Dream House (26 page)

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-SEVEN

“W
ELCOME TO PARIS,” CHARLENE SAID, OPENING
THE
double doors to the living room.

It
was
Paris, or what I knew of the city from movies and books. Through the “shuttered window” painted on one of the walls, I saw people walking near the Arc de Triomphe; through another, traffic in front of the Eiffel Tower. On the wall to my right, people at sidewalk cafés were talking and laughing and drinking coffee. The sky painted on the arched ceiling was a darker blue that threatened rain.

“That's my favorite.” Charlene pointed to the wall facing the street. “The Pont Neuf.” The window I'd seen from the street had disappeared, covered by a shade that had been incorporated into the vista. “Glen and I spent most of our honeymoon near that bridge. He sketched, I watched and read novels and ate chocolate. It was the best time of my life.”

“It's lovely. Did Glen do this?”

“It
is,
isn't it? Yes, this is Glen's. All of it is Glen's.”

The dining room was a piazza in Florence. The family room provided a spectacular view of San Francisco from the Golden Gate Bridge. The bedroom Charlene had shared with Glen was conventional, but each of the four other rooms on the second floor took you to another locale. And then there was the third floor. With the exception of a small room at the back of the house, the room in which I'd seen her yesterday, the third story was a large panorama of the Pacific that Charlene had enjoyed from her Santa Monica apartment. I could practically taste the salt in the air and hear the seagulls squawking.

“I couldn't go out into the world, so Glen brought the world to me,” she told me when we were back in the parlor. “I think he hoped that if I could get used to the people in these murals, that I'd eventually be able to face them outside. But that didn't happen.”

“Can I ask you something, Charlene?”

“You want to know why we painted the house that gloomy dark gray.” She smiled. “It was dove gray originally, a beautiful color. Some of the neighbors were giving Glen a hard time about the third story. ‘If it's a dungeon, shouldn't you paint it black?' they said. And we found fresh graffiti on the walls almost daily. So we painted the house charcoal. We weren't going to leave it that way, but then we did. And the stories started. Of course, we heard them. So did Adrian. Thank God he was in high school, or he probably wouldn't have had
any
friends.” Charlene smiled, but there was anger in her blue eyes. “And to tell you the truth, it suited me just fine that people kept their distance. I'd rather they think I'm crazy than pathetic. I didn't have to explain why I didn't leave the house, why I didn't invite guests. Except for Roberta.”

“Roberta?”

“Roberta Linney. Maggie's mother. She showed up on my doorstep one Sunday morning twenty-five years ago with Maggie and we became close friends. She'd overheard Maggie talking with her friends about the bad people in The Dungeon, telling them she'd uprooted some of the flowers on our walkway. We used to have a beautiful walkway. Pansies and snapdragons in the fall. Petunias and lobelias in the summer. The gardener was tired of constantly replacing the flowers that were mysteriously decapitated or yanked out by the roots. He thought it was dogs. Glen and I knew better.”

I didn't know how I would meet her eyes, but she wasn't looking at me. It occurred to me that Charlene didn't want to see in
my
eyes that I was one of those who had violated her garden or her walls. I wanted to tell her that none of my siblings or I had ever stepped onto The Dungeon's front lawn, that we'd never snipped a flower or lifted a marker. It was true. But we had whispered about the house. We had vandalized it with our silly tongues and childish laughter.

“After Glen died I told the gardener no more flowers. Because as I told you, Molly, acceptance is more important than understanding. And I could never understand, not really. So he planted those ugly shrubs, and they serve their purpose, don't they?” A smile flitted across her face. “But I was telling you about Maggie. Roberta and Maggie brought a box of pansies. Roberta made her apologize for what she'd done, and of course I forgave her. Then Maggie asked me to show her where to plant the new flowers. She was eight, I think, but mature for her age. I remember standing in the hall. I remember telling her to leave the flowers, that the gardener would plant them. All because I couldn't, absolutely couldn't walk out that door.” She stopped.

“So what happened?” I asked, as though she were telling me a story.

“Roberta insisted. Maggie had to plant the flowers. So I called instructions from the doorway, and that was when Roberta understood. The next day she came with photos she'd taken on a trip, and our friendship began. I found I could tell her things I couldn't tell Glen, because I didn't want to depress him. And she knew she could confide in me. After all, who would I tell?” There was humor in her smile now, and some irony, too. The smile faded quickly. “And then she died.”

“She had cancer,” I said.

Charlene nodded. “She was in tremendous pain. She wasn't afraid of dying, Molly. She was afraid of leaving Maggie with him.”

I stared at her. “Are you saying he abused her?”

