Dream House (23 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

Sunday, November 16. 10:22
P.M
. 6300 block of Green Valley Circle. When the results of an apartment complex's board elections were announced, a man complained, “The crooks are back on the board.” When another resident told him he could always move, the loser stepped on his neighbor's feet and punched him in the temple. (Culver City)

N
ED VAUGHAN WAS THE LAST TO SPEAK AT THE FUNERAL.
He followed several of Linney's colleagues from the University of Southern California, who talked about the Professor's directness and intelligence and sharp sense of humor, and a portly, gray-haired dean who went on and on about Linney's contribution to the field of architecture and to the university. Ned's eulogy was more personal, more eloquent. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he choked up a number of times as he narrated anecdotes about the man who had been his mentor and friend.

The room, overly air-conditioned and scented by sprays of flowers, was practically filled, mostly with people I didn't know. Colleagues and students, I assumed; the friends who'd attended all those parties. I did know some people. The board members I'd seen the other night—Brenda, Nancy, the woman whose name I couldn't remember and who'd barely said a word. Jeremy Dorn. Linda Cobern was sitting next to a distinguished man whom I finally recognized as Bruce Harrington. Elbogen was there, too. I saw the doctor when I entered the chapel. He looked startled when our eyes met and quickly averted his head.

I was sitting toward the back with Winnie and Walter. Winnie was composed and magnificent in black velour, like a giant cat. Walter's eyes were red and his nose was leaking. Every few seconds he blotted it with a balled handkerchief, although a few times I watched nervously as a drop clung to his nostril, and hoped the handkerchief would get there before the drop fell to his lips and he did his tongue sweep. Tim Bolt was across the aisle to my right. He'd been sniffling throughout the service, and at one point had bowed his head and sobbed. Having lived next door to Linney all these years, he probably felt the loss more than anyone else in the room.

“Tim's taking it real bad,” Fennel said, looking at Bolt and echoing my thoughts. “His own dad wasn't around much, so maybe he saw Oscar like a replacement. Plus he takes things hard in general.”

Roger Modine was a few rows up. He'd scowled at me as he'd passed my pew, looking stiff and uncomfortable in a navy sports jacket that strained across his barrel chest. Last night I'd speculated about the possibility that the contractor had tried to gain access to my apartment. He'd impersonated a police detective to obtain information about Margaret's last day. Maybe he was worried that I'd discovered something that would incriminate him. Like what? I wondered again now.

Hank Reston was sitting in the first pew, of course. He'd greeted me when I arrived and thanked me for coming, but I could tell he was distracted. He hadn't delivered a eulogy, but he'd introduced those who had. He'd probably arranged for the funeral, too. According to Walter, with Margaret gone there was no one else to do it.

“Oscar has a sister-in-law,” Walter told me. “Vivian. But she and Oscar haven't talked in years, not since Roberta died. A shame, too, because Margaret loved her and it probably would've been good for her to have a woman around. I thought maybe she'd be here today, but I don't see her.”

After the service, which was closed casket, I waited in the foyer to sign the guest book. There were five people ahead of me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ned Vaughan. He was a few feet away with an attractive blond woman who had her arm linked through his. The girlfriend, I thought. He had his eyes on Roger Modine, who was talking with Linda Cobern. Then Ned turned his head and saw me.

A moment later he was at my side, alone. “I left a message on your answering machine,” he said, his voice tight with accusation.

“I tried phoning you Saturday night, but your line was busy. Was there something you forgot to tell me?”

“Detective Hernandez came to see me Friday afternoon about Modine. I asked you not to involve me. Aren't reporters supposed to protect their sources?” A vein pulsed in his forehead.

“You asked me not to tell Hank. I didn't. But you don't have to worry. Hernandez pointed out that there were a lot of people at the party who could have overheard Modine. He promised he wouldn't tell Modine how he knows. I think you can trust him.”

Ned's smile was grim. “I don't have a choice, do I?”

“By the way, Margaret consulted an intellectual rights attorney. Do you know if that was related to her music?”

“I suppose so. I don't know.” He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and put it back. “I'm going outside for a smoke.”

