Grave Endings (9 page)

The crockery didn't interest me, but I examined the books. Mostly paperbacks with tattered covers, and
Alcoholics Anonymous.
Hoping the photos were still inside, I took the book and exposed the one lying underneath it.
A Practical Guide to Kabbalah.

I picked up both and straightened my legs, which had begun to stiffen. I held up the Kabbalah text. “I didn't see this when I was in the apartment yesterday.”

“It was on the floor between the nightstand and the bed. I guess it fell down.”

“Did Randy ever talk about his interest in Kabbalah?”

“He was interested in a lot of stuff. Kabbalah, twelve-step programs, church. He went to a couple of twelve-step meetings every day.”

“Do you know if he went to a Kabbalah class?”

Mike scratched the stubble on his chin. “He never mentioned that. He
did
wear one of those red threads around his wrist. He said it's supposed to protect you. He ordered lots of them online and e-mailed me the link, but I'm not into that. Although lately you hear about a lot of actors who are, so maybe you can hook up with some if you go to a meeting or something.”

I could see from Mike's expression that he was considering the possibility. “Did he ever say anything about a locket with the image of Rachel's Tomb?”

“A locket?” Mike frowned. “No. What's Rachel's Tomb?”

I told him. “When was this? That Randy ordered the thread, I mean.”

“A couple of months ago? It's funny, isn't it? I mean, if the thread was supposed to protect him, it didn't do the job. But I guess nothing protects you against yourself.”

fourteen

ZACK BROUGHT WEDDING GIFTS THAT HAD BEEN DELIVERED to his parents' house, and steak sandwiches with sautéed onions that scented my apartment. Between taking bites of my sandwich and wiping barbecue sauce from my chin, I described yesterday's wig and florist sessions, imitating Raul's accent and manner.

Zack barely smiled. Maybe he
was
upset that I'd postponed our meeting with the calligrapher. But when I asked, he told me he was troubled about a family whose son had been expelled from the local Jewish high school for taking drugs.

“They're devastated, Molly. This kid had a promising future. And now? I hope it's not too late to save him.”

Randy had hoped for a promising future, too. It seemed like ages, not days, since I'd first heard his name. The hate had been pure then, sharp, searing. Now it was complicated and diluted and muddied, and maybe it wasn't even hate. Maybe it was sadness.

“So let's see the wig,” Zack said when we had finished the steak sandwiches. I think we were both eager to lift the gloom that had entered like an uninvited guest.

In my bedroom I twisted and reclipped my hair three times until I got it to lie flat against my head. Then I spent about ten minutes brushing the wig before deciding on a center part.

“It's exactly like your hair, but straight,” Zack said when I returned to the breakfast nook. “It looks great.”

“I wear my hair straight sometimes,” I reminded him. “You don't like it straight?”

“This is one of those lose-lose questions, right? I love it straight. I love it curly. You look beautiful.”

“Doesn't that defeat the purpose?”

“There's nothing wrong with a married woman being attractive. The idea is not to look seductive to anyone but her husband. That would be me.” He smiled.

“I don't hate the wig,” I admitted. “I just don't know if I want to wear it.”

“I told you, it's your call. The board won't fire me if you don't cover your hair. Half the women in the shul don't.”

“But you'd be happier if I did.”

“Yes. But not if you're miserable.
Shalom bayit
is more important.” Peace in the home.

“I love you.”

“I know.”

“I don't know if I can do this.”

The kettle whistled. I went into my tiny kitchen and prepared two cups of coffee, careful to avoid the kettle's steam. Steam frizzes the hair, Natalie had warned me.

It was Zack who brought up Trina.

“She didn't show,” I told him. “I'm a little worried, because she was anxious to tell me something important.”

“She was probably too busy to cancel.”

“Probably.” I took a tentative sip of coffee. Too hot. “Randy knew Aggie, Zack. He killed her.”

