Grave Endings (6 page)

Hooray for Hollywood.

nine

THE LOCKET THREW ME.

If Randy had given his kid sister a locket identical to Aggie's, including the red thread inside, it couldn't be coincidence that he'd been in possession of Aggie's. And it wasn't likely that someone had planted it on him.

So Connors and Porter were probably right—Creeley had killed Aggie.

But why had he given his sister a locket like Aggie's?

Trina might have answers, but she wasn't talking. Maybe I'd fare better with her father.

I'd taken along the Google information, including Creeley senior's phone number, which Gloria Lamont had matched to the one she had.

I should probably phone first, I thought. With the funeral two days away, Creeley might not be in the mood to talk. But phoning ahead would ruin the element of surprise that is often vital in an interview. And what if Creeley, forewarned,
never
wanted to talk to me?

Wiping off the bird doo and lipstick with a towelette from the stash of emergency supplies my dad had stored in my trunk, I considered. Then I dialed Creeley's number on my cell phone, introduced myself as a reporter to the woman who answered, and asked to speak to Roland Creeley.

“I'm
Mrs.
Creeley,” she said. “What's this about?”

She was clearly the keeper of the gate. “I heard about Randy's death, and I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Creeley. I know this is a hard time, but if it's possible, I'd like to talk to you and your husband about Randy.”

“If this is about the dead girl, we don't know anything.” She had the put-upon tone I use with telemarketers just before I hang up.

“The police are saying Randy's responsible, but I'm not so sure,” I said quickly. “I have some questions.”

“Well, we're not interested in talking to anyone.”

“Talk to who?” I heard a man ask. “Who is that, Alice?”

“Hold on,” Alice Creeley told me, annoyed again— either with me or with the man, who I assumed was her husband.

After half a minute or so of muffled conversation he came on the line.

“You're with the
Times,
right?” He sounded eager and pleasantly surprised. “I didn't think they'd get back to me. I asked them to check into my son's death. The police say Randy overdosed on drugs, but I don't believe it.”

I felt a flutter of excitement, but I told myself that like many parents, Creeley was probably in denial about his son. “I'm not on the
Times
staff,” I admitted, “but I freelance for them and several other papers.”

“Oh.”

“And I've investigated crimes. I write a weekly crime column and books about true crimes.” I mentioned
Out
of the Ashes.

“Never heard of it. I don't read all that much. When I do, it's mostly magazines. So how'd you hear about Randy? What's your interest in him?” Suspicion had sharpened his voice and raised it a notch.

“From the police.” I repeated what I'd told his wife. “I'd like to hear why you think your son didn't overdose.”

“And you want to check into his death? The police aren't going to, they said as much,” he told me again with some anger.

“Yes.”

I took the silence that followed as a good sign.

“Well, if you want to come tomorrow morning, fine,” Creeley said, his lack of enthusiasm indicating that he was settling.

“I can do that. Or I can come now, or this evening.” I'd have to postpone the florist, but I was eager to talk to Creeley and worried that between now and tomorrow morning he'd change his mind or have it changed for him by his wife. Or what if a
Times
reporter
did
call?

“Tonight's no good. I have to clear out Randy's apartment, pick up his car. And as soon as I hang up I'm leaving for the funeral parlor to finish the arrangements. They want us to pick flowers. Like Randy's gonna see the flowers, like he gives a damn. Vultures.” Creeley grunted. “What's your name, by the way?”

“Molly Blume.”

“I know that name. Is that the name you write under?”

“No. You're probably thinking about the fictional character. James Joyce's
Ulysses
?”

Throughout most of my adult life I've been teased about my name (most frequently, by Connors). I blame my mother, who teaches high school English and should have known better, but teasing aside, and though I'd practiced writing
Molly Abrams
in countless high school notebooks, my name has opened some doors and I've pretty much decided to continue using it for professional reasons after Zack and I are married, when I'm not writing under my pseudonym.

“I saw the movie years ago,” Creeley said. “Didn't like it much. Your parents had a sense of humor, huh?”

“Apparently.”

“Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Family will be coming to the house from ten on, so if you're gonna be late, don't bother showing up.”

ten

THE CREELEYS—FATHER, DAUGHTER, AND SON—LINGERED in my thoughts while I did a load of laundry, and kept me company when I picked up my mother on the way to Flores Lindas, a flower shop on Third Street just east of La Brea. I'm pretty sure she sensed my preoccupation and its cause, but unlike my oldest sister, Edie, my mother doesn't push.

Raul, who owns the shop with his wife, Dani, greeted us with double-cheek kisses. He's a Brazilian charmer with sensual Latin good looks—dark, wavy moussed hair that brushes his shoulders; cheekbones so sharp they'd probably bruise your fingers if you touched them; black eyes that my mother, who's had one romance novel published (anonymously) and is almost finished with the second, would call “smoldering.” A filigreed gold cross gleamed against the all-year-round-bronzed, hairless skin exposed in the deep V of the crisp white shirt he'd tucked into tight jeans, the kind of jeans Connors wears well and Zack used to before he became a rabbi, though I'm sure they'd still fit him just fine.

“If I didn't know better, Celia, I would think you are the bride,” Raul told my mother. “You look like a beautiful flower.”

His accent softened the words in the sexy way that only Portuguese does, in my opinion, and that makes me think of “The Girl from Ipanema” and other lazily sultry tunes on a Stan Getz–João Gilberto vinyl album (my parents') that Zack and I made out to in high school and that still gives me tingly memories.

“A
preserved
flower,” my mother said, but I could tell from her flushed cheeks that she was pleased. She's almost fifty-six but looks younger, with only a few fine lines around the brown eyes she's passed on to me and most of my siblings, and a trim figure she maintains by taking evening walks with my dad, who still gazes at her the way he did in their wedding photos from over thirtyfive years ago and tells you she is his world.

“Absolutely not.” Raul tilted his head. “You should always wear that shade of brown. It brings out the copper in your hair. And I
love
the headband. Very chic.”

I wondered if Raul was aware that the olive velvet band camouflaged the point where my mother's rich chestnut brown met her fall of the same color.

“And Molly.” He turned his high-wattage smile on me. “You are going to be stunned with what I have done.
Stunned.
But why waste words? Come.”

He waved us through a narrow hall perfumed with floral arrangements in various stages of construction to a table with a sample centerpiece formed of dozens of tightly packed, open red-black roses that sat on a bed of green hydrangea in a square black Lucite container.

“Is
magnífico,
yes?” Raul beamed. “Simple, elegant. And there will be tea lights, of course. Many, many tea lights. And white tablecloths, with embroidered organza toppers. Celia, I do for you and the lovely Molly what I don't do for other clients at twice the price.”

Raul has provided flowers for numerous Hollywood galas (his keenest disappointment to date is losing the Brad Pitt–Jennifer Aniston nuptials), but he takes equal satisfaction in his creations for less spectacular events, including all the Blume bar mitzvahs and weddings. If he likes you, he'll throw in extras (and he's been known to donate flowers to brides who have no means), but if you don't set firm limits, you can end up spending the farm.

In this case, Zack's parents' farm. In Orthodox circles the groom often pays for FLOP—flowers, liquor, orchestra, and photography (still and video). The Abramses had given Raul a generous budget that he'd urged my parents to supplement for “this once-in-a-lifetime magical event,” which he'd momentarily forgotten wasn't my “once.” My dad, a contractor, had groused (“Six hours later, what do you have left? Put the money in the new kitchen”), but he had been ready to give in. I had nixed the extras.

“It's beautiful, Raul,” my mother said. “Exquisite. It's everything you promised and more.”

“Beautiful,” I echoed. My mind had skipped to Creeley, who at this moment was choosing flowers for the funeral of his son. Aggie's killer?

My mother nudged me. I glanced at Raul. He looked crestfallen, his smile dimmed.

“I absolutely
love
it, Raul. It's
breathtaking.
”

Back in his office, Raul shoved stacks of magazines off chairs for us so that we could sit, and after taking his place behind his French desk, he showed us sketches for the chuppa and the preceremony reception that culminates in the
bedeken,
during which the groom views the bride and lowers the veil over her face.