“Sexually? No.” Charlene shuddered. “And not physically either. But he controlled her, Molly. He made her practice four hours every day. When other children were outside enjoying the sunshine, Maggie would be at the piano.”

“I thought she loved it.”

Charlene grimaced. “
He
loved it, so she convinced herself that she did, too. He wanted Maggie to become a concert pianist and a composer. So she did. She adored her father. She would do anything for him.”

“And her mother?”

“She loved Roberta, but she picked up on the condescension Oscar showed her. To Oscar, Roberta was a breeder. He married to continue his impressive line. He was determined to make Maggie a star and bask in her glory.”

“And then she gave it all up and married a man he disapproved of,” I said.

“Yes. I can imagine how furious he must have been.” Charlene seemed pleased by the prospect. “I never met Hank. Maggie stopped by to give me an invitation to the wedding. She was so obviously in love. It warmed my heart, because I knew Roberta was looking down, happy. I didn't go to the wedding, of course. And then Maggie went on her honeymoon, and I didn't see her until she and Hank moved back into Oscar's house.” Charlene leaned toward me and clasped my hands. “She should never have moved back there. It's an evil house, Molly. You probably think I'm being melodramatic, but it's true.”

I know it's silly, but I had goose bumps on my arms. “Do you know what happened to Maggie?” That was why I was here. That was why Charlene had left the notes, wasn't it? Because she had something to tell me? Or was she a lonely soul who needed company despite her insistence that she enjoyed her solitude?

Charlene released my hands. “If you mean, do I know who killed her?” She shook her head. “But I'm sure someone did. I wasn't at first, but after Oscar was killed, I knew. I saw Maggie gardening late on the afternoon before she disappeared. I was watching her from the room you saw me in. I was worried about her. She was attacking the plants and crying, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. And then she threw her little garden spade against the garage wall and sat down on the grass. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed. My heart broke for her. I wanted to comfort her, but all I could do was watch.”

Had she cried because she'd decided she couldn't live with Hank and his jealousy? Because she'd had to face the fact that Hank was abusing her father? Because she'd been unable to place her father in Golden Vista?

“Why were you worried about her, Charlene?” I asked.

“She came to see me two days before she disappeared. She wanted to know what happened to her mother.”

I frowned. “Her mother?”

“Someone had told her terrible things about Oscar. She didn't believe them, and she wanted to know if her mother had said anything to me so that she could tell this person he was a liar.”

“Who?”

“She wouldn't say.”

I licked my lips. “What did he tell her?”

“That Oscar killed Roberta by giving her an overdose of her medications.” Charlene was watching me to see my reaction.

I took a moment to digest that. “What did you tell Maggie?”

“I told her I had no idea what had happened to her mother, and that her mother had trusted me not to reveal anything she told me. Maggie was furious. She demanded answers.” Charlene sighed. “So I told her to talk to her aunt Vivian.”

V
for Vivian, not for Ned Vaughan. Linney's sister-in-law who didn't attend the funeral, who hadn't been in touch with him or Maggie since Roberta died.

“That night I heard her yelling at Oscar,” Charlene said. “They were in his room, and his windows were open. Mine were open, too, so I could hear much of what they were saying. She told him she hated him. She told him that he was evil. She told him he'd tried to ruin her life but she wasn't going to let him do it, not anymore.”

“Enojada,”
the housekeeper had said. Angry.

“What time was this?” I asked.

“Around nine o'clock.”

“Tim Bolt didn't hear any of this,” I said. “Or the other neighbors?”

“It was a warm June night. He probably had his air-conditioning running. Most of the neighbors do. I can hear the generators droning all night. I don't care for air-conditioning. It dries my skin and throat. Oscar didn't like it, either. And then if you have the television on, or the radio, you probably wouldn't hear a sonic boom.”

I nodded. “What happened then?”

“Oscar told her that he'd die before he let her put him in a home, that he'd kill her if she tried. And the next day she was gone. But I didn't think he
killed
her. My first thought was that she ran away. ‘Good for you!' I thought. ‘Good for you!' But then I thought, why would she leave Hank? And then I started wondering. But Oscar is a frail man, Molly. How could he have disposed of the body? And then I thought, what if someone else helped him?”

My heart pounded. “Who?”

Charlene shook her head.

“Did you see anyone come to the house that night?”

“No. I went to sleep. I tried phoning Maggie first, but she didn't pick up the phone. I wanted to go over, but I couldn't. And when the police came and asked questions, I told them I didn't know anything. I can't leave the house, Molly. How could I possibly sit in a police station and tell my story? And then in a courtroom, with all those people? Day after day? I knew I wouldn't be able to do it. I told myself that if Maggie was dead, my telling wouldn't bring her back anyway. And just because I'd heard Oscar threaten to kill her didn't mean that he had. Someone else could have killed her.”

