Dream House (28 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-ONE

R
ESTON HAD IDENTIFIED THE WEDDING RING
THEY
FOUND
on the skeletal hand.

I learned this from Porter when I phoned the station at nine o'clock. I'd been sitting in my apartment, staring at my computer screen for hours, too numb to do anything, even think.

“Feeling pretty good about yourself, are you?” Porter said.

“No.” I was too tired to come up with a witty rejoinder. “Did you arrest Modine?”

“We're holding him. We talked to him before his lawyer showed. He says the whole world knew about the late-night tree cutting and digging. It was on TV. Anyone who saw the newscast could've taken the body to the site, dug a grave inside the trench, buried the body, and covered it. He says he started pouring cement at five the next morning, so he wouldn't have noticed anything unless it was staring him in the face.”

I had to admit that was true. It also gave Modine an out, maybe one he'd counted on. “Do you believe him?”

“Verdict's still out. Here's a little something, because you've been such a big help. Not for publication yet. They found a match for a set of prints from the can of paint thinner. Guess who the proud owner is?”

“Roger Modine.”

“Close, but no cigar. One of his workers. The guy had a rap sheet, so they had his prints on file. Sometimes you get a break.”

I frowned. “You think Modine had a worker torch the Fuller house? Why would he be so stupid?”

“Not the worker. He has an airtight alibi. He was our guest that Friday, from around five till Saturday morning. DUI. Lucky, when you think about it.”

Very. “So you think Modine torched the house?” Maybe he wanted to help out his partner and rid him of a house that wasn't selling. Maybe he didn't know Linney was inside. Maybe Reston did.

“Not necessarily,” Porter said. “Anybody could have lifted a can of paint thinner from one of Modine's construction sites. His signs are up all over the area.”

I wanted to take a long bath. Instead I drove to Vivian's. I didn't know if there had been anything on the news about the discovery of Maggie's body, but in case there hadn't, I wanted to tell her. She cried a little and hugged me and thanked me for coming.

I went back to The Dungeon. I was becoming an expert on ducking the vines, although I can't say I liked them any better.

Charlene looked somber when she opened the door, so I figured she'd heard. We sat in the parlor, and Charlene insisted on serving tea. I told her I'd just come from telling Vivian.

“Poor Vivian. Poor, poor Hank.” Charlene sighed. “He must be devastated. And Tim. They just showed it on the television news, so I'm sure he's heard. This will be terribly hard on him. Someone should be with him.”

“I know he was close to the family. He was sobbing at Professor Linney's funeral.”

Charlene nodded. “He was closer to Oscar than to his own father, Roberta said.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, I haven't seen him since Sunday. He's usually in his yard. He loves to garden.” She paused. “His car is in the driveway, though. I hope he's all right.”

“Why wouldn't he be all right?”

She hesitated. “He had a breakdown once. Maggie told me about it.”

To be honest, I wasn't surprised. I'd sensed there was something off about Tim Bolt, but I hadn't been able to put my finger on it. I said that to Charlene.

She nodded. “He's a little intense and he tends to get emotional. That's why Maggie was worried about telling him she was getting married.”

“Why would she be worried?” I took a sip of tea.

“They were childhood sweethearts. They even had a mock wedding ceremony when they were twelve. Tim wove two rings out of blades of grass.” Charlene smiled.

I nodded. Tim had said something about having a childhood sweetheart.

“Roberta thought it was sweet,” Charlene said. “She was happy that Maggie had a life away from the piano. Well, Maggie outgrew him, but Tim was jealous if she went out with other boys. He followed her around. He punched a boy once because he thought the boy was bothering Maggie, and he threatened to kill himself if Maggie didn't promise to marry him. That's when he went away for a while. When he came back, he was all better, thank goodness.”

“Thank goodness.” For a moment, I'd entertained some crazy thoughts. “And then he met Peggy, and they lived happily ever after.” I smiled.

Charlene looked puzzled. “Who?”

“Peggy? His wife?”

Charlene frowned. “I don't think he's married, dear. In fact, I think he was hoping all these years that Maggie would come back to him. But Hank came into the picture.”

“He has a wife.” I stared at Charlene. I had a funny sensation in my chest. “He told me she hasn't been feeling well.”

