Dream House (29 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-FOUR

A
T HOME I PHONED CONNORS AND LEARNED
THAT
HE'D
relayed my suspicions about Bolt to Hernandez.

“So what did he
say,
Andy?”

“He's looking into it.”

I was restless, edgy. I found myself walking from room to room. I kept seeing the demolished patio, the gloved hands about to slide Maggie Reston's remains from her grave to the plastic sheet. I kept seeing the room Tim Bolt had created. I heard the music. I smelled the lavender and jasmine.

I phoned Connors back.

“Maybe
Tim
killed Maggie,” I said when he came on the line.

“The woman he loved?”

“He didn't mean to do it. Maggie and her father had a huge quarrel that day. The housekeeper heard it. So did Mrs. Coulter. What if Tim heard it, too? Suppose he went over to ‘save' her from her father, or from her marriage.”

“Come on, Molly.”

“Charlene Coulter told me he punched a boy who was bothering Maggie. And he threatened to kill himself if she didn't marry him. Suppose that night Maggie told him to mind his own business and leave. Maybe he got angry. And Maggie got scared and picked up the phone to call the police. So he pushed her, and she hit her head.”

Connors didn't say anything. I took that as a sign that he was thinking.

“How would he get in the house?” he finally asked. “Scratch that. He was the Realtor. He probably had a key. So why kill Linney?”

“Maybe Linney
did
hear things that night, but everyone thought it was his Alzheimer's. And then Bolt worried that someone would pay attention. So he lured Linney to the house with the spliced tape and canceled the caregiver.”

“Where'd he get the tape?”

“He was obsessed with Maggie, Andy. He probably kept tapes just so he could hear her voice.”

Connors sighed. “I'll phone Rico. Maybe he'll pay a visit to Bolt.”

I hung up and turned on the TV. I was searching for a news channel when my cell phone rang. By the time I dug it out of my purse, the ringing had stopped.

The blinking envelope on my cell phone told me I had one new message. I accessed my voice mail and learned that Joan Eggers had returned my call.

I phoned her, and this time she answered herself. I told her what I'd told the assistant.

“To be honest, I'm disappointed,” Joan Eggers said. “I assumed Professor Linney had decided to drop the matter.”

So she didn't know that Linney was dead. “Actually, Gordon Tiler suggested that I talk to you. He's an intellectual properties attorney.”

“I know Gordon. Look, Miss Blume.” Her voice had taken on a steely edge. “I'll tell you what I told Professor Linney.”

The anchor said, “Reston.” I glanced at the screen and caught a glimpse of Hank opening the door to his black Mercedes. He was deluged by reporters.

“I'm listening,” I told Joan Eggers.

“Professor Linney may have been planning to write a book about architecture in Los Angeles. But a title, two pages of notes, and a few photos isn't the same as a manuscript.”

MS
as in
manuscript,
I thought. Not multiple sclerosis.
Pb
was
publisher.
For a writer, I'd been incredibly dumb, but to be fair, I'd been looking at everything in Maggie's planner as though it were connected with the construction of the Muirfield house.

“That's what I told the daughter, too,” the woman continued. “She said there was a partial manuscript, but she couldn't produce it.”

My stomach knotted. “When did she tell you that?”

“When she phoned half a year ago. I thought you knew all this,” Joan said, suddenly wary.

“I'm just trying to get all the facts straight.”

“The facts are simple, Miss Blume. Our legal department says Professor Linney has no claim whatsoever. We're proceeding with Mr. Vaughan's book.”

I was certain I hadn't heard correctly. I grabbed the edge of the table and found my voice. “You're publishing Mr. Vaughan's book? You're serious?”

“We've paid him a six-figure advance. I'd call that serious.”

“And that was in June?”

“No, in
April.
” She spoke with exaggerated patience, as if I had limited intelligence. “If Professor Linney continues to insist that he's entitled to some part of the advance we gave Mr. Vaughan, that's between him and Mr. Vaughan. I told
that
to the daughter, too.”

My hand was shaking when I hung up.

Vaughan had received an advance months ago on a book he told me he'd recently agreed to take over—reluctantly. Vaughan, who was at the Fuller house all the time and could have used Linney's key to get inside. Vaughan, who was probably not making a mint teaching architecture but was spending thousands of dollars restoring his dream house in Angelino Heights and, come to think of it, had probably been pissed as hell that he hadn't been given the plum job of designing his
best friend's
dream house.

I reached for the receiver to call Hernandez when my phone rang. I jerked my hand back, then picked up the receiver.

“Molly?” It was Charlene. “I don't know if I should call someone. I'm really worried about Tim.”