That was true, I thought. My head was reeling. “Why would Oscar kill Roberta, Charlene?”

She didn't answer.

“You said she was in terrible pain. Did he want to help her out of her misery?”

“Ask Vivian.”

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY-EIGHT

Tuesday, November 18. 10:15
A.M
. 9400 block of Culver Boulevard. After making a bank deposit, a woman discovered that $4,304.64 had been withdrawn from her account without her consent. She also discovered that a second account had been opened in her name and that five checks had been drawn on it. Also, an application for a credit card in her name had been denied. The woman told police and bank officials that she had not made any of these transactions or applied for a credit card.
(Culver City)

C
ARTHAY CIRCLE IS ONE OF L.A.'S BEST-KEPT SECRETS,
and from what I hear, the area's residents want to keep it that way. Adjacent to Miracle Mile and half a mile from my apartment, it's a small neighborhood bounded by Wilshire, Fairfax, Olympic, and Schumacher that was developed between 1922 and 1944 by J. Harvey McCarthy (hence the Carthay), who named the streets in honor of prominent figures of the California Gold Rush. Aside from a few Tudors, French Revivals, and American Colonials, most of the homes are Spanish Colonial Revival, so in all fairness, I can see why the residents wanted HARP status.

Carthay Circle isn't a circle. The
Circle
part came from the circular auditorium and dome of the Carthay Circle Theater that hosted the premiers of
Snow White
and
Gone with the Wind
before it was demolished in 1969. The streets, which are only one to three blocks long and don't connect to the major boulevards, have irregular patterns that would make a challenging geometry final. They form rectangles, triangles, trapezoids, and other shapes that don't have names. The idea was to create an enclosed community and encourage people to walk instead of drive. The unintended result is that if you're used to the typical grid pattern of L.A. streets, you can easily get lost and find yourself walking in rhomboids.

I discovered Carthay Circle when I was a teenager. Shabbat afternoons Aggie and I would sometimes walk across town to the Pico-Robertson area to visit friends or participate in a youth group. We'd meet at my house on Gardner and find our way to Wilshire and San Vicente, where Schumacher begins. Then we'd take Schumacher all the way to Olympic. It was a pleasant walk on a quiet, tree-lined street with beautifully landscaped lawns and little automobile traffic. And no telephone poles or electric wires—Carthay Circle was planned with underground utilities. And because Schumacher is angled, it cut off time and distance from our trek.

I drove up Schumacher slowly, looking for the house I'd read about in the police report, but the homeowner must have
repaired the damage, because I saw no evidence of vandalism. On Santa Ynez I turned left and parked in front of the yellow
Spanish Colonial one-story that belonged to Vivian Banning, Roberta Linney's sister and Maggie's aunt.

From what I remembered of Roberta from her wedding photo and a few other snapshots, I saw little resemblance between her and the tall, zaftig woman with Lucille Ball wavy red hair who opened the door. A wide purple headband, low on her forehead, kept the hair in check.

“Charlene is a sweetheart,” Vivian told me when we were seated on a black leather sofa in her wood-paneled den. “I'm glad Roberta had her for a friend.”

“She told me she advised Maggie to come talk to you,” I said. “Did Maggie come?”

Vivian's blue eyes filled with tears. She blotted them with a tissue. “That poor thing. I hadn't seen her in twenty years. Can you believe it? We lived less than two miles apart, but it could have been two hundred. That son of a bitch didn't want me in my niece's life. He didn't even let her invite me to her wedding!” The tears started again.

There was no subtlety about Vivian. “Why?”

She thrust out her chin. “Because I told him I knew he killed Roberta. He said, ‘Go ahead and prove it, you crazy bitch.' He knew I couldn't. She was taking so much pain medication, poor baby, and she told people she wanted out.”

“Is it possible she
did
want to end it?” I asked, realizing I was risking the woman's wrath. “Maybe she asked him to end her pain.”

Vivian snorted. “Did you ever meet my brother-in-law? He didn't have a compassionate bone in his scrawny body. Charlene phoned to tell me he'd died in a fire. I said, ‘Well, it's a taste of what he'll be getting for eternity.' I was considering going to the funeral just so I could spit on his ugly face, but I figured it was closed casket. Were there a lot of people?”

I nodded. I'd been here minutes and felt drained. Her fury was like a tornado, leveling everything in its path.

“You should have seen him at Roberta's funeral. He played the grieving widower to the hilt. But he didn't fool me. I told him I hoped he never had a happy moment and rotted in hell for what he did to my sister.”

“Why would he kill her?”