“Well, that's very, very odd. I don't know why he'd say that. I haven't left my house in years, but as I said, I can see into his yard, and sometimes into his windows. Not that I snoop.” She blushed. “I've never seen a woman around there. Well, except Maggie.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-TWO

“W
E HAVE TO STOP MEETING LIKE THIS,”
CONNORS
SAID.

I have his home number and had phoned him from my car when I couldn't reach Hernandez or Porter.

“So the guy's missing a few screws,” Connors had said after I'd explained my concerns, but he'd told me to wait, don't do anything, he'd be right there.

“Did you check to see if he's in there?” Connors asked now. We were standing on the sidewalk, between Linney's house and Bolt's. Bolt's tan Volvo was in the driveway.

I shook my head. “You said not to. I've been trying his phone, but he's not answering. And his back window shades are all down.” Charlene had taken me up to the third-story room and we'd looked out her window.

“Very suspicious. Remind me never to do that.”

“He had a breakdown years ago, Andy,” I said, impatient. “Maybe Linney's death sent him back down that dark road. And then when he heard that they found Maggie's body . . .” I'd heard it on the radio several times.

“So you think he killed himself?”

“He's obsessed with Maggie. He discouraged people from buying her house. He's the Realtor, by the way. I thought he was being particular since he lives next door. I thought he was a bigot. But I just talked to Reston. He followed up with several potential buyers. Tim talked every one of them out of making an offer. And ‘Peggy' is just another variation of ‘Margaret.' Peggy, Maggie.”

Connors stared at Bolt's house. “Stephen King territory, huh? I'll go see if he's there. Don't even think about coming with me.”

I sat in my car while Connors strode up the walk to the front door. I couldn't see what he was doing, but I assume he rang the bell.

A moment later the door opened, and I could see Tim Bolt in the doorway. He said something to Connors and shut the door.

I got out of my car and met Connors on the sidewalk.

“I'm really, really sorry,” I said. “I was worried about him. What did you tell him?”

“That you thought he'd killed himself.”

I stared at Connors. “You didn't.”

“'Course not.” He flashed a tired smile. “I told him somebody reported a mugging in the area and asked if he'd seen anything.” Connors ran a hand through his hair. “Go home, Molly. Get some sleep. That's what I'm going to do.”

I got back into my car and watched Connors drive off. I slid my key into the ignition and was about to turn it on when I heard the click of a gate. Looking up, I saw Tim walking along the side of his Volvo. He was holding a large white plastic bag in one hand.

It was dark and I didn't think he could see me, but I crouched down anyway.

He cut across the lawn and walked up to Linney's front door. The door opened, and he disappeared inside.

A few minutes later I saw the light go on in Maggie Linney's upstairs bedroom.

I left my car and walked up his driveway. I released the latch on the wrought iron gate and made sure it didn't click shut.

I told myself that if the side door was locked, I'd go back to my car and drive home.

It was unlocked.

Five minutes, I told myself. Maybe Charlene was wrong. Maybe Peggy Bolt was lying in her bed, resting from whatever ailed her.

The light was on in the kitchen. I walked through it to the center hall. From there I could see into the living room, dark except for the candles on the fireplace mantel, their ghostly shadows flickering on the cream walls.

I stepped inside the room and caught my breath.

The photos I'd seen of Bolt and “Peggy,” his childhood sweetheart, had been edged in black ribbon. So had the colorful oil painting of the woman I now recognized as Margaret Linney.

Music was coming from above—no words, just a melody played on a piano. My heart pounded in my ears as I climbed the stairs to the landing and followed the music to a room at the back of the house.

The light was on and I stepped inside. I took in the mahogany four-poster queen-size bed covered with a scallop-edged, white matelassé spread. My mouth opened, but I couldn't make a sound.

It was Maggie's room. The pale mauve walls, the off-white trim and hardwood floors. It was her bed, her desk, her armoire. The needlepoint seat on the desk chair had the same forest motif.

Off the bedroom was a dressing room. It was identical to Maggie's, but reversed. A wardrobe on the right, a vanity table and mirror on the left. Lipsticks lined up like soldiers circled a mother-of-pearl comb and brush.

A mirror.

I sniffed the air. Lavender and jasmine.

