Dream House (18 page)

“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.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-TWO

T
HE 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.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-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.”

“By Nancy.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “No comment.”

“And the guy with the roof problem?”

“Composition is ugly,” Dorn said with finality. “Look, I sympathize with Mr. Lowenthal's situation. Restoring the roof will be expensive. But we have to maintain standards. At the same time, I don't like the whole Big Brother thing. I'm hoping to change that, but it won't happen overnight.”

I applauded his goal but agreed with Fennel: I didn't think Dorn had the
cojónes
for the job—or
beitzim,
if you want to use the Yiddish slang. (Literally,
eggs.
) In any language, he didn't have what it took.

“I heard that residents in a few HARP areas are so unhappy that they're trying to rescind their status,” I said.

“Ladera Heights and Mar Vista.” Dorn nodded. “If it
does
happen, it won't be soon. And that's exactly why I'm getting involved, to make the system more reasonable and keep the homeowners happy and build a community.”

“Hancock Park homeowners don't seem all that happy about becoming a HARP area. Yours was one of the recently vandalized homes, right?”

His hand went to his bandage. “That was terrifying, I can tell you. One minute I'm reading in my living room. The next, there's glass all over me and I'm bleeding. A few inches lower and I could have lost an eye.” He grimaced.

“Who do you think did it?”

Dorn shrugged. “The police asked me. You were at tonight's meeting. It's not always that contentious, but there are quite a few unhappy homeowners in Miracle Mile, and I imagine it's the same in the other HARP districts.”

“Anyone stand out in your mind?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“Roger Modine?” I thought I saw a flicker in his eyes but wasn't sure. “You can tell me off the record.”

“Thanks, but being shot at once is enough for me.”

“What about Arnold Seltzer? The man who was yelling at you and Linda Cobern at the Hancock Park HARP meeting?”

“Arnie's a flake, but he's harmless.” Dorn checked his watch. “You have four minutes.”

“Why would I think you were having an affair with Margaret Reston?”

“Because according to Walter Fennel, I was. The old goat dropped hints whenever he saw me. He introduced you tonight, so you've obviously talked to him. I figured he told you. Why not? He's told the rest of the world.”

Dorn sounded bitter, and I couldn't blame him. “Including Hank Reston?”

He grimaced. “I assume you've talked to Reston. What did
he
say?”

“That there was nothing going on between you and his wife.”

The architect grunted. “Well, that's not the tune he was singing five months ago. Five months ago he was ready to take my head off.”

“What happened?” We were down to less than three minutes, but I sensed that Dorn wanted me to hear his version. And I was more than happy to listen.

“Linney phoned Hank in a panic. Maggie was supposedly at the Muirfield house, but she hadn't answered her cell phone all day. Hank couldn't reach her, either, so he drove to Muirfield and waited. By the time Maggie and I arrived, he was convinced that she hadn't answered her phone because we hadn't wanted to be
interrupted.
”

“Why
didn't
she answer it?”

“She didn't have it. She'd misplaced it. She
told
Linney he wouldn't be able to contact her. She also told him she wouldn't be at the Muirfield house until late in the afternoon. The old guy forgot.” Dorn sighed again. “Maggie tried to explain, but Hank was too busy raging.”

“I'm surprised he didn't fire you.”

“Actually, he did.” Dorn flashed a wry smile. “He hadn't wanted to hire me in the first place. I'm sure he thought Maggie and I were too chummy. We've known each other for years. This gave him an out.”

“He wanted to hire his friend Ned Vaughan?” I said.

Dorn nodded. “That was awkward, especially because I know Ned. But I was Maggie's choice and Hank wanted her to be happy. Anyway, after he finally stopped yelling and let Maggie explain, he apologized profusely and rehired me. But I'm not sure he believed her. It's a shame. They really had something special, and he was ruining it with his obsessive jealousy.”

“Maggie loved him?”

“Are you kidding? She was crazy about him. The truth is they should never have moved into her father's house. That's when things started turning sour. You want to hear the kicker? Linney had the cell phone the whole time. He put it in his desk drawer and forgot all about it.”

Or not, I thought.