I signed the guest book. I didn't see Winnie and Walter. They were probably walking to the burial site. I was heading to my car when I saw Porter with the USC dean. The dean was doing the talking. Porter was nodding and looked bored to death. I hoped he wouldn't notice me, but of course, he did.

A second or so later he was standing in front of me. The morning sun brought out the glints in his blond hair, the kind I pay good money for.

He planted his feet apart, the way he probably does in target practice or when he's about to take someone down. He oozed male authority. “Why am I not surprised that you're here, Blume?”

“Because you're psychic?” That annoyed him, but I didn't care. “You're here, too.”

“Police business. Standard procedure.”

“Well, you should thank me. I gave you an excuse to get away from the dean. He does go on, doesn't he?”

Porter scowled. “I hear you've been kissing up to Detective Hernandez.”

“We exchanged information. I can kiss up to you, too, if you want. I wouldn't want you to feel left out.”

He leaned toward me. “I don't like your attitude, Blume.”

“If it makes you feel better, you're not the only one. Did you want to tell me something, Detective, or are you just determined to give me a hard time?”

“Your friend Hank Reston is offering a hundred thousand dollars for information that leads to the discovery of his wife's body.”

“I heard the news on the way here.” It had me thinking again that with Linney dead—and soon buried—it was an opportune time for someone to “find” Margaret's body. “He offered a reward before, right after his wife disappeared. And he's not my friend, by the way. He—”

“I'm surprised you haven't found the body yet. You've been digging around enough.” Emphasis on the
digging.

“And that bothers you?” I'd been about to tell him about the alterations in the planner, but now I was annoyed. Let him find them on his own.

“This is a lark for you, isn't it, showing up the cops? It'll make good material for one of your articles.”

First Elbogen, then Linda Cobern. I was fed up with being maligned. “Have I published
one word
since the fire?”

“Oh, you will.” He nodded and smiled a smug little smile.

“When I get the green light, not one minute before. I'm not trying to show anyone up. And this isn't a lark. You're probably aware that I've been threatened. I'd kinda like to know by whom.”

“Why don't you let us find out?”

“Like you found out who killed Aggie Lasher?” That just slipped out. “I'm sorry. That wasn't fair.”

He gazed at me as though I were a spider he was considering stomping on. “We don't need you interfering with this investigation, Blume.”

“How have I interfered? I've interviewed people. That's my right. I've advised them to talk to the police and turn in evidence, like the tape of Margaret Reston's phone call, and her planner. I'd call that helping.”

“And now your fingerprints are all over the planner
and
the tape. I'll ask the mayor to give you a medal.”

“Which is why I had my prints rolled after I talked to Detective Hernandez, so that you could eliminate them.”

“We did. But if you'd called us when you found the planner, instead of playing hot potato with it, we wouldn't be dealing with a dozen other fingerprints.”

“Look, I had no idea that the planner had been missing or that you guys hadn't seen it. The whole place was fingerprinted. I found the planner in the nightstand. Roger Modine took it from me. He handed it to Hank Reston. That's three, by the way, plus Margaret makes it four, not a dozen.” I shouldn't have added the last, but my mouth has a way of working independently of my brain.

“And the tape? When you found it you already suspected that Linney had been murdered. You must've figured no one else had seen it. But did you leave it for us to handle?” Porter snorted.

I had a retort all ready, but I swallowed it. Porter was right. I'd screwed up. “I'm sorry. I didn't know what was on it, but you're right.”

“Sorry doesn't mean shit, Blume. What's done is done.”

“I touched the plastic cassette, not the tape. Detective Hernandez said it was spliced. Did you find prints on the tape?”

“You two are such buddies, why don't you ask him?”

“I will. By the way, were Reston's prints on the cassette?”

“Like I said—”

“Come on, Porter. Tell me, and I'll give you something in return. Deal?”

“You already talked your heart out to Hernandez.”

“This is new.” I could see a flicker of indecision in his blue-blue eyes. “It's about Margaret's planner.”

“What about it?”

“First tell me about the prints.”

“I don't think so.”

I could tell he wasn't bluffing. I deliberated for about a second, then told him about the changes.