He put down his cup, eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

“He worked at Rachel's Tent as a handyman and driver.” I repeated what Creeley had told me. “At first I thought maybe Randy came on to Aggie. She rebuffed him, he got angry. He followed her that night. He was high, or drunk. So he killed her.”

“And now?”

“Rachel's Tent must pay
really
well.” I described the TV, the furniture, the expensive sound system. “And he has a Porsche. Suppose he was dealing drugs at Rachel's Tent and Aggie found out. She threatened to report him. He panicked—he couldn't afford a third strike.”

Zack nodded. “Once an addict . . .”

I picked up a chocolate chip cookie from a batch Edie had dropped off in the morning. Her peace offering. “A couple of things still puzzle me.”

“Like?”

“Randy gave Trina a locket just like Aggie's, with a red thread. He had a book on Kabbalah, and the neighbor said Randy ordered red threads online.”

“As much as thirty-six bucks on some websites.” Zack took a bite of his cookie. “These are good. Cheaper at your local Judaica store or Kabbalah center, even less in Israel. The thread, I mean. Not the cookies.” He smiled.

Pennies if you buy the thread and wrap it around the sepulchre yourself, as I had done. “But why would Randy give Trina a locket with the red thread?”

“I told you, it's the latest spiritual fad. I heard that Britney Spears posed for the cover of
Entertainment
Weekly
wearing a red thread, and apparently not much else.”

“Why the cynicism? I thought you said Kabbalah could fill a void.”

“I said people are
turning
to Kabbalah to fill a void. There's nothing spiritual about wearing a red thread when you're almost naked. And many rabbis don't believe that the red thread has any meaning or power.”

“Don't tell that to Bubbie G. She believes in it. So do I and most of my family.”

“Mine, too. A lot of people believe in the red thread, and there are all those stories. Are they true?” He shrugged. “The major Kabbalists throughout the ages didn't wear red threads. The point is, Molly, Kabbalah isn't about the red thread, and it wasn't intended for the masses. You have to be married and at least forty before you read the
Zohar.
You have to be thoroughly versed in the Torah and Talmud, and on a superior level of observance.”

From my Jewish studies I knew about the
Zohar,
Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai's fundamental text on Jewish mysticism. “That gives you ten years to get ready,” I said.

Zack shook his head. “I'm light-years away from ever being ready. So are most people.”

I dunked my cookie in my coffee and took a bite. “But aren't you tempted? I've heard that the Kabbalah holds secrets of Creation and the key to mystical powers.”

“To be honest, the prospect intimidates me. It's an intense study, Molly. And it's risky. The Talmud talks about four of the greatest sages who attempted the mystical experience described as ‘entering the orchard.' Rabbi Akiva and three of his disciples—Shimon ben Azai, Shimon ben Zoma, and Elisha ben Avuya.”

“What happened?”

“Ben Azai's soul left his body when he was in a state of spiritual rapture. Ben Zoma became insane from the experience. Elisha ben Avuya abandoned his faith and became an apostate.”

“And Rabbi Akiva?”

“Rabbi Akiva is the only one who emerged unscathed. But that's not the Kabbalah people are getting from some of the classes and centers springing up around the country and the world.”

A hundred thousand people, and the numbers were growing, from what I'd recently read. “So what
are
they getting?”

“For three-fifty, a bottle of water that has supposedly absorbed the Torah reading.” Zack's expression was wry. “They can buy red threads, jewelry, incense, candles, meditation cards, age-defying skin creams. And of course countless books on Kabbalah, and outrageously overpriced translations of the
Zohar
in English and Hebrew. Basically, it's a spiritual panacea.”

I took another cookie. “What's wrong with something that makes you spiritually connected?”

