, but in any case, I missed. The goose came at me again. I swung at it with my backpack, missed again, and with my right hand slapped at it, connecting slightly. Then I turned and ran.

The goose, affronted by the slap, intensified its demented honking and came after me. We ran around to the back of the house, and I spotted the garage. It was a six-car garage, with five cars in residence. I jumped into the back of a pickup truck, a Toyota Tundra, and ducked.

I’ve been in some undignified situations in my life, but hiding from poultry was a low watermark. It worked, though. The goose gave a few more honks, but they lacked conviction. It must have seen me jump into the truck, but either geese have short memories or it felt I’d conceded the fight, because it waddled off toward the house. I know this because I peeked.

Suddenly I heard the song “Anatevka,” from
Fiddler on the Roof,
coming from somewhere behind the house. I climbed out of the pickup and saw drops of blood; the palm of my hand was wounded. Happily, the Toyota was red. There was also a minivan, a bright green Volkswagen bug I’d seen Annika drive, and a white Lexus inhabiting the garage. In the driveway was a Range Rover. All the vehicles looked freshly washed.

“Anatevka” grew louder. I followed the sound across the lawn and came to a structure that appeared to be some sort of guesthouse or artist’s studio. The door was open. I looked in.

The structure was a high-ceilinged, skylit room. Along one wall was a kitchen, dominated by a granite island work surface. The rest of the space was a hobbyist’s dream: power tools, gardening supplies, sawhorse, sewing machine, kiln, easel, loom, and computer artfully arranged, a masterpiece of organization and aesthetics. A working fireplace occupied the wall opposite the kitchen. Autumn leaves and pomegranates covered the granite work surface, a wreath-making project in progress.

Across the room, a woman with her back to me stood on a ladder. She wore heels. She was stacking glass bottles in compartments on floor-to-ceiling shelves. Dozens of bottles filled the shelves, the kind used for lotion or bath oil, Art Deco–looking things in amber, violet, and moss green. A subtle scent, spice or oil or potpourri, permeated the room. It reminded me of Annika. Near the loom sat a little girl, playing with the volume on a CD player. The mournful “Anatevka” zoomed in and out.

“You are making Mommy a little crazy,” the woman said, without pausing in her jar arranging. “Please stop.”

“Dora the explorer, Dora the explorer, Dora the explorer,” the little girl chanted.

“If you watch
Dora the Explorer
now, you can’t watch
Sesame Street
in half an hour.”

“Dora the explorer. Dora the explorer. Dora the exp—”

“Okay, okay, okay. But no more TV till bedtime, when Mommy’s at pastry class. Run into the house and tell Lupe you can watch Dora.”

The little girl jumped up, then caught sight of me and stopped. I smiled. She didn’t smile back, but when I gave her a little wave, she raised a hand in response, opening and closing her fist in a toddler like gesture. The woman saw it and turned.

“Hi.” I sneezed. “Sorry to barge in. I tried the house, and nobody answered, so . . .”

An overfed yellow cat jumped with a thump onto the granite work surface and sniffed at the leaves. The woman on the ladder and the child looked at it, then turned back to me, as if it was still my turn to speak. They were both blond, with wide faces and peaches-and-cream complexions. They wore light blue work shirts and white jeans. I tried to recall if I’d ever seen a mother and daughter wearing matching outfits outside of a catalog.

“Mommy, that lady has blood.”

I looked down. Three drops of blood lay on the white tile floor, from my hand. It didn’t seem polite to say their bird had assaulted me, so I closed my fist over the bleeding palm and said, “My name is Wollie. I called yesterday and left a message. I’m a friend of Annika’s . . .”

“Of course.” The woman climbed nimbly down the ladder, someone who obviously lived in high heels. “I’m Maizie. I’m so sorry, I was writing down your number last night and little monkey here hit the delete button. Emma, love—” She frowned at the girl, now chanting something that sounded like
alla myna engine.
“Emma, why don’t you run in and watch
Dora
?”

“Emma want to stay with Mommy.”

Maizie looked like she might argue the point, then turned to me. She had an attractive face, with good bones. “So. Annika. It’s all so—disturbing.”

“Yes.” I sneezed again.

“Allergic to cats?” she said. “Sorry. This guy wandered in and adopted us. Adopted Annika, actually. Are you a close friend?”

My stomach clenched, thinking of the last time I’d seen her. I nodded. “She’s like a little sister. A smarter sister. She’s been tutoring me in math. We met on the set of a TV show.”

“She is smart.” Maizie smiled, dimples softening her face. “It sold my husband on her. He respects intelligence.” She ruffled her hair. It was thick hair, well cut. “We’ve been out of town; Annika had the weekend off and I’ve been telling myself she misunderstood, thought we were coming back later. But now it’s Tuesday. I hate to say this, but I think she’s—taken off.”

“Where?” I said.

“I can think of a few places.” Maizie glanced down at her daughter, who followed the conversation with the intensity of a cub reporter. “But there’s a lot in her life I’m not privy to. A boy she’s quite taken with; I’ve been trying to remember his last name. And there’s—well, she’s on duty with Emma from six
A.M.
until four in the afternoon, eleven on Fridays, which leaves a lot of free time. And she fills up those hours. It’s one of the things we love about her, her independence, but it makes it hard to—narrow it down.”

Emma spoke up. “Annika not here, Mommy.”

“No, she’s not, bunny.”

“Where is Annika?”

“We don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

“We better go find her, Mommy.”

My sentiments exactly. “Is her stuff still here?” I asked.