Blues in the Night (12 page)

twenty

“I don’t know anything about the hit-and-run,” Nina Weldon said. “Lenore was sleepy when I first visited her in the hospital, probably from the medication. And I didn’t want to upset her with questions.”

We were in Nina’s breakfast nook, which she’d painted a cheery yellow, seated across from each other at a knotty pine trestle table she told me Lenore had helped her pick out. She’d set the table for company—royal blue linen place mats; china plates, teacups, and saucers with a blue-and-yellow floral-wreath design; a crystal bowl filled with fruit; a cobalt platter with cinnamon buns that smelled heavenly but probably weren’t kosher. It was rather formal for an interview with a reporter, and I had the feeling she didn’t entertain much and welcomed the opportunity.

Betty Rowan had called Nina Weldon mousy—an unkind description, but true. She was remarkably colorless in this room of bright yellows and blues, as though she’d used up her allotment of pigments on her surroundings and accessories. She was the
before
woman in magazines and romantic comedies who had fine features but needed a dresser and hairstylist and a Bobbi Brown makeover to transform her into a butterfly. Right now she was a moth: drab, shoulder-length brown hair; faint, unshaped brows; quiet brown eyes, invisible lashes; pale lips that disappeared into skin the color of oatmeal. She was somewhere in her thirties, I guessed, around five feet six or seven, neither slim nor heavy, her shape camouflaged by a beige tentlike dress.

Her hands were surprisingly beautiful, long and slender, but she’d bitten her unringed fingernails all the way to the nail bed and they looked raw. The hands flitted from place to place—her chin, the table, her mug, her lap. Again, I thought of a moth. I wondered if she was nervous because of me, or whether this was her natural disposition.

“I spoke with her ex-husband on Friday,” I said. “He told me Lenore was at his house Saturday night, just before it happened. Did she tell you she was going there?”

“I didn’t see Lenore on Saturday.” She gazed at me with interest. “Did he say why she was there?”

“He said she wanted to spend the night because she was afraid she might harm herself.” I was watching Nina carefully, but saw no reaction. “He told me about their son. I don’t know how anyone gets over something like that.”

“You don’t, really.” She ran a finger over the rim of her coffee cup. “Lenore
was
depressed lately. Something was bothering her, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you know if she was taking her medication?”

“I have no idea.”

“Maybe she wrote in her journal about whatever was bothering her. She told me she was keeping one, at Dr. Korwin’s suggestion.”

“Dr. Korwin has
all
his patients keep journals.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “To be honest, I don’t feel comfortable discussing Lenore.”

“Especially with a reporter.” I smiled. “I don’t blame you. But Lenore
wanted
me to talk to you. She said so in the hospital. ‘Ask Nina.’ I think she has a right to have her story told, don’t you?”

Nina cocked her head. “Are you going to write about her?”

“Yes.” With Lenore dead, probably murdered, I
needed
to do it, although I suppose I’d been headed in this direction from the moment I read about her in the police report. “So far, everything I know is from the media coverage of the trial and whatever her ex-husband told me. The newspaper accounts aren’t flattering, and her ex-husband . . .” I left the sentence unfinished. “As Lenore’s best friend, you could shed another view. You probably knew her better than almost anyone else.”

Yes, I was being manipulative. No, I didn’t feel great about it, but I hoped it would make her open up. I took a sip of coffee and watched her eyes, which gave no clue as to what she was thinking. Her fingers played a sonata on her napkin.

“What do you want to know?” she finally asked.

I relaxed against my chair. “What she was like. Her hobbies, her likes and dislikes. What kind of perfume she wore. What her life was like before and after her son’s death.”

“Her favorite color was blue,” Nina said quietly. “She wore mostly Calvin Klein perfume, sometimes Angel. She didn’t like sports, but she loved games and puzzles and amusement parks and cotton candy. She was always interested in what you were doing. She made you feel special.” Her lips quivered, and she stilled them with her hand. “Did you see her smile?”

I shook my head.

“She had a beautiful smile, and a great laugh that started way down in her stomach, and she loved to sing. She didn’t smile or laugh or sing when she came to the clinic, and that’s where we met, so I don’t know what she was like before Max died, but I do know she never stopped blaming herself for what happened.” It was a long sentence, and she paused to take a breath. “She told me that the best two things that ever happened to her were Robbie and Max, and then she lost both of them.”

“She must have been devastated when he divorced her.”

“There were problems,” Nina said. “Even before Max died. Lenore didn’t think she measured up to the people in Robbie’s world, including his family and his business associates. She was a working girl from a small town. His family practically built L.A. She wasn’t as sophisticated as his crowd. She was nine years younger than Robbie, too.”

“I read that her mom raised her alone.”

“Her dad skipped when she was a baby, and her mom barely made ends meet. I think that was why Lenore fell so hard for Robbie—because he could give her security. The fact that he was older was a plus.”