“Nothing. Books and lectures that encourage introspection and tell you to be kind to your fellow man, that talk about the positive force of goodness and align it with light—those are great. But you don't need Kabbalah for that. And studying the authentic Kabbalah without a solid background in Judaism is like taking a class in calculus when you can't even count to ten. You may memorize a few terms, but you don't have a clue what they mean. It's worse, really. Because if you misuse the Kabbalah, the result can be disastrous.”

I nodded. “Like the rabbis who died or became insane.”

“Or people who tapped into its mystical powers to learn black magic, or used the combinations of the names of God for evil.”

I grimaced. “Heavy stuff.”

“And profitable. A friend of mine who works in a Judaica store had a customer who was anxious to get a copy of the
Zohar.
She heard that touching it would cure her illness. He couldn't talk her out of it.”

“People desperate for cures aren't always logical. I know cancer patients who traveled to Mexico for laetrile even though there's no proof that it helps. I guess Randy was desperate to find a spiritual cure for his guilt. He tried everything—Kabbalah, twelve-step, church.”

“And in the end none of it was enough.” Zack sighed. “A sad life, a sadder ending. What a waste.”

Bubbie G says life is like a child's undershirt, short and soiled. That sounded very much like Randy's life.

“His funeral's tomorrow morning at eleven, by the way, not ten.” I was glad I'd checked with the mortuary.

“We're meeting Galit at eleven-thirty, Molly.”

This time I'd remembered. “I'll reschedule for tomorrow night. I'd like to go to Rachel's Tent after the funeral.”

“I'm giving a class tomorrow night.”

“Saturday night then, or Sunday.”

“What if Galit's not available? I don't want to leave this for the last minute, Molly. We have to make sure the wording on the
ketubah
is correct.”

“Right.” A rabbi would read the
ketubah
under the chuppa and the wording had to reflect my divorced status. Any error, even a misspelled word or name, would invalidate the contract—and our marriage. “I'll phone her now.”

I stood and walked the few steps to the wall phone. Galit was in, and I rescheduled for Saturday night.

“She says she'll have plenty of time to finish,” I told Zack. He was eyeing me over the rim of his cup. “What?”

“Anything else you want to reschedule?”

“Meaning?”

“I'm sure something else will come up.” His voice was too quiet. “If you're having second thoughts—”

“No.” I stared at him. “Why would you think that?” My face felt warm.

“You're busying yourself with this investigation, Molly. The wedding is taking second place.” He shrugged. “I just wondered.”

“You said you understood.”

“I did. I do. But maybe you don't want to deal with your feelings. You keep telling me you don't know if you can handle being a rabbi's wife. Ten minutes ago you said you didn't know if you could do this.”

“I meant covering my hair. Don't read into this, Zack.”

He put his cup down. “You could've told Trina you'd meet another time. You believe that Randy killed Aggie, but you're still going to his funeral and Rachel's Tent.”

I felt hurt that he'd doubted my feelings, guilty that I'd given him reason, alarmed that I was ruining the best thing that had ever happened to me.

“Trina sounded nervous, Zack.” I sat down. “She had something important to tell me. So yes, I forgot about Galit. I'm sorry. And the funeral . . . I'm not sure why I'm going. If you're upset, I won't go.”

“And Rachel's Tent?”

I had no answer.

“Go to the funeral,” he said. “Go to Rachel's Tent. Do what you have to do. Just be honest with yourself, Molly.”

“Here's honest,” I said, leaning forward and brushing the wisps of someone else's hair out of my eyes so that he could read what was in my heart. “I love you. I want to marry you. I want to make babies with you and grow old together, and I am so, so sorry if you thought otherwise for even one second. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“But I need to do this, Zack. I still have questions. Can you understand that?”

He nodded. “Sometimes it's better not to ask questions, Molly. You may not like the answers.”

fifteen

Thursday, February 19. 10:13 A.M. 10800 block of
Jefferson Boulevard. While at the customer service
desk of a department store, a woman placed her wallet on the desk. When she was finished, she walked
away without the wallet. She did not report the loss
for three days because she was out of town for a funeral.
(Culver City)

ROLAND CREELEY HAD CHOSEN LILIES AND WHITE CARNATIONS for his son's service, which took place in a small chapel darkened by stained-glass windows that filtered the light from this morning's crabby sun.