I had no time for Tim Bolt. “Charlene—”

“He has a gun, Molly. I saw him through the window. He was sitting in his yard, on a swing. I think he was crying. The gun was on his lap. I'm afraid for him, Molly.”

My heart skipped a beat. “You're sure it was a gun?”

“Yes. I thought he was going to hurt himself, but then he got into his car with the gun and drove off. Where do you think he could have gone?”

My head was spinning. “I don't know. I'll call the police.”

The TV anchor was still talking about Maggie Reston. “Authorities are declining to discuss the case, but they have confirmed that Mr. Reston is not a suspect at this time. In other news . . .”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-FIVE

I
PHONED RESTON, BUT HE WASN'T HOME. EITHER
THAT,
or he wasn't answering. I didn't want to think about that.

I contacted Wilshire. Neither Porter nor Hernandez was in. I told the dispatcher that Tim Bolt had a gun and that I feared he was going to kill Hank Reston, and why. I gave her the address to the Muirfield house.

“You need to calm down, ma'am,” the woman said. “Are you inside the Muirfield residence, ma'am?”

“No, I'm not. Bolt is headed there right now. I'm sure of it. Please
hurry.
”

“Where are you now, ma'am?” she asked in a maddeningly soothing voice that told me she didn't know how much credence to place in what I was telling her.

“I'm at home.
Please,
send units to the address. If you don't believe me, find Detective Hernandez or Porter and tell them what I just told you. My name is Molly Blume,” I repeated.

“I'll do that, ma'am. Give me a number where the detective can reach you.”

I gave her my cell number. “Are you going to send the units?”

“We'll take care of it, ma'am.”

I hung up and ran to my car.

Eleven minutes later I was on Third Street, waiting to turn onto Muirfeld. I twisted my head to the left and saw the Volvo parked just off Third. My heart thumped. I looked up the block. Reston's black Mercedes was in the driveway.

There was no black-and-white.

The queue of cars driving past me seemed endless. I looked up Muirfield again. The Mercedes's door opened and Reston stepped out. He headed toward his front door.

I moved my foot to the accelerator and, swerving sharply, cut in front of a black Land Cruiser twenty feet away. The driver braked to a sudden stop. The car behind him slammed into the Land Cruiser.

I heard the crash of metal on metal. The driver of the Land Cruiser was yelling an obscenity out his window, but I was barreling up Muirfield.

Reston was nearing his door.

Where the hell was the black-and-white?

I blared my horn. A gardener mowing the velvet lawn looked at me, but Reston paid no attention.

He opened the door.

I pulled up in front of the house and rolled down my window.

“Hank! Don't go in!”

My words were drowned out by the drone of the mower.

Reston stepped inside the house and shut the door behind him.

I phoned Wilshire and talked to the same dispatcher. “Tim Bolt's inside, and Reston just went in!” I told her after I identified myself. “Where's the black-and-white?”

“I spoke with Detective Porter, ma'am. Two units are on their way.”

I hung up and punched in Reston's number.

After four rings, the answering machine picked up.

“Tim, this is Molly Blume. I know you're there, Tim. Pick up the phone. Hank didn't kill Maggie. Tim, do you hear me?

“Tim, I'm not lying to you. You would be killing the wrong person. Tim—” The tape cut off.

I pressed
REDIAL
. I ran out of the car and rang the bell. I pounded on the door.

I was still pounding, screaming Bolt's name, crying, when I heard the shot.

I froze for a few seconds. Then I ran past the handcrafted wrought iron gates to the backyard. I thought I heard a siren in the distance, but it could have been the ringing in my ears.

The entire back of the house was lined with French doors. I ran past the first two sets until I was in front of the living room.

Tim Bolt was standing in the center of the cavernous room.

Hank was slumped against the black marble fireplace. His face was pasty. Blood was streaming between the fingers he held against his chest. Maggie smiled down at him.

I twisted the brass handle and pushed the door open a crack.

“I swear. Didn't. Kill her,” Hank said. He was wincing, and I could tell it took great effort for him to speak.

“Liar!” Bolt raised the gun. “She was an angel, and you killed her. You killed the Professor, too. I want you to say it.”

“I didn't—”

“Say it!” Bolt's scream echoed in the high-ceilinged room. He held the gun in his shaking hands and pointed it at Hank's chest.

My heart was racing. I opened the door wider and stepped inside, praying that the sound wouldn't startle Tim and cause him to fire.

“He didn't do it, Tim,” I said, making my voice a soft caress. My chest felt as though someone were squeezing the air out
of it.

Bolt started at the sound of my voice, but he kept his eyes on Reston. “Get out,” he said quietly. “I don't want to have to hurt you.”