“She was a burden. He had plans for Maggie, and the cancer was interfering with them. He as much as said that to Roberta.”

I don't know if I looked as shocked as I felt. “He said that?”

“Well, not exactly,” Vivian admitted. “Maggie was fourteen. Oscar kept telling Roberta how the girl was on the verge of stardom, how sad it was she'd be missing out on all the music competitions across the country, blah, blah, blah. Then he'd say, ‘Maggie wants to be here with you. She doesn't want you to feel guilty.' So of course, Roberta did. Between that and the god-awful pain and the little hints Oscar dropped about how much money he was spending on the caregiver, and how expensive Maggie's lessons were, and the trips—well, it's a wonder she didn't end things sooner. But she died just in time.” Vivian clamped her lips together.

“What do you mean?”

“Maggie was practicing for a young concert artists competition. The winner was going to play at Carnegie. The competition was in March.” Vivian paused dramatically. “Roberta died in January. Two weeks after that Oscar bought Maggie a grand piano.”

“With Roberta's money?”

Vivian rolled her eyes. “Well, it wasn't his. Last I heard teachers aren't raking it in. And he wasn't chair then. He was an instructor. Roberta's money paid for their house, too.”

Was this what Linney had meant when he'd said he'd done it for the best? “You said your sister ended it. So you think she killed herself?”

“Either she took the pills because he talked her into it, or he slipped them into a drink. I think he did it. I told all this to the police, Molly. I know they talked to Oscar. That's why he told me I could never see Maggie again. And they talked to Roberta's doctor.”

“Elbogen.” I saw the surprise in Vivian's eyes. “Maggie went to see him before she came to you,” I explained. “What did he tell them?”

“That Roberta accidentally overdosed on the pain medication. He told me the same thing. He said that I was looking for trouble, that if I loved Maggie I'd leave it alone. So I did.”

No wonder Elbogen panicked when I asked him about Maggie's appointment. He'd signed her mother's death certificate and may have covered up a suicide or murder. If that came out, he would be in serious trouble. He could lose his license. And if the police proved he suspected all along that Linney had killed his wife? Was that accessory after the fact? And where would that leave him?

Elbogen knew where I lived, I realized with some unease. My address and phone number were on the check I'd used to pay for the “consultation.”

“Did Maggie say who raised her suspicions about her father?” I asked.

Vivian shook her magnificent head of hair. “I asked her if it was Hank, but she wouldn't say.”

That had been my guess, too.

“My heart broke seeing her,” Vivian said. “She couldn't stop crying about Roberta. And then she was furious. About what Oscar had done to her mother, to her marriage. She'd been planning to divorce Hank because she believed he was abusing Oscar and stealing his money.”

So
that
was the “big mistake” she'd almost made. But I was confused. Hank
had
embezzled from Linney.

Vivian sighed. “The sad thing was, she'd already told him she was seeing a lawyer. He didn't take it well. Then she disappeared. So I don't know if she got a chance to tell him she wasn't leaving him after all.”

I wondered if she had. “Did Maggie say anything else?”

“She was going to have it out with Oscar.” Vivian looked troubled. “I guess Elbogen was right. I should have left things alone.”

I stared at her. “You think Linney killed his own daughter?”

“I don't know.” Vivian's eyes were filled with anguish. “I just don't know.”

I spent a few hours collecting data at the police stations I'd missed yesterday. Wilshire was last. Hernandez wasn't in, but Porter was surprisingly pleasant, so I asked him if they'd found any prints on the actual tape.

“None,” he said. “And we're still waiting to hear from downtown about the entry in the planner.”

“I think I know what it is,” I said, and told him.

Porter wrote that down. “You remembered, huh? See, it's all here.” He tapped his head. “You just have to let it come to you.”

I could have told him the truth, but why disappoint the man? “I think the
M
is for Roger Modine. He was there that night to drop off papers, but that doesn't mean he killed Margaret.” Much as I disliked Modine, I had to play fair. “Maybe he didn't want to be grilled by the police.”

“Steaks are grilled,” Porter said.

On the way home I stopped at Linney's bank. At first the manager refused to acknowledge that Linney had banked with them, but when I assured him I hadn't come to inquire about the old man's accounts, he relented and after canvassing the tellers, he found one who had often dealt with Linney.

“He hasn't been here in months, but I don't remember seeing anyone with him,” the young woman told me. “I guess he took a cab, 'cause he didn't look like he could drive. Although once or twice he said could I hurry 'cause someone was waiting for him outside.”

So I really didn't learn anything I hadn't already known. And I still hadn't heard from Tiler. I left another message, and this time I said it was important.

Two exclamation points told me maybe it was.