The veil originated with Rebecca, who veiled herself when she first saw Isaac. The rite, which assures the groom that he's marrying the woman he chose, stems from the experience of Jacob, whose crafty father-in-law Laban substituted his older daughter, Leah, for her sister Rachel on the wedding day. According to the commentaries, Jacob and Rachel, anticipating Laban's treachery, had exchanged secret signs so that Jacob would know if it was Rachel behind the veil. But Rachel, taking pity on her sister and wanting to spare her humiliation, revealed the signs to Leah. And in spite of that magnanimous gesture, Leah was jealous of Rachel and the love her younger sister shared with Jacob when he took her as his second wife. And it was Rachel who was barren for so long while Leah and Jacob's two other wives triumphantly bore many sons and daughters to their husband, Rachel who died young and was buried on the lonely roadside.

In my mind's eye I saw myself inside Rachel's Tomb, circling the sepulchre and pressing my red thread against the dark velvet. I saw Aggie slipping the locket, a snip of the red thread inside, around her neck. I saw Trina Creeley clutching an identical locket before she dropped it out of sight. I wondered again where Creeley had obtained the red thread and the locket, and why.

Raul was gesturing with his free hand and explaining while his pencil flew over page after page of his white pad. I forced myself to focus. Soon thoughts of Aggie and the locket receded, and I was caught up in Raul's excitement. That's how I'd been since Thursday—grieving for Aggie one minute, giddy with anticipation the next.

My mother asked about the
mechitza.
I would have been fine without the partition that would separate the men and women during the dancing throughout the dinner. So would the Abramses, who are less strict than their son, the rabbi. But we'd been overruled by Zack and my parents.

“The
mehitza
will be a grand surprise,” Raul said, pronouncing the word without the guttural
ch.
“Gorgeous, fabulous, everybody will be talking about it for weeks.”

And he would stay within the budget, he assured my mother.

“Even if I have to do this at my cost. But don't tell Dani.” He cast a worried look over his shoulder and put his finger to his sensuous lips.

“Because you are family, you know,” he said a moment later as he gave each of us a kiss and a long-stemmed yellow rose and ushered us out of the shop.

eleven

I TOOK MY ROSE AND MY EUPHORIA TO THE HAIR SALON on Melrose near Sierra Bonita, where my mother and I were joined by my three sisters and my sister-in-law, Gitty, who had come to provide moral support along with coffee and mouthwatering cheese Danishes from the nearby Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. We nibbled and giggled at silly jokes that caught the attention of a woman and the hairdresser cutting her hair, both of whom looked at us with curiosity—and envy, I think. Natalie, the anorexic Israeli salon owner who has been doing my hair for years, kept chiding me to face the mirror as she played with my curly blond hair and the lace-and-pearl headpiece until they came together in a soft updo I loved and so did everyone else, including Edie, who is tougher than a Russian judge at the Olympics.

I stole a glance at my mother, knew she was thinking what I was, that I'd been given a second chance and wasn't life wonderful.
Bli ayin hara,
I added silently to ward off the evil eye, certain that my mother was doing the same even though her prayers four years ago and the red thread she'd knotted around my wrist before I'd joined Ron under the chuppa had been no match for his adultery.

Natalie removed the headpiece and slipped a voluminous, almost-to-the-waist blond wig on top of my hair, which she'd gathered and fastened at the back with a clip.

“The cap fits good, yes?” Natalie said, her Israeli accent still strong after twelve years in L.A. “It's going to feel even lighter after I cut the hair.”

“The color's a perfect match,” Edie said. “Maybe I'll borrow it in an emergency.”

My sisters and I all have different shades of brown hair, which Edie and I have transformed with highlights into streaked blond. She wears hers in a short, blunt cut that suits her height (five feet) and personality.

“Touch it,” Natalie invited. “
Maksim,
no?” she said, using the Hebrew for
enchanting.
She caressed the silky strands as though they were spun of gold, which they might as well have been, considering the two thousand dollars I'd spent on the wig, with its custom-fitted cap into which the color-blended hairs had been hand-sewn. “A hundred percent European.”

“More like Nashville.” I stared at my reflection and swallowed hard. “I look like Dolly Parton.”

“Only from the neck up, unfortunately,” Mindy said, and we all broke into laughter.