I was shaking. I ran down the stairs and out the side door and slammed my thigh into the Volvo as I hurried to my car.

The light was still on in the Fuller house when I drove away.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-THREE

Thursday, November 20. 10:24
A.M
. 600 block of Masselin Avenue. A man called a woman on an apartment building's intercom, screaming her name and demanding she let him in, then hung up after she refused. (Wilshire)

I
DON'T KNOW HOW CONNORS DOES IT, BUT I DON'T
think I'll ever get used to seeing a dead body. I'd phoned Zack as soon as I came home, and even though it was late, he came right over and stayed until I lied and told him I'd be okay. I didn't tell him about Tim Bolt's room because I didn't want a lecture about what could have happened, and because I wanted to think things through.

I hadn't slept well, and I had no appetite. I wandered around the apartment, listless, then sat down at the computer. I was seriously behind in compiling my
Crime Sheet
data, which I had to e-mail to my editor Friday morning. Two hours later I had accomplished little and found myself staring at the screen saver, watching the ribbons twirl and change color.

Connors stopped by. I teased him and said I didn't know he was making house calls now. He said he was in the neighborhood, but his blush said otherwise. He's sweet that way.

Over a cup of coffee and chocolate chip cookies I'd filched from my mom, he told me the autopsy on Maggie Reston would take considerable time.

“We're lucky. She was buried under all that concrete, so the decomposition wasn't as advanced. That's why she smelled so bad. But at least the M.E. has tissue to work with, not just skeleton.”

I grimaced. “Are there any preliminary findings?”

“You sure you want to hear this?”

I hesitated, then nodded.

“There's trauma to the back of the skull, where she could have hit her head against the desk. And the hyoid bone—that's the small bone in the neck—was broken.”

I pictured hands around Maggie's neck, squeezing. I felt nauseated. “So she was strangled?” Though my brush with death is four months old, I have difficulty saying the word.

“The M.E. can't say for sure. You have to factor in the weight of the concrete. That could have caused the fractures. Modine claims he doesn't know anything about the body being under the patio, that the tree cutting and stuff was on TV, but they're holding him.”

I nodded. “Porter told me. How long can they hold him?”

“Not a problem. They got him to cop to the vandalisms and the dead bird. They told him they had a witness.”

That was a surprise. “Who?”

“No one. We're allowed to lie. It's why I took the job.” Connors smiled. “Modine says he was frustrated with HARP because he was losing jobs and having to redo work. The patio was the last straw. He wanted to discourage the Harpies from taking over Hancock Park. We may not have him for the murders yet, but Mr. Modine isn't going anywhere for a while.”

At least that puzzle was solved. “What does he have to say about the fact that he was at Maggie's house the night she disappeared, and that he tried to hide it?”

“He was scared. He figured we'd think he killed her. He says Reston torched the Fuller house. Reston was complaining he'd never sell it because of its history, and there was going to be a problem with the title company. He claims Reston said he wished the place would burn down so he could collect the insurance money and rebuild. Reston says Modine is lying. Big surprise.”

“Hernandez spoke to Reston?”

“They're talking to him now. My money's on Reston. So is Rico's. It seems he withdrew over a third of a million dollars from Linney's account.” He cocked his head. “You don't seem surprised.”

I told him what I'd learned. Then I brought up Tim Bolt. “I really think there's something off about him, Andy. I think you should persuade Hernandez to check him out.”

“You thought he killed himself, Molly. He looked very much alive to me.”

“I think he could be involved with Linney's murder.”

“Based on what? That his wife's name is Peggy?”

“There
is
no wife.”

Connors snorted. “According to this woman who hasn't stepped out of her house in twenty years or more. Have you considered that
she's
missing a
bolt
?”

“Very funny. And, yes, I did consider it.” I hesitated. “That's why I went into Bolt's house last night, after you left. To check it out. There's no wife, Andy.”

Connors stared at me. He opened his mouth, then closed it. “If you thought he was a murderer, Molly, why the hell would you
do
something dumb like that?”

“I didn't think so at the time.” I leaned forward. “Andy, you have to
see
his place. He had about twenty candles on the fireplace mantel around pictures of him with Maggie. He trimmed them in black ribbon.”