The sirens were louder now.

“Tim, I know who did it,” I said in that same, soft voice. “It was Ned Vaughan.”

“You're lying.”

“He stole Professor Linney's manuscript, Tim. He stole his money. Maggie found out.”

Reston was staring at me, his mouth open.

Bolt kept the gun aimed at Reston's chest. “You're saying that because you don't want me to kill him. But why should he live? He killed Maggie!”

“If you kill him, you'll go to jail and Ned Vaughan will be free. Maggie's killer will be free. Is that what you want, Tim?”

“I don't know what to think!” His face was red, sweaty.

“You loved Maggie, didn't you, Tim? And you want the person who killed her to pay. Hank didn't do it. Ned Vaughan did.”

“The Professor said Hank hit him! He said Hank stole his money!”

“Professor Linney was confused, Tim. Ned stole his money. I can show you. I can show you everything.”

I heard a loud thump and looked past the living room into the entry. The beautiful front door crashed onto the marble floor. Two uniformed policemen stood in the doorway, their weapons drawn. I held up my hands and prayed they wouldn't think I was crazy.

“Tim, the police are here,” I said, a little louder so they could hear me. My legs felt like Jell-O. “You need to put down the gun, okay? They'll shoot you if you don't.”

Tim looked confused. “He has to pay. Doesn't he have to pay?”

“Someone will pay,” I promised. “Will you put down the gun? Please, Tim. Put down the gun.”

C
HAPTER
F
IFTY-SIX

Sunday, December 28. 12:35
P.M
. Corner of Havenhurst Drive and Santa Monica Boulevard. A man who later was taken into custody allegedly forced his way into a woman's apartment through a bedroom patio door, choked her for about a minute, and then placed a knife against her throat. (Hollywood)

H
ALF AN INCH MORE AND HANK RESTON WOULD
HAVE
been dead. That's what the doctors told him, and what Connors told me.

Tim Bolt was taken into custody. I have to say the cops were gentle with him. He's under observation in the jail's psych ward. I went to see him a week ago but he isn't allowed visitors yet.

Ned Vaughan was home when Hernandez and Porter showed up with a search warrant. Porter says Vaughan was more upset with the marks on his floors and the mess he and Hernandez made during their search than the fact that he was charged with two murders. He's probably having nightmares about what will happen to his house, with good reason. The D.A. is looking at the death penalty, and if they don't go for that, murder with arson attached will get Vaughan life.

I don't think Hernandez or Porter was as certain as I was that Vaughan was their man until they found Maggie's jewelry stashed around his house. Well, they found most of it. Vaughan had removed a few diamonds from the bracelet. Why on earth would he keep the stuff, I said to Connors. There's no way he could explain it. But as I said, criminals are often more greedy than intelligent, and I don't think Vaughan thought he'd be caught.

It wasn't just about money, though he was desperate for it. He was drowning in restoration costs, and his Victorian beauty was a mistress that seduced him with the promise of her charms and demanded proof of his love. Linney's canceled checks showed that the two he'd entered in his register for Skoll Investment had been made out to Vaughan, and Vaughan's bank statements showed deposits matching the amounts on those checks. I can hear him saying, “Oscar, we don't need Hank or Maggie involved. It's your money. You're a grown man, not a child. You signed away your house, not your life.” I'm guessing the smaller checks, made out to cash, had been for Vaughan, too.

Vaughan claims he knows nothing about those and says Linney loaned him the $43,000 and liked Vaughan's idea of making up Skoll Investment. I said, yeah, sure. I was on the other side of the one-way mirror on the ground floor at Wilshire, listening to Porter and Hernandez take turns interrogating Vaughan, who was smoking up a storm. He hadn't asked for a lawyer yet, which was lucky, because even a rookie would have told him to
shut up.

I knew Hernandez would be good. He'd had me squirming in my chair the other day. He had nothing but sympathy in his
musical voice, saying he could understand how overwhelmed Vaughan must have felt by the bills, and got Vaughan to admit he'd been worried about losing his house.

Porter surprised me. I was sure he'd be playing bad cop, but he sat across the table from the architect. It must have been rough, he said, having all those money problems when your best friend was building a $6 million home he didn't even ask you to design. Some best friend, huh? It was probably Maggie's fault, Porter said. She was the one who said, honey, take Jeremy Dorn, not your friend Ned. If it hadn't been for her, you wouldn't be sitting here today, huh?