Between last night and this morning I'd changed my mind half a dozen times about attending the funeral. In the past year I'd paid my final respects to two people I'd hardly known because their stories had drawn me, and because I'd suspected foul play and had hoped to observe something that would help identify a murderer. A word spoken or omitted, a nuance, a telling glance, an unexplained presence or absence. It's what homicide detectives do, in real life as well as fiction. With Randy, I had accepted that there was probably no foul play, and I doubted I'd learn anything. But a little before ten I was in my car on the San Bernardino Freeway, headed for the downtown interchange that would take me to the Pomona and Downey.

I had arrived early and taken a seat toward the back of the chapel so that I could observe people as they entered. Creeley and his wife were both somber and stiff in black. Trina, in a pale blue suit and matching heels, had pulled her hair into a knot that exposed her face and the shadows under her eyes. I was relieved to see her. Since her no-show yesterday, my mind had presented me with several dire possibilities, none of which I'd really believed, each worrisome enough to make me contemplate phoning the Creeley home. I hadn't phoned—I'd felt foolish and hadn't wanted to intrude. Now I was glad.

Mike, the yard salesman, clean-shaven and wearing a brown sports jacket and slacks, sat with Gloria Lamont across the aisle from the Creeleys with ten or twelve men and women of varying ages who had walked in as a group. Probably Randy's friends, from one or more of his programs or his church group. A middle-aged man in a well-cut gray suit approached Creeley and rested his hand on the grieving father's shoulder before taking his seat a row behind him.

The photo of Randy and his mother from the copy of
Alcoholics Anonymous
was in my purse. Taking peeks at the photo, I tried aging Sue Ann two decades, but I'm no sketch artist, and I didn't see anyone who resembled her among the middle-aged blond women who passed by me. I also kept my eyes open for someone who matched Mike's description of Doreen. I noted a number of tall, skinny young women but none with spiked black hair.

One woman, around five-eight, with straight auburn hair that reached the middle of her slender neck, wore a coppery brown suit almost the same color as the eyes behind her black-framed glasses. She glanced around her when she entered, maybe hoping to sit with someone she knew, and took a seat in the middle of a pew across the aisle from me and a few rows up.

There was something about her. . . . I studied her, and when she bent her head, I realized she was wearing a wig. A good wig, but if you live in a community where women wear them all the time, you can tell.

Tall and skinny with a wig didn't mean she was Doreen. But if it
was
Doreen, why had she disguised her appearance?

I had been watching the redhead and was unaware of Connors until he was looming over me. He looked like a handsome imposter in a navy sports jacket, striped tie, and dark slacks instead of his trademark jeans and boots.

“Okay if I join you?” he asked.

It wasn't okay. Another time I would have welcomed Connors's company, but he'd withheld the truth about Randy. I didn't know if I was more angry or hurt. Scooting to the middle of the pew I'd had to myself, I gave him a wide berth and a cool glance.

“Still looking for Randy's murderer, huh?” he asked.

“Actually, I'm curious to see if Randy's mother will show.” I wasn't about to volunteer my suspicion about the redhead. Connors had pooh-poohed my interest in Randy's girlfriend. He could do his own detecting.

“You're assuming the mother's alive,” he said. “And that she knew about Randy's death and the funeral.”

“There was a piece about him in yesterday's
Times.
”

“Doesn't mean she saw it, especially if she doesn't live in the L.A. area.”

He was right, of course. That annoyed me. “There's been nothing in the media linking Randy with Aggie's murder. Strange, don't you think?” I watched him to see his reaction.

Connors shrugged. “I guess they have bigger stories than a six-year-old murder.”