“A replacement for her father?”

Nina nodded. “That’s what Dr. Korwin told her. But Robbie was in L.A. on business a lot, and that was hard on Lenore.” She paused. “But to answer your question, yes, she was devastated about the divorce. She was shocked when he told her. Thank God she was in therapy at the clinic. I don’t know how she would have handled it on her own.”

I thought about the photos I’d seen in Lenore’s hatbox. Lenore’s father had divorced her mother. Saunders had divorced Lenore. She must have felt that history was repeating itself.

“She was lucky to find a friend like you there,” I said. “Actually, I find it odd that she went to her ex-husband for support when you and she were very close. Especially with the fiancée there.”

“We were
best friends
!” Her lips quivered. “We told each other
everything
!” She sounded hurt, almost angry. A moment later she blushed, probably embarrassed by her show of passion.

I thought about the pregnancy.
Maybe not everything.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s hard to lose someone you love.” I didn’t want to think about Aggie, but there she was.

“Actually, Lenore knew Jillian was going out of town,” Nina said. “I think her mother mentioned it.”

Not what Saunders had said. I felt a prickling of excitement. “Her mother and Robbie are on good terms?”

Nina nodded. “When he and Lenore married, he bought a house in L.A. for her to live in so she could leave Twentynine Palms and be closer to Lenore. She lives there rent-free, and Lenore said he still helps her financially.”

Maybe that explained Betty Rowan’s reluctance to involve Saunders in the hit-and-run. “That must have been uncomfortable for Lenore, having her mother chummy with her ex-husband.”

“She
hated
it.” Nina grimaced. “It was awkward for her, and it made her feel more isolated from everyone.”

“Lenore told me everyone blamed her for Max’s death. What about her mother?”

“
Her
mother,
his
mother. Practically everyone in Santa Barbara. They all
said
they understood about Lenore’s postpartum illness, but she knew they blamed her. Dr. Korwin told Lenore she couldn’t change what they think. He was trying to help her move on with her life.”

“I think I saw him when I was in the hospital the day Lenore died. He was talking to her mother.”

“Dr. Korwin is
wonderful
.” Nina’s eyes sparkled, rescuing her face from ordinariness. “He doesn’t just treat postpartum illness. When I came to him I was in a terrible depression. It was—” She stopped. “It was a dark time for me. I couldn’t hold down a job. Most days I stayed in bed. I had no hope. But Dr. Korwin gave me hope. He did that for so many other women who are depressed for all sorts of reasons. Lenore, too. She told me over and over how grateful she was to Dr. Korwin, how he’d changed her life. She adored him.”

“Patients often become attached to their therapists.” I smiled.

Nina stiffened. “Dr. Korwin would
never
allow that to happen. There was nothing inappropriate in their relationship.”

The mouse had turned into a lion. “Of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest that there was. I’m glad he was able to help her.”

Nina relaxed her shoulders, apparently mollified. “He tried, but she didn’t always follow his advice. He didn’t approve of her seeing Robbie.”

“Was Lenore still in love with Robbie?”

“She thought so. Dr. Korwin told her she was holding on to Robbie because she was trying to re-create her life before Max died. It’s one of the things she was working on, letting go.”

“She must have been upset when Robbie became engaged. Has he known Jillian long? What’s her last name, by the way?”

“Horton. Their families have been close for years.” Nina hesitated. “Actually, they were engaged when Lenore met Robbie. That’s one of the reasons Lenore wanted to move away when they married. Robbie’s mother disapproved of her and blamed her for the broken engagement. As if Robbie didn’t have anything to do with it.” She sniffled.

I shook my head. “It’s always the woman’s fault, isn’t it?” I wondered whether Jillian had known about Lenore’s pregnancy, and if so, how she’d felt having her marriage plans threatened a second time by the same person. And what about Saunders’s mother? “So when did they reconnect? Jillian and Robbie, I mean.”

“Robbie moved back to L.A. a year ago, after the trial. A few months later he filed for divorce. Lenore thinks he was seeing Jillian way before then. She didn’t come out and say it, but I think she suspected something was going on even before the baby was born. I think that’s the real reason she wanted to move to Santa Barbara, to put some distance between them. A little over a month ago, when the divorce was final, Jillian moved into his house in Mount Olympus. Lenore was very upset.”

I couldn’t imagine being pregnant and worrying that my husband was lusting after someone else. Thank God I’d found out about Ron before it was too late.

Nina moved another strand of hair behind her ear. “You said she left a message on your answering machine. What did she say?”

“That she needed to talk to me. She started to say something else, but my answering machine ran out of tape.”

Nina’s hands fluttered against her chest. “What do you think it was?”

“It sounded like ‘I’m afraid.’ Do you have any idea what she meant?”