That's when Vaughan erupted. His face turned red, and he was like a volcano that had lain dormant for years and had begun to spew its lava and couldn't stop. Maggie was a self-centered bitch, he said, seething. If it hadn't been for him, she'd never have gotten away from Linney, never have married. And then she chose Dorn! And when Vaughan asked Linney—his mentor, his friend—to intercede, the old man said, “You know I don't lie, Ned, Dorn is a better architect.”! So, yes, that's why Ned decided to write the book. Screw the old man. He'd show the world and Linney, who didn't even recommend Ned as acting chair when he retired!

So Maggie found out about the book, Porter said when Vaughan ran out of steam. She's got all that money, her dad's brain is scrambled, and she's harping about the book he can't even write. Go figure, huh?

Vaughan nodded. Maggie had phoned Linney's publisher to tell them she'd be working with her father on the book, and they told her Linney had canceled the project months ago, didn't she know? And anyway, someone else was writing a book about HARP in Los Angeles. She'd phoned around and finally talked to Joan Eggers, who had a signed letter from Linney relinquishing all his rights to the project.

That's when Maggie found out about Skoll Investment. She wanted that money back, and the advance. He mentored you, he treated you like a son, how could you
do
this to him? So that's when Vaughan told her about her wonderful father, how he'd cried about his wife and the nightmares that never stopped because of what he'd done. What nightmares? Ned had asked Linney. Tell me, maybe I can help you.

Maggie didn't believe Ned. And even when she found out it was all true, she said, Go ahead, tell the world, I want everyone to know what he did. But have a check by Friday. That's money he took against the house, my
mother's
house.

Vaughan stopped again. Porter said, So you really had no choice, huh, man? He clucked. She was going to ruin your reputation, you'd be in jail for money the old man lent you. Was that fair? So how did it go down? Where'd you get the key to the Fuller house?

Vaughan had a key, he told Porter. Linney was always losing his, so one time he made an extra and kept it. He tried talking to Maggie that day, but she wouldn't take his calls. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't sleep. So he drove to the house and saw her light on. He let himself in because he knew Maggie wouldn't. He begged her for more time, he couldn't get the money overnight. Use the publisher's advance, she said, but he'd already spent that.

She said she didn't care. She was going to phone the police, right now. He remembered grabbing her hand so she'd drop the receiver. She screamed for Linney, so he put his hand on her mouth, and she took a step backwards and lost her footing, and that's when she fell and hit her head against the desk. When he checked she wasn't breathing. He was terrified. It wasn't just the police. He could explain, he was sure they'd believe him. But Hank would kill him.

So Vaughan decided to make it look like a home invasion and kidnapping. That's why he took the jewelry. He hadn't planned to use it. He found a pair of gloves in the kitchen. He carried Maggie down the stairs and out the back door and put her in the trunk of her car, which he drove to the backyard of the empty house on Arden. He buried her in the newly dug trench and drove her car to a mall. He never meant to kill Maggie. He didn't want to kill Linney, either, but the old man heard her scream, and several times in the past few weeks he'd said, Weren't you there that night, Ned, didn't I hear your voice? So he had no choice, not really. And what kind of life did Linney have with his mind going, and his body, too? And the nightmares about his wife? Ned was doing him a favor, when you thought about it. At least he died with dignity. He was dead before the fire started, he didn't suffer. Ned wouldn't have let that happen.

Porter said, I figure you played a tape with Maggie's voice to get the old man upstairs, huh? Vaughan's smirk was an answer. I have to hand it to you, Ned, Porter said. The tape was clever. How'd you do that? Vaughan's smile deepened. Maggie called me a few times, he said. I kept the tapes and spliced them.

So you planned to lure Linney to the house? Porter asked. That's when Vaughan became still. Except for his eyes. They were darting right and left, searching for a way out. You could see in his eyes that he knew where Porter was going, that Ned had been thinking about killing Linney on the night he murdered Maggie. The jury would have a good time with that.

So how'd you get home if you left Maggie's car in the mall? Porter asked. And what about your car? We checked with all the cab companies, and there's no record of anyone dropping you off at the Fuller house that night.

Vaughan didn't answer.

I'll tell you what I think, Porter said. I think you used the bike we found in your garage. I think you biked to Maggie's, left your bike in the yard. After you killed her, you put it in the trunk, along with her body. And you biked home from the mall. What do you want to bet we find some trace evidence from Maggie on your bike, huh?

That was when Vaughan asked for a lawyer.

You're probably wondering about the planner. Turns out Tim Bolt took it that morning when Linney had pounded on his door. He'd wanted something of Maggie's to remember her by. He knew he'd done wrong, and he couldn't give it back, not when the police were asking him questions, like what was Maggie doing in your house the day she disappeared? If he gave them the planner, they'd search his house and find the room. But when Linney died, he put it back.

