Dream House (22 page)

Maybe Reston had wanted me to find the tape.

He could have “found” it. It would be natural for him to go through his father-in-law's possessions. But unless I'd misread Hernandez, Reston was a prime suspect, and the police would have regarded his discovery more suspiciously.

But if someone else discovered the tape . . . a tape that the police would find to have been spliced, a tape that would give credence to the probability that Margaret Linney was dead, and allow the grieving widower to inherit her estate. And Linney's, now that he was dead, too. And be reimbursed by the insurance company for several million dollars' worth of stolen jewels.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-NINE

Saturday, November 15. 12:30
P.M
. Corner of La Brea Avenue and Venice Boulevard. A woman approached a man at a gas station and said, “You raped Saddam bin Laden.” She then took out a knife and attempted to stab him before running off westbound on Venice. The suspect is described as a 40- to 49-year-old Caucasian woman standing 5 feet 6 inches tall and weighing 170 pounds, with brown hair and green eyes. (Wilshire)

H
AVING LUNCH WITH ZACK'S PARENTS WAS LIKE
GETTING
six stitches under my chin, which I did one summer in camp: The anticipation was worse than the actuality, but I'd be lying if I told you the process was painless.

It wasn't that I didn't know his parents. Zack had introduced me to them three months ago at the shul's meet-the-new-rabbi dinner, and I say hello whenever I attend services at Zack's shul. (I'd first seen them at Zack's high school graduation reception, when I forced my friend Aggie to stroll with me past the Abrams family tableau. Several times. Seventeen-year-old girls with broken hearts do pathetic things, though come to think of it, there's no age limit on “pathetic.”) Anyway, they're always warm and friendly. But now I would be in their home and, as Chef Emeril would say, Zack and I were “kicking it up a notch.”

Since Wednesday night I'd built myself up to a state of nervousness that not even the strongest antiperspirant could have helped. Reason told me Zack's parents wanted to like me as much as I wanted to like them: He's an only child, thirty years old, and they're probably
chaleshing
for him to marry and provide them with grandchildren. My experience with Ron's parents, decent people understandably blind to their son's faults, told me the same thing. But reason and experience are powerless against my insecurity and tendency to overanalyze, insidious Merlins who turn truth into illusion and illusion into truth.

They'd probably checked me out with people in the community who knew my family or of them. (My parents had done the same with their prospective sons-in-law and daughter-in-law. It's the norm.) So they knew that I was divorced, that I'd left Orthodoxy for a few years. And if they'd vetted me with Rabbi Ingel, my high school Bible teacher, they'd no doubt come away with a less-than-flattering picture of “that Blume girl,” which is how he'd refer to me. Then again, I had a few things to say about the rabbi.

“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?”