More likely, the police had killed the story to avoid embarrassment. “So why
are
you here, if the case is closed?”

“Keeping tabs on you,” he said, treating me to a lazy smile that ordinarily I would have found cute. “Creeley keeps calling, insisting Randy couldn't have overdosed and what are we doing about it. I figure it's worth a couple of hours of my time if it makes him feel better.”

“He's in denial. Randy probably killed himself because he felt guilty about Aggie.”

“What happened to your Randy-was-framed theory?” I was tired of the games. “I know he worked at Rachel's Tent, Andy. I figure you didn't tell me because you didn't want to get Wilshire in trouble, but I have to be honest, it hurts.”

Connors scowled at me. “You figured wrong. Wilshire went by the book. Randy had a solid alibi.”

“His sister,” I said, accompanying my sarcasm with a snort. “How convenient.”

“The prayer vigil started at nine. Randy and his sister went to an eight-thirty movie. He was able to tell the detectives details of the plot. He ordered the tickets by phone. With
his
credit card. He had his ticket stub, she had hers.”

“She could've gone with someone else and given him the other stub,” I said, pointing out the obvious. “Did they even bother to check him out?”

Connors gave me a withering look. “An ex-con who knew the victim? What do
you
think?”

“I think someone obviously screwed up.” I lowered my voice, though no one was within earshot. “Why didn't you tell me he knew her, Andy? Why let me go on thinking it was a random mugging?”

“Like I said, it wasn't my case. And the truth isn't always helpful. Are you happier knowing that your best friend had something going on with her killer?”

I winced as though he'd slapped me. Anger flamed my cheeks. “You don't know that.”

The organ music began. I edged away from Connors and faced forward. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him open a psalm booklet that he'd removed from the back of the pew. A moment later he put it back.

“I'm going to tell you something,” he said. “I think you need to hear it. But it's just between us, understood?”

I nodded, though I couldn't imagine what he could tell me that would make a difference.

He moved closer to me. “We found the locket in a mailer addressed to the Lashers, along with a letter saying he was sorry.”

“That doesn't mean—”

“He talks about how much he loved her, how she changed his life, made him want to be a better man. He says he hated her for making him think they had a future when all along she didn't think he was good enough for her. He wishes he could undo what he did.”

I'd been shaking my head while Connors talked.

“Who's in denial now?” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It explains why he kept the locket, Molly. I know it's tough, finding out there was a side to your best friend you didn't know anything about. I had a partner who was on the take. Even when they showed me the proof, I didn't want to believe it.”

“I'm sorry about your partner, but that has nothing to do with Aggie. She would never lead anybody on, Andy. She was kind to everyone, caring, affectionate. Randy obviously made it into something else. He says so himself.”

“Maybe.”

“She would have
told
me, Andy. We told each other
everything.
”

“The way you talk about her, you had her on a pedestal. Maybe she didn't know how to climb down. Or maybe she was going to tell you, but then she was killed.”

“There was nothing to
tell.
” I frowned. “You don't have to tell her parents about the letter, do you? It would upset them for nothing.” From the expression on his face I could tell he already had.

“You're not the only one who needs answers, Molly.”

The music stopped, and the minister stepped up to the podium. I was agitated but I forced myself to concentrate as he spoke with heart about a life tragically cut short. I sensed that he'd really known Randy, that he wasn't going through the motions. He was followed by Roland Creeley, who didn't cry but had to stop several times while he talked about the son he had loved and would miss terribly, the young boy with the golden hair and golden future, the troubled teenager, the adult who had worked hard to turn his life around.

Aggie's father hadn't cried at her funeral, though unlike her mother, he hadn't been sedated. I think he was numb. I think he hadn't absorbed the reality of his daughter's violent death two days earlier, or the further violation of her body and Orthodox law through the autopsy that the coroner's office had insisted on performing, despite entreaties from prominent members of the Jewish community.