“So he's sad that she died.”

“He duplicated Maggie's bedroom. Every detail.” I described what I'd seen and watched the expression on Connors's face change from skepticism to concern.

For a while he just sat there, drinking his coffee, his long legs stretched under the table.

“So what are you thinking?” he finally said. “That Bolt killed Maggie and Linney?”

“Maybe not. Maybe Linney killed Maggie by accident, and called Tim to help him get rid of the body.”

Connors's frown said he wasn't buying it.

“Linney was like a father to him, Andy. He was ill. Bolt probably didn't want to see him in jail for the rest of his life, or in an institution.”

“Where he belonged. So why would Bolt kill Linney?”

The whys had been my last thought before I finally fell asleep, and my first on awaking. “Linney was always babbling about Margaret. He told Walter Fennel he dreamed he heard her scream. Maybe he was remembering more. Maybe Bolt was nervous that someone would start listening, and tell the police. I was snooping around. I think he knows where I live, by the way.” I told Connors about Bolt's comment. “So maybe he's the one who vandalized my car and tried to get into my apartment to see what I knew.”

Connors chewed a cookie while he thought that over. Then he shook his head. “The guy was obsessed with her, Molly. Why would he help the man who killed her?”

That was a good question. I broke a cookie into crumbs while I brooded about it.

“I'll run it by Rico,” Connors said. He pushed himself away from the table. “You have more of those?” He pointed to the plate of cookies.

I put a handful in a bag and walked him to the door.

I worked for an hour on my column, then turned on the TV and switched channels until I found local news. The CEO of a major telecommunications company had been arrested for fraud. An
AMBER
alert had been issued for a seven-year-old girl who had disappeared with her nanny. I was about to switch to another channel when I heard the silver-haired male anchor say “Reston.”

The screen showed the scene of the digging.

“. . . update on the body that was discovered yesterday in Hancock Park. Although the police have not identified any suspects, they are talking to Roger Modine, the contractor who built the patio under which Margaret Reston was buried five months ago. Police are also talking to Margaret Reston's husband.”

I listened another minute, then shut off the TV. Zack had phoned and asked me to join him for lunch. I was fishing through my purse for a lipstick when I came across the small piece of paper with Joan Eggers's phone number.

Where had I seen that name?

I checked my notes and ten minutes later I found it: She was one of the people who had phoned Oscar Linney the day before he died.

I was running late for lunch, but I placed the call.

“Joan Eggers's office,” a woman said. “Megan Hanley speaking.”

I introduced myself. “Ms. Eggers made a phone call a few weeks ago to an Oscar Linney. I wanted to talk to her about it.”

“She's in a meeting right now. If you give me your number, I'll have her return your call when she's done.”

I gave her my cell number. “What kind of—”

I was talking to a dial tone. I hung up, grabbed my purse, and drove to the restaurant on Pico and Beverwil.

Zack was there when I arrived, fifteen minutes late and breathless. He's more punctual than I am, but if he was annoyed, he didn't show it. We ordered soup and sandwiches, and though I told myself I wouldn't bring up the case, of course, I did. I repeated what Connors had told me, then told Zack what I'd seen in Tim Bolt's house. I was prepared for a lecture, but it didn't come.

“I'm still wondering whether Linney killed Maggie,” I said, and explained. “Connors says Bolt wouldn't have helped him get rid of the body, but maybe he did.”

Zack looked thoughtful. “There's a discussion in the Gemara about a thief who steals into a person's house.” The Gemara is the collection of commentaries on the Mishna, the oral law. Together they form the Talmud. “The commentaries ask whether the homeowner can kill him. The answer is yes. The thief
knows
that the homeowner is allowed to kill him to protect his property, yet despite that, he sneaks in. So we assume he's prepared to kill the homeowner.”

“Zack, this isn't about—”

“But if the thief is the homeowner's father? In
that
case the homeowner
can't
kill to protect his property. Because the earlier logic doesn't apply. The father may have sneaked into the house to steal, but a father has mercy on his child. He hasn't come prepared to kill him.”

I thought about that. “So you're saying that as angry as Linney was, he wouldn't have killed Maggie.”

Zack nodded. “Unless, of course, at that moment, he viewed her as his enemy, not his daughter.”