“The only thing I can think of is that she was afraid she’d harm herself. Because she did, didn’t she?” she said softly, her eyes flooded with tears.

I reached over and patted her hand, wishing I could be of more comfort. “How did Lenore seem when you visited her?”

“The first two times she was confused. I wasn’t even sure she knew I was there.” Nina wiped her eyes with her napkin. “On Wednesday morning I talked to her on the phone, and she seemed much better. She asked me to bring her makeup and other stuff from her apartment. I took that as a good sign.”

I had to agree. “When were you there on Wednesday?”

“The first time, on my lunch break. I went to her apartment first to get her things. She was stronger, more alert. She was asking about people in the clinic, taking an interest in things. When I came back at seven-thirty, she was depressed again. Something must have happened to upset her, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Did Lenore ever tell you she was afraid of anyone, Nina?”

The question seemed to startle her. She frowned. “Why do you ask?”

I’d promised Connors not to say anything about the suspicion of foul play, but that was all. “Someone burglarized her apartment.”

Nina’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened. “I don’t—
When?
”

“Sometime Thursday night or Friday morning.”

“Oh, my God! What a horrible coincidence!” She shuddered, and I watched her expression go from shock to bewilderment to suspicion. She stared at me. “Unless it’s
not
a coincidence. But that doesn’t make sense either. Why would someone break into Lenore’s apartment because she killed herself?”

“The police think it
could
be coincidence,” I said, making amends to Connors. “Or maybe someone was looking for something he didn’t want found.”

“Like what?”

I decided not to mention the journal.

Nina was frowning, preoccupied. I was out of questions, at least for now. I thanked her, and she nodded and walked me to the door, still lost in thought.

I asked if I could call again.

“I suppose so,” she said without enthusiasm.

“By the way, what kind of nightgowns did Lenore like?”

She blinked a few times, as though trying to focus. “What?”

I repeated the question.

“Lenore didn’t wear nightgowns. She liked pajamas.” The idea must have amused Nina, because she smiled for the first time. “Are you going to put that in your book, too?”

twenty-one

Gardening relaxes me. I love running my fingers through clumps of earth, inhaling the rich scent of loam and fertilizer. I even enjoy pulling weeds and sometimes wish life could be as black and white, and that I could yank out of my life the problems or people who annoy me.

Gardening also lets me think, which explains why I was out here now in my landlord’s tiny yard while the sun was baking my SPF 30–coated legs and forearms and plastering my white T-shirt to my back. I’d protected my head and face with a wide-brimmed straw hat my mother had bought me.

When I write about true crime, I generally know who dunit. My goal is to explore the why, to make sense of what often seems senseless, to trace the origins of a brutal act so that you and I can feel reassured that something like that won’t happen to us.

I’ve interviewed a criminal who killed for twenty dollars, and a seventy-three-year-old man who shot his neighbor because a tree was littering his yard. My first true-crime book,
Out of the Ashes,
was about a neo-Nazi who torched a church, killing twenty-three congregants, including five children, maiming and disfiguring many others, and leaving scars that were invisible but would probably never heal. My second, as I mentioned, is about a father who injected his son with the AIDS virus so he wouldn’t have to continue paying child support.

I was writing about Lenore, but I had no idea who killed her. My talk with Nina had been illuminating and provocative, giving me details about the dead woman and the people in her life, but not enough to help me understand why someone would kill her.
Because she’d killed Max?
I doubted that Saunders would exact revenge a year and a half after the fact.
Because she was harassing him and his fiancée?
A restraining order would have done the trick, and I wasn’t even sure Lenore
was
harassing them.
Because he was partly to blame for her hit-and-run or had left her to die in the middle of Laurel Canyon?

Saunders had phoned while I was at Nina’s, wanting to know what I’d decided to do. He was flying to Phoenix for a business appointment and would contact me when he returned tonight, or early tomorrow morning. Betty Rowan had phoned again. She sounded eager to talk to me “as soon as possible, in person.” We were playing phone tag, and I’d left another message on her answering machine and my cell number in case she called when I was out. I’d spent another hour trying to locate Darren Porter with no luck. I’d forgotten to ask Nina whether she knew him.

“Nice garden,” a voice said behind me.

I was hunched in front of my petunias. Swiveling my knees, I craned my neck up at Zack. My hat fell to the ground. “Didn’t your mother teach you to knock?”

I reached behind me for my hat, but he was faster. He picked it up and set it on my head.

“Your landlord told me you were back here. He’s watering the front lawn and saw me ringing your bell. He took pity on me.” Zack didn’t look rabbinic now in his khaki Dockers, white Polo shirt, and brown loafers.

I picked up my garden basket and stood, brushing dirt from my red shorts. “You should feel honored. He’s very particular about my gentleman callers.”