Connors says Tim is convinced that Hank was abusing Linney. I don't think so. I think Hank did the best he could with a difficult man who made it clear he despised him. I think Linney did his best to break up that marriage and almost succeeded. I don't know if he helped his wife die or encouraged her to do it.

I have ambivalent feelings about Linney. He was crabby, egotistical, manipulative, and if you believe Vivian, a murderer. But as much as I detest what he did, I have pity for the old man whose failing mind made him easy prey for Vaughan. And he didn't deserve to be killed, though Vivian would argue otherwise. I told her Linney had been plagued by her sister's death, and I wonder if, now that he's dead, her hatred for him will burn less fiercely over time or burn itself out. Probably not.

I can see Linney hurrying on unsteady legs up those dreaded stairs toward the siren of Margaret's voice. One shaking, bony hand is gripping the banister; the other, his cane. Was Vaughan waiting for him in that bedroom? At what point did joy turn into bewilderment, bewilderment into fear? I'd like to think the Alzheimer's spared Linney the realization of Vaughan's double treachery, but I'm sure he knew. I imagine that in those last
moments he was trying to escape not only his protégé turned enemy, but the truth.

A curse is not a telegram, Bubbie G says. It doesn't arrive so fast.

Hank was released from the hospital the Saturday after he was shot. When I visited him the day before that, he told me he wasn't sure what he planned to do with the Muirfield house. He insisted Maggie ripped out that page. She'd told him she loved him. In fact, she'd talked about having a baby, something he'd been wanting for some time. She didn't say a word about Vaughan. She probably didn't know how to tell him the truth about his best friend.

Hank wanted to pay me for my services, and for saving his life. I said no thanks, and anyway, you don't have the money. He had the grace to blush, but insisted the money was technically his. That's between him and the police, though so far they haven't filed charges.

They released Modine. He's going to have to pay for all the damage and put in a few hundred hours of community service. Hank thought Modine had torched the Fuller house, to do him a favor. And Modine suspected Hank, just as he'd told the cops. Modine had bitched about the damn patio to Hank and told him he was placing the concrete that morning.

Mr. Newman got his French door approved, by the way, but Lowenthal is still fighting about his roof. The Hancock Park Harpies got Harrington to push through a moratorium on teardowns and remodeling, and by the time you read this, HARP will probably be there to stay.

I have mixed feelings about that and historical preservation in general. According to the National Trust, demolitions are reaching epidemic proportions in historic neighborhoods all over the country. In L.A. we've razed a lot of buildings: the Gilmore Bank that made way for The Grove. Rudy Vallee's Pink Palace. Irving Gill's Dodge House. The Peerless Hardware building with a mural painted by Ernesto de la Loza that paid homage to manual workers. The Carthay Circle Theater I told you about.

The verdict's still out on the Ambassador Hotel, but the Shubert Theater is facing the bulldozer. The Capitol Records building on Hollywood, the one that's circular and looks like a stack of records with a stylus on top, is a state historic resource, but other historic structures have been leveled.

There are buildings I want saved, some I don't care about as much. Who am I to judge? Who
should
judge what's historical? Is it fair to infringe on the rights of the individual so that you can pass by an old house and admire it? And what about those you hate?

Last week I baked chocolate chip cookies and took them to Charlene's. We had tea in the living room, and she cooed over the princess-cut diamond engagement ring Zack gave me last Saturday night. It was the second night of Chanukah, and he'd put it in a large yellow plastic dreidel along with Godiva chocolates, so how could I say no?

Charlene had the gardener tame the shrubs. She's thinking about painting the house a light gray, but I said, only if you want to. Come by again soon, she said, and kissed my cheek. I said of course I would. I love Paris.

The Bible talks about a house that has leprosy. It's a stain that comes from slander spoken inside the house, Zack told me, from the misuse of the power of speech. The priest would shut down the house, and after seven days, if the plague persisted and spread, he would order the afflicted stones to be hacked out and thrown outside the city, along with their dust. Sometimes the entire house is malignant. In that case, Zack says, you had to demolish the entire structure and take the debris outside the city.

I thought about that three days ago when I watched a bulldozer tear down Oscar Linney's dream house.

Hank was on the lawn, looking on as the bulldozer crunched the top left corner of the house. His feet were spread apart, his large hands splayed on his hips. The December sun lit his broad face.

At one point he walked to a truck in the driveway and lifted out a sledgehammer. He took long, slow strides toward the living room and stood there a moment, holding the hammer in his hands, his face tight with concentration. Then he raised the hammer high and swung it into the wall.