The other hairdresser had left, along with her client, and the salon was quiet. Natalie had gone to the rear to shampoo my wig. My mother was fanning her flushed face with the magazine she'd been reading. Mindy had taken off her hat and slipped on the wig she'd had Natalie style for the wedding. Edie and Gitty were at the front of the shop, trying on hats. I swiveled in my seat and watched Liora, who had moved to a table piled with wigs and was trying on several close to her own rich brown. Liora is eagerly committed to covering her hair when she marries, and I've overheard her discussing the costs and merits of the newest
sheitel
s (wigs) and the
sheitel macher
s (stylists) who create the illusion that foreign hair is growing right out of the wearer's head.

Aggie had planned to cover her hair. I had, too, in high school, though my conviction hadn't been strong even then. We'd argued about it, me whispering on the phone so that I wouldn't wake Liora, with whom I shared a room until Edie and Mindy married; or lying on the pop-up trundle next to Aggie's daybed long after her parents were fast asleep and we'd finished our homework and watched TV and talked about which guys in school were cute and what it would be like to kiss them, about whom we would marry, how many children we would have, what we would name them. A woman's hair is alluring, Aggie would insist. Once she's entered into a holy bond with her husband, only he and close family are supposed to see her hair. It's about remembering that God is above you, that you're married. It's about privacy and modesty, don't you see that, Molly?

Later, when I abandoned Orthodoxy, Aggie didn't argue or try to sway me, certainly not about covering my hair, and not about keeping the Sabbath or keeping kosher or following other laws that were no longer part of my life.

I returned to Orthodoxy a few months before she was killed. It was a tenuous, gradual return that pleased my family but made them tiptoe around me, since they didn't know what had sent me running, and in truth, neither did I. Aggie's death rocked my faith and my resolve. She was deeply pious, pure of heart, and pure in action. If she had been killed, what chance was there for me? But instead of bolting again, I married Ron, which I suppose was a different kind of bolting, though I didn't recognize it at the time.

And now I was marrying a rabbi. I was happy to align myself with the many Orthodox Jewish women—like my grandmother, who is a role model of piety, and my sister Edie and Zack's mother and some of my friends— who deal with the custom more in the breach than in the observance. I was doing this for Zack, who had asked but hadn't insisted that I cover my hair, and not wear pants in public, and lengthen my skirts and sleeves, which were shorter than strict Orthodoxy allowed and had no doubt raised the brows of several of his congregants, all of whom would be looking at me even more critically from now on.

How I dressed, what I did, what I said, and didn't say. I had a flash of panic and wondered what had made me think I could be a rabbi's wife.

Natalie placed the stick-straight wet hair back on my head, securing the wig with a thin elastic strap that she clipped to the tabs on either side. The strap dug under my chin.

“Now you look like Cher,” Mindy said.

“How long do you want it?” Natalie asked.

“Like my hair. A little below shoulder length.” I would be under a congregational microscope, I thought. Every day, for the rest of my life.

“I'll leave it a little longer,” Natalie said, misreading my frown. “I can always cut it, but it won't grow back.” She raised a length of hair and performed the first snip. “You want me to cut it in a few layers, or leave it one length?”

“Layers,” Edie said. “And wisps, not bangs.”

“One length,” I told Natalie, mainly to counter Edie, who is usually right.

“That's for twenty-year-olds,” Edie said. “It doesn't look natural on anyone older. Too flat.”

“Gitty's are one length,” Mindy said.

My twenty-three-year-old sister-in-law has custom wigs that match her gorgeous red hair, which she'd covered with a black snood tonight.

“I don't mean Gitty.” Edie sounded flustered, which is unusual for her. “Your
sheitel
s always look great,” she told her.

I caught my sister-in-law's eye in the mirror and winked at her. She smiled.

“It's Molly's decision,” my mother said. “Natalie can always cut layers later.”

Half an hour later the linoleum around the pedestal of my chair was carpeted in blond hair (about three hundred dollars' worth, I figured). Natalie finished blow-drying and flat-ironing the wig into a sleek waterfall, the kind you see in L'Oréal commercials and that I'd always envied.

“Nehedar, nachon?”
Natalie said. “Shake your head. Don't be afraid. See how the hair moves like it's your own?”

I shook my head vigorously and told her the wig
was
gorgeous. It was—nicer than my hair, thicker. “No more bad hair days. And it won't frizz, right?”

“You don't like it.” Natalie frowned. “I can fix it.”

“It's a great cut. Perfect.”