Aggie's father didn't cry, but I could hear the heartache in his voice, the disbelief, each word dropping like a heavy stone into the absolute stillness of the auditorium that couldn't accommodate the more than two thousand people who came to hear him tell what they already knew. That Aggie was a loving daughter, an only child God had given them after they had stopped hoping; that she had brought joy into the life of everyone whose path she crossed; that she exemplified
chesed,
loving-kindness, in her interactions with her family and friends and with those less fortunate, with whom she'd worked every day at Rachel's Tent, people to whom she'd tried to give hope, people whose lives would be emptier now that she was gone.

“She was Rachel,” the rabbi who spoke after Aggie's father told us, using the Hebrew pronunciation. “
Rachel
mevaka al baneha.
Rachel is crying over her children who are in distress and will not be comforted. Like Rachel, Aggie cried over those in distress. Like Rachel, Aggie would not be comforted until they were helped. And now we cry for Aggie, for the young woman who will never stand under a chuppa with her beloved, for the children she will never hold, whose tears she will never dry. And we ask ourselves why. Why Aggie? We have no answer. Only Hashem knows, and we have to accept His decree and trust in His eternal wisdom. But if Aggie were here, I think she would tell us: Do more
chesed.
Open your hand and your heart to those who are troubled. Use soft words and shun
loshon hora,
because gossip is a neighbor of the
ayin hora
that, once aroused, disrupts the order of the world and brings calamity. I think that's what Aggie would tell us.”

I didn't realize Roland Creeley had finished speaking until I heard the organ music. I looked to my right. Connors was gone, and so was the redhead. Slipping out of my pew, I joined the queue filing out of the chapel into the foyer and tried to find her, but the room was too crowded.

I joined the end of a long line of people waiting to sign the guest book and found myself in front of a large floral arrangement with a note card attached to one of those long-handled plastic forks. I flipped open the card:

With deep sympathy from the Horton Family
and all of us at Rachel's Tent.

Sooner or later the media would link Randy with Aggie's murder. I imagined that the Rachel's Tent people who had chipped in for this offering would be filled with horror when they realized they'd sent flowers to the man who had killed one of their own.

It was my turn to sign the guest book. I wrote a short message and would have liked to check the other signatures, but the woman behind me cleared her throat several times, signaling her impatience, so I stepped aside.

The Creeleys emerged from the chapel and stopped to accept condolences. The man in the gray suit took Roland Creeley's hand in both of his, said something about Rachel's Tent, and introduced a man in his late twenties with thick dark hair and a serious, dutiful expression. I didn't hear the name, but Creeley looked almost pathetically grateful.

The younger man said something to Trina and put his hand on her shoulder. She nodded and gave him a wan smile. She was tense, her red-rimmed eyes darting around the room, her hands clenched. When I tried to make eye contact with her, she stared at me without recognition.

I roamed the foyer, and seeing no sign of the redhead, I returned to the guest book, which I now had to myself. Paging backward, I scanned the signatures and messages. Three people had written that they were from Rachel's Tent. Of course, there was nothing from Doreen or Mom.

Mike had signed, and so had Gloria Lamont. I saw Connors's signature and a few pages before that a name that raised goose bumps on my arms:

B. Lasher. “Our prayers are with you.”

There was undoubtedly more than one Lasher in Los Angeles. And who said this Lasher was local? And the
B
wasn't necessarily for Binyomin, as in Aggie's father, who went by Benjamin outside the Orthodox community and whom I hadn't seen in the chapel. I wondered what Connors would think if he assumed that Aggie's father had attended the funeral of the man who had killed her.

A tap on my shoulder startled me. I turned around and saw Gloria Lamont.

“That was a nice service, wasn't it?” she said. “I feel for Randy's daddy. He sounds like a good man what did his best for his son, which wasn't easy, considering he had to do by hisself. But you never know how your kid'll turn out, do you? There's so much temptation in this world, and Satan works hard to put it right in your face.”