“The lab boys downtown have equipment that can probably make out what was there,” Porter said. “You can't remember what you read instead of the Sub-Zero thing?”

I shook my head. “I only saw it for a second. So about the cassette. Were Reston's prints on it?” For a moment I thought Porter wasn't going to answer.

Then he nodded. “He says Linney asked him to change the answering machine tape a few days before he died. So of course, his prints would be on it.”

“Of course.”

Porter's tone was bland, and I couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. It was the answer I'd expected, but not the one I'd wanted.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-ONE

N
OTHING HAD BEEN DONE TO THE FULLER HOUSE
SINCE
I'd been here a week ago. The plywood still covered the bottom half of the living room window. The front door was still ravaged, and the blackened stucco, more visible in the bright sunlight, made the house stiff competition for The Dungeon.

Oscar Linney would have cried.

The For Sale sign was gone, I noticed as I walked to the front door. Either Reston had removed it while the house underwent repairs, or he'd taken it off the market and planned to rebuild with the insurance money.

I slipped my hand through the gaping hole in the front door and turned the knob. This time I wasn't trespassing. I'd told Reston I planned to visit the house again, and he'd said, no problem.

The air still smelled of smoke, but I didn't feel as though I was choking. According to Hernandez, the fire had begun in the kitchen. I hadn't looked there before. I did now, but there wasn't much to see—just a black, sooty shell. I left quickly and headed for the stairs. Someone—probably one of Modine's men—had nailed plywood onto the two missing steps. With the bright light pouring in through the dining room windows and through the pane of glass above the front door, the steps looked less treacherous, but I had come directly from the funeral in two-inch Jimmy Choo heels and was careful with every tread.

I went directly to Linney's study, where a week's accumulation of ash had turned the dark wood furniture into a putty color. I searched through his desk drawers for anything I might have missed—letters, bank statements, correspondence about Skoll Investment. I hadn't really expected to find anything, but I felt a twinge of disappointment when I didn't. I had no better results in Linney's bedroom, and though I suspected I'd be equally unsuccessful in Margaret's room, I went there anyway.

The room smelled of lavender and jasmine. I sniffed the air. Perfume. The scent was strong.

Last week I'd assumed that the housekeeper had paid special attention to Margaret's room. Last week I'd believed that Reston was grieving for his missing wife, and speculated that he was keeping hope alive by preserving her room and her possessions.

But if Reston killed her? If he was contemplating razing the house, why would he send the housekeeper here?

I ran my finger across the top of Margaret's desk. There was only the faintest hint of ash.

Maybe it wasn't the housekeeper. Maybe Reston had been coming here. Every few days, daily. Dusting and perfuming, maintaining the room so that it looked as it had before Margaret disappeared.

Before she betrayed him?

I glanced at the bed. The white slippers were still there, waiting for Margaret to slip her feet into them.

Control, I thought, not love.

A husband who preserves the illusion of a perfect wife. A duke who veils the portrait of his late duchess, “looking as if she were alive,” so that no one else can view her.

I went into the dressing room. The perfume bottles were dusted, the lipsticks circled around the vanity set. The comb, the brush with the mother-of-pearl handle.

A new mirror, exactly like the one Modine had broken. The contractor had offered to repair the mirror, or replace it. Reston had turned down the offer, but maybe Modine had done it anyway.

I didn't like thinking about Modine, particularly in this narrow dressing room where he'd trussed me like a chicken. I left the room and was heading for the stairs when I heard a shout from outside Linney's old office.

The French windows were open. I walked over and looked down at the garage where Margaret kept her studio and the garden where Tim Bolt had last seen her. No one was there. Another shout drew my attention to the neighboring yard to the left and the father and son who were playing ball.

“No fair!” the dark-haired boy yelled as he raced after the ball, which had sailed over his head.

I stood there awhile, smiling as I watched them. I don't know what made me look up. I can't say I felt someone watching me, but it was something like that. When I did, I saw a woman at the third-story window of the charcoal gray house kitty-corner to Linney's.

Our eyes met for a brief moment. Then a curtain covered the window and she was gone.