My landlord is a scrawny, bowlegged, seventy-seven-year-old three-time widower who hitches his pants practically up to his eyebrows and loves sitting on his small porch people watching. He’s looking for number four (“Companionship, sure, but I wouldn’t say no to something better”), and like Edie and Mindy, he’s concerned about my marital status, though so far he hasn’t approved of any of my dates. I’m convinced he scans my mail.

“I heard you were in shul yesterday,” Zack said, squinting into the bright light. “Why didn’t you say hello?”

“I figured the well would be dry.”

He looked puzzled. “What?”

“You were busy. I didn’t want to intrude.” I snipped dead leaves off a rosebush.

“You wouldn’t have intruded. I’m glad you came. So what’d you think of my
dvar Torah
?” His sermon.

“Pretty good,” I said, refusing to swell his head. “Connecting the census and counting on everyone was a nice touch.”

“I’m glad you liked it. It seemed to go over well.”

“Not with everyone. Ron’s father thought it was too long.”

“So did my dad. My mom thought it was perfect. Moms are great.” Zack smiled and wiped his forehead. “It’s hot out here. Can we talk inside?”

“About what? Are you here to recruit new members or get free editorial advice?”

He tented his brow. “Did I offend you the other night, Molly? Or is this about what happened twelve years ago?”

“I’m not offended. I’m just not interested in taking a number.”

“You make me sound like a bakery.”

“Were you out last night?” I asked, raising my arm and pointing the gardening shears at him.

“Yes. Can you put those down? I haven’t had a tetanus shot in a while.”

“With Reggie the Realtor? Or were you with one of the other nubile young congregants who adore you and want to bear your children?”

“Actually, I was at the Birkensteins’. I thought Mrs. Birkenstein might want to talk.” Not a hint of a smirk, though he was entitled.

“Oh.” I lowered my hand, feeling like one of the garden slugs I’d dispatched a few minutes ago.

“Can we start over, please?”

My face was burning. “Fine.”

“In the house? Because I may faint from the heat, and I don’t think the board will approve if they find their new rabbi passed out in your flower bed.”

I sat him in the living room, cooled by an air-conditioning unit, while I undressed and splashed cold water on my face, put on makeup, and slipped into a yellow print skirt, a white cap-sleeved blouse, and a pair of sandals. When I returned he was standing in front of my bookcase, which is crammed with Judaic texts and true-crime books—the sacred and the profane—and photos of my family, some still waiting to be framed.

“This is a great one.” Zack pointed to a shot of the Blume clan.

“That was taken two years ago, at my brother Judah’s wedding. I love it that photographers are doing black-and-white now, don’t you?”

He nodded. “You’re lucky you have a large family. My parents always wanted more kids, but it never happened. Are you close?”

“Yes. But we have our moments. You don’t want to be around us then.” I smiled. “Did you have lunch?”

“No, but I don’t want you to bother.”

“It’s the least I can do after almost eviscerating you. How about tuna sandwiches and lemonade? That’s all I have on the menu.”

“Tuna and lemonade sounds perfect.”

He followed me into my kitchen, which is not much larger than an airplane’s galley but allows me to reach everything without moving. I rinsed three lemons and set them on the tile counter, then hunted in a cabinet for the lemon juicer and a pitcher.

“Let me help,” he said, moving so close that I could smell the musk of his aftershave.

I sliced a lemon and handed him half, our hands grazing, and watched him out of the corner of my eye while I took out a container of tuna salad from the fridge, along with seven-grain bread, lettuce, and my last tomato. I know this sounds silly, but there was something adorable and at the same time incredibly sexy about the way he approached his task—forehead creased in concentration, lips pressed together, his right hand vigorously twisting the lemon as if he were determined to wring every last drop.

He must have sensed that I was looking at him, because he turned to me. “What?”

“I hope you like onion and celery in your tuna,” I said with mock sternness to cover my flustered state.

“Love it.” He picked up another lemon half.

I spread tuna on the bread and topped it with tomato slices and lettuce. “She’s interested in you, you know. Potato chips or corn chips?” I may not have a well-stocked fridge, but I have a serious stash of junk food, which is why my nieces and nephews, who are nosh deprived at their respective homes, love coming to Aunt Molly’s.

“Potato. Reggie the Realtor?” Zack nodded. “I really thought she was calling so often because she wants to find me a house.”

“Hmmm.”

He flashed me a smile. “I guess I’m naive. It’s a little awkward since she’s a member of the shul, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s very nice.”

“You may have to marry her.”

He nodded. “Or buy a really big house that I can’t afford.”

I slipped the sandwiches onto plates and sprinkled potato chips on the side. Martha Stewart had better watch out. “So what are you going to tell her?”

“That I’m seeing someone.” He turned toward me and reached out his hand.

For a second I thought he wanted mine. Then I remembered the lemons. I gave him another half. “Are you?”

“You tell me.”

You know in