The wig was beautiful, but my hair and I were a team. We'd weathered close to thirty years and the occasional falling out over its mercurial temperament, and neglect or abuse on my part.

“You're not used to seeing yourself in a wig, honey,” my mother said. “You look great.”

It wasn't about how I looked. The Molly in the mirror was an imposter, taking on a commitment for which I wasn't ready and everything it represented. I could work up to the wig, I decided, start with the hats or berets I'd bought, though I couldn't picture myself conducting an interview in a hat. Or I could wear nothing at all. . . .

“Maybe if you put in a body wave,” Gitty suggested. “It'll look more like your hair.”

“Layers,” Edie said.

But was it such a big deal, really, to commit to something that would make Zack happy and to which my objections were not theological but personal?

My cell phone rang. I was grateful for the distraction, and though I didn't recognize the number on the display, I pressed a button and said hello.

It was Trina Creeley. “I've been thinking about what you said,” she told me, a whispery quality making her sound nervous. “If you're still interested, I can meet you tomorrow at noon at Musso & Frank Grill. It's just a block from where I work.”

I wondered what had changed her mind. “I know where it is.” I'd eaten there once or twice in my nonkosher days.

“You have to enter through the back. So will you be there? I have to talk to you. It's important.”

Her anxiety was contagious. “Musso & Frank's at noon,” I agreed in a low voice, but not low enough so that Edie didn't hear.

“Who are you meeting at Musso & Frank?” she asked when I flipped my phone shut.

I dropped the phone back into my purse. “A woman I'm interviewing.”

“Musso & Frank isn't kosher,” Liora commented, as I'd known she would.

“I'm not planning to eat there. I'm just meeting her.”

“A week before your wedding?” Edie said. “What's so important that it can't wait?”

“Two weeks.” I turned to Natalie. “What about a headband? Can I wear one with this wig?”

She
tsk
ed. “You'd need to buy a band fall. I can get you one for five hundred. Human hair, good quality.”

Edie narrowed her eyes. “This is about Aggie, isn't it? Don't do this to yourself, Molly.”

My oldest sister is generous and kindhearted—she'll cheerfully do your car pool or marketing for as long as you need help—but she's a pragmatist. She understands why Connors's news upset me, but not why it has plunged me back into mourning, and she's been phoning me daily to make sure I stay on the wedding track.

My mother and sisters were looking at me. Natalie excused herself and walked to the rear of the salon.

“I'm not
doing
anything,” I said. “I'm talking to the sister of the man who killed my best friend.”

“Why?” Edie asked.

“To find out if he killed her.”

“If?” Mindy frowned.

Mindy is an attorney, and I often bounce my theories off her. I explained what I'd learned. “For a while I thought maybe he didn't do it, but with Trina's locket . . .”

“Does Zack know you're pursuing this?” Edie asked. “Are you seeing him tonight? Or are you off investigating?”

“Edie,” my mother warned. Her face was flushed again, either from another hot flash or from annoyance.

“Zack is studying with a bar mitzvah boy tonight. He knows what I'm doing, and he understands.”

“He's probably just saying that,” Edie said.

“I didn't choose the timing, you know. And I have all the wedding details under control.”

“And your emotions?” She placed her hand on mine. “Don't take this wrong, sweetie, but does it matter who killed Aggie? Knowing what happened won't bring her back.”

I gripped the arms of the chair. “It matters to me.”

“Okay. I won't say another word.”

She didn't, not even after we all left the salon and walked to our cars. She was hurt, I was determined. In the morning she'd phone to tell me she loved me and wanted me to be happy, which I know is true.

“Speaking of Zack, Molly,” Liora said in an undertone, so I figured she didn't want Edie to hear. “Aren't the two of you meeting with Galit at noon tomorrow to see the
ketubah
?”

I was glad that the darkness hid my blush. “Right. Thanks.” I didn't know how I'd forgotten. I'd been eager to see the marriage contract the calligrapher was illuminating. “I'll have to reschedule.”

“Galit, or Musso & Frank?” Edie asked.

“Cut it out, Edie,” my mother said with unaccustomed sharpness. “Molly knows what she's doing.”

You could laugh or cry, I thought, leaning toward the former. I turned around to say something to Edie and saw my mother's eyes. I could tell she was worried, too.