Dream House (25 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-FIVE

“T
HERE YOU ARE,” HANK SAID. “LOUISA THOUGHT YOU
were in Linney's room. Didn't you hear me calling you?”

My face felt sunburned. My heart was pounding. I put on a smile and turned around. “Sorry. I heard your voice, but not what you were saying.” He was looking at me with curiosity, and I wondered if he could see the heaving of my chest. “I hope you don't mind that I'm in here. I was passing by and remembered that the room looks out on the pool. I was mesmerized by the view.”

“Much prettier today than the last time you were here. It
is
beautiful, isn't it? Maggie would've loved the way everything turned out. I have to say Dorn did a great job.”

“It's too bad Ned Vaughan couldn't do it.”

“He felt bad about it. So did I.” Hank shrugged. “But Maggie chose Dorn, and Oscar approved. And I have no complaints. Louisa said you talked to her, so that's done,” he said, obviously changing the subject from Dorn. “And I guess you already looked in the Professor's room. Did you find everything you wanted?”

More
than I wanted. I nodded. “By the way, I noticed that the Fuller house is no longer for sale.”

“Too much damage. I'm going to rebuild with the insurance money.”

“And list it again with Central Realty?”

Reston hesitated. “Actually, I plan to sell it on my own. I don't think Tim Bolt is the right person to handle it, but I don't want to insult him by going to another broker. Don't tell him I said that.”

So Reston had learned of Bolt's bigotry, too. “I won't. Do you have time for a few questions?”

“That's why I'm here.” He smiled.

In the kitchen I sat at the table while he filled two mugs with coffee. Just like last time, except that last time I'd been happily unaware of his financial problems and how he'd solved them. And the implications. I wondered about the altered entry.
M/Drop off info re HARP.
What info, and why had Reston erased it?

Hank brought the mugs to the table, placed one in front of me, and sat down across from me. “Thanks again for coming to the funeral, Molly,” he said in his soft drawl. “That was real nice of you.”

“I wanted to be there. It was an impressive turnout.”

“Oscar had a lot friends. I just wasn't one of them. I wish things would've been different between us, but wishing doesn't make it so. Anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Ned says you picked him cleaner than a corncob. So did he tell you all kinds of terrible things about me?” Reston treated me to one of his mischievous smiles.

“He's a loyal friend. He didn't want to talk about you.”

“But he did, didn't he? So what did he say?”

“That you'd been waiting a long time to find someone like Maggie.” I took a sip of the hot coffee. Hazelnut today, instead of cinnamon. “That you were possessive.”

“He said that, huh?” Hank chewed on his lip. “Well, I guess that's true,” he said quietly. “You find someone like Maggie, you don't want to let her out of your sight.”

“To be honest, I'm surprised Ned and Maggie never got together. He was at the house all the time. And, well . . .”

“And he was educated. You can say it. You won't hurt my feelings. Actually, it was Ned's idea to introduce me to Maggie. He thought we'd hit it off. And he has a girlfriend. I told him if he ever
does
marry her, his wedding vows would probably be ‘to love, preserve, and restore wherever possible.'” Hank laughed. “So what else did he tell you?”

“Not much.” So Walter had been right about Ned. I couldn't wait to tell Zack, who had put the bug in my head. Still . . . “Actually, he seemed nervous and was happy to see me go.”

“He's got a lot on his mind. USC, his other work. And he took Linney's death hard. So who else have you talked to?”

“Jeremy Dorn.”

Hank stiffened. “And?”

“He said you fired him because you thought he and Maggie were having an affair.”

“That was a dumb misunderstanding.” Hank's face turned red. “Let me tell you, I felt like a jerk when Maggie explained everything. I felt like a bigger jerk when I had to beg Dorn to come back. And of course, he told the cops all about it, so I had to explain the whole thing to them, too.” He grunted. “Your turn. Did you learn anything?”

“Number one, Tiler is the name of an intellectual properties attorney. Gordon Tiler. Your wife had an appointment with him that last day. Any idea why?” I'd phoned the attorney's Wilshire office this morning and had left a message, asking him to call.

“Beats the hell out of me.” Hank was frowning. “You're sure?”

“Pretty sure. Was Maggie planning to do something with her musical compositions?”

“Not that I know. But she could've been. Anything else?”

“Professor Linney invested over forty thousand dollars with a Denver company called Skoll Investment.”

Hank nodded. “I saw that in his check register when I was going over his papers after Maggie disappeared. Too long after, actually. I was focused on Maggie, and, well . . . Anyway, when I did ask him about it, he said it was none of my goddamn business. Pardon my French.” He paused. “What was I going to do, fight with him? So I asked Ned to find out—Ned and Oscar were close—but Oscar wouldn't tell him, either. What kind of investments do they handle?”

“I don't think they exist.” I told him about my attempts to contact the company.

“I dropped the ball on that one.” Hank sighed. “Anyway, from what you're saying, that money was long gone. Bastards, preying on old people.” He clamped his lips together.

In view of what I'd just discovered, I found his comment outrageous. Maybe that's why I asked him the next question. “Did Professor Linney write the checks from his personal checking account or another account?”

“Personal account. What other account would he use? Why?” He picked up his mug.

“Just curious.” I'd caught him in a lie. I should have felt gratified, but I was angry, and sad. “I found a bank statement in his room for a home equity line of credit on the Fuller house. So I wondered if he used that account.”

Reston took a sip of coffee. “Damn, this is hot,” he said, but he held the mug to his lips. I think he knew I'd trapped him. I think he was replaying scenes in his head, trying to figure out if and how he'd left one of Linney's HELC statements in the old man's bedroom. And if he hadn't . . . And maybe he started wondering what I'd been doing in his study, why I hadn't heard him calling me, what I'd found.

He sighed again. For a moment I thought he was going to confess to embezzling the money from Linney's account.

“Come to think of it, Oscar
did
write those checks from his home equity account, Molly. I didn't have a good night's sleep, what with the funeral and all. I probably shouldn't be operating heavy machinery.” The smile he gave me was a little strained.

There's a saying in Yiddish: “With lies you can go far, but you can't go back.” Hank was stuck with his lie. I was curious to see where he went next. “Did Professor Linney write other large checks from that account?”

“To be honest, I haven't been on top of his finances. The interest on that account is paid automatically from his checking account, so I didn't worry about it. But I'll definitely look into it now. Thanks for bringing it up.”

“The reason I'm asking is, maybe someone coerced Professor Linney to write the checks and killed him to keep him quiet.”

There was a long silence. I listened to the hum of the Sub-Zero and thought about the planner.
M/Drop off info re HARP. M
as in Modine? Had he come to the house that night?

“Like who?” Hank finally asked.

“It would have to be someone who knew your wife. Someone who had a tape of her voice and spliced it to lure Professor Linney to the Fuller house.” And saved the tape for that purpose? “Probably someone your wife called.”

“I see what you mean.”

“If you find funds missing from his account, you'll want to tell the police,” I said.

He was staring at me. “Of course.”

Maybe Modine had been searching for the planner in Maggie's dressing room. But I had found it first, and he'd had no choice but to give it to Reston. But he could have seen what was in it, I realized with a jolt. He'd taken it with him when he left Linney's room for a few minutes to check out a noise that turned out to be “the wind.” A noise I hadn't heard. Had he erased the entry then? Or had he asked Reston to do it?
You have to help me, man. You know I didn't do it, but I don't need the cops on my back.

“What about Roger Modine?” I asked, to see Hank's reaction. “He was around the house a lot. He could have helped himself to a few of Professor Linney's checks.” In my mind I saw the contractor dangling the house keys in my face, smirking. “He showed me a key you gave him to the Fuller house. Has he had that a long time?”

Reston was looking at me as though I'd lost my mind. “Sure, he had a key. He was doing work in the house. But Roger wouldn't kill Oscar.”

“His construction business has been suffering from the HARP restrictions. Maybe he was desperate.”

Reston shook his head.

“He has a temper,” I said. “He tied me up that night. That wasn't necessary. At the Hancock Park HARP meeting he looked like he was ready to strangle Ned Vaughan. By the way, what were they arguing about?”

Reston hesitated. “The survey results. He thought that as my friend, Ned should have supported us. We have some properties in Hancock Park and Windsor Square.”

“He wanted Ned to
lie
?”

“Not
lie.
” Reston took another sip of coffee. “The survey was subjective. Basically what they did was take a bunch of photos and decide which house was contributory. The thing is, two architects could look at the same house and come up with two opinions. Roger thought some of Ned's calls were unfair. Anyway, it's over and done with.”

Reston seemed uncomfortable, and I had the feeling there was more to the matter. “You also have properties in Ladera Heights and Mar Vista, right? Those are HARP areas, so I imagine they're giving you grief.”

Was that the HARP “info” Modine had dropped off? Had he used the opportunity, and Hank's absence, to make a move on Maggie?

Reston had leaned back and tilted his chair. He studied me. “You really did your homework.”

“You asked me to look into your wife's disappearance, Hank. That's what I did. And into Professor Linney's death.”

“Are you saying our HARP properties are connected with Maggie's death or her father's?”

There was a warning in his question, and some anxiety. I reminded myself that I was sitting across the table from a man who may have murdered two people. I probably should have let it drop. But Louisa was in the house. “I know you're having problems with those properties, Hank. The police know it, too.”

“Every business has cash flow problems. HARP is a pain in the butt, but we hope to move those properties soon.” He sat upright, got to his feet, and pushed the chair back with an abrupt motion. It screeched across the high gloss of the new maple floor. “I think I made a mistake confiding in you, Molly. I thought you wanted to help me find out what happened to Maggie, and to her father. But it looks like you're just trying to make me out to be the villain. I didn't need your help for that.”

“I told you when we first spoke that I was interested in finding the truth.” I stood and picked up my purse.

“I loved my wife. I didn't kill her. I didn't like my father-in-law, but I didn't kill him, either. That
is
the truth.”

I have to say he sounded sincere. “I understand that Professor Linney was taken to the ER several times by ambulance. You didn't mention that.”

“Because it wasn't important,” Reston said with a flash of impatience. “Like I told you, he had Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. His balance was off, he wasn't careful, so he'd trip and fall all the time. One time he dislocated his elbow. Another time he sprained his ankle.”

The same injuries Tim Bolt had told me about, a different story. Which version was true? “Wasn't he hospitalized once for a few days?”

“He overdosed on Mirapex. That's the medication he was taking for the Parkinson's. He wanted to write a paper and was frustrated because his hand shook so much that he couldn't hold a pen. He thought if he took more of the Mirapex, he would eliminate the shaking. He ended up having a psychotic episode. Is that it?”

“He told several people that you abused him.”

“Which people?” Reston demanded.

“I can't tell you that.”

“I never laid a finger on him.” Reston's face was flushed. He took a calming breath. “He was paranoid. He said people were out to get him and stealing his money.”

“Well, it looks like they were,” I said.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-SIX

A
T NIGHT THE DUNGEON LOOKED LIKE A SET FOR
“THE
Cask of Amontillado,” and I wondered again whether I was crazy to come here. (“You're going
where
?” Edie had said when I'd told her I couldn't play mah jongg tonight. And she's the levelheaded one in the family.)

This time I was prepared for the attack of the vines and ducked my head a few times as I made my way to the front door. I wondered whether the interior of the house was junglelike, too.

Charlene Coulter must have been waiting in the entry, looking through her privacy window, because she opened the door as soon as I pressed my finger against the bell. All I could think of was the Big Bad Wolf eagerly welcoming Red Riding Hood.

Not that she looked like a wolf in Grandma's clothing. She was younger than I'd expected—probably in her sixties, judging from the gray in the shoulder-length brown hair she wore brushed behind her ears. She was around five foot seven, neither heavy nor slim, in a pink sweater and charcoal pleated skirt that my sister Liora would wear.

“Contrary to public opinion, I don't eat humans,” she said, a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Too much cholesterol and fat. Please, come in.”

As you can imagine, my face was red. I stepped into a center hall that extended to the back of the house, and stared. The walls were painted with a trompe l'oeil of a garden beyond a mullioned window, and a skylight painted on the ceiling took my eye to a rose-streaked blue sky with feathery clouds.

“It's beautiful,” I said.

“You were probably expecting a dark room lit with candles. I save them for the satanic rituals. Just kidding.” Her smile, amused with a touch of bitterness, softened the sharpness of chin.

I didn't know how to respond. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Mrs. Coulter.”

Her smile disappeared. “I didn't really have a choice. I see that now. Let's talk in the parlor. Please call me Charlene. May I call you Molly?”

“I'd like that.”

“You're writing about Oscar and Margaret, aren't you?”

“Yes. How did you know?” I asked as I walked with her along the hall, taking in the “view.” A fountain, a bench. Mounds of blue and white hydrangeas, lilies, bushes of roses. Smoke curled out of the chimney of a small cottage in the distance.

“There's very little I don't know, Molly,” she said solemnly. Then she winked. “I read your article about HARP, and I saw you talking to people in the neighborhood. You can see quite a bit when you live in the only three-story in the area. You can hear quite a bit, too.”

I followed her into a cozy room with cream walls. She sat on a cerulean blue silk love seat and patted the cushion. “Come join me, dear. I've made us tea.”

I sat next to her. On the glass table in front of us was a
yellow-rose-patterned porcelain tea service that seemed to be floating on air above the bleached wood floor. Charlene poured tea into a cup.

“Sugar or artificial sweetener?” she asked.

“Artificial.” I try to save calories where I can.

She placed a packet on the side of the saucer. “I used to take artificial sweeteners, but when most of your world is a substitute for reality, you try to indulge in the real thing whenever you can.” She poured tea for herself and used tiny silver tongs to drop in two cubes of sugar. She looked up at me. “I'm sorry. I've made you uncomfortable.”

“Not at all. I imagine you've been lonely since your husband died.”

“Glen was my best friend. But I have other friends who visit, although people are so busy these days, don't you find? My son, Adrian, and his wife, Helene, come often with their little boy. They named him Glen. Isn't that lovely? Adrian placed the flyers on your windshield, by the way. I hope I didn't frighten you. I wanted you to be alert.”

“I appreciate your concern.” There was something I wasn't getting here. Something even Walter didn't know.

“You look troubled, Molly,” Charlene said, misreading my furrowed brow. “Don't be. I don't have a sad life, just a different one. I have my groceries delivered, and a lovely young woman named Lucy comes every month to trim my hair and give me a pedicure. She's encouraging me to do something about the gray, but I like it.” Charlene touched her hair. “What do you think, Molly? Be honest.”

“I like the gray.”

She nodded, pleased. “Glen would have liked it, too. And I buy everything from catalogs or on the Internet. I've learned that you don't have to leave your house if you don't want to. Or can't.” She gazed at me. “I'm sure you've heard the stories. ‘Charlene Coulter never leaves her house.' ‘Charlene doesn't invite anyone over.' ‘Something's wrong with Charlene.' In the beginning, every few months I used to try. For Glen and Adrian, more than me. The second I stepped outside, my heart would start racing and I found I couldn't breathe. So I stopped trying.”

I tried to imagine never leaving my apartment, being confined to its few rooms. “Have you always been . . .”

“Agoraphobic. For me, it's not just fear of the marketplace. It's crowds, or open spaces where a crowd might form. It's elevators and stairwells or any place I'm not familiar with or that may not allow me a quick exit. Because you never know when somebody's going to pop up, do you? That's why there are two staircases in this house, and more than the usual number of doors to the outside. That's why I couldn't let you in yesterday, Molly. There were too many people on the block. I'm sorry.”

My heart went out to her. She may have adjusted, but she was still trapped by her fears. “I understand.”

“Do you?
I
don't, not really. Adrian and Helene had a small wedding ceremony here. I wanted so badly to attend their reception. I got dressed, but couldn't go. I just couldn't. And when their baby was born . . .” She looked wistful. “I've learned that acceptance is more important than understanding. But you asked me whether I was always like this. I suspect the seeds were there. I never did like crowds or parties. And then one day I was mugged and badly beaten, and my whole life changed overnight. Therapy didn't help. No one could convince me that I wasn't safest inside my own house. And now, with poor Margaret Linney gone, and Oscar, too, I see that's not so. A person should be safe in her own house, don't you think?”

Ordinarily I
do
feel safe. I suppose that's odd, given the data I collect about the frequent crimes that take place in homes. But reading about strangers being burglarized or assaulted or raped, or even murdered, isn't the same as knowing the victim. And certainly not the same as when it happens to you. I hadn't felt safe in my apartment in days. I wouldn't feel safe until Margaret and Oscar Linney's killer was behind bars.

“Were you living here when you were mugged?” I asked.

“We were in an apartment in Santa Monica with a glorious view of the Pacific. I used to walk on the beach every morning. Do you like the beach, Molly?”

“I love it.”

“I love it, too. And then one day I was on the boardwalk in Venice, buying a pair of sunglasses at a kiosk. And the next day I woke up in the hospital. So we decided to move, and Glen built this house for us. For me, really. Three stories so that I could see around me without having to step outside my front door. I think now that we were wrong to do it. We should have considered the neighbors' feelings. But the city allowed it, and it didn't seem wrong at the time.”

I wondered what Walter Fennel would say if he heard Charlene. Would her regret make a difference? “Do you miss the beach?”

“I
have
the beach. I have New Orleans and Lake Arrowhead and Sedona. I have many of the places that I've been to and loved.”

“In your memory, you mean.” I thought about Bubbie G, who has to rely on memory more and more to navigate through her darkening world.

Charlene smiled. “Well, that, too. But I have them here, Molly, in this house. Would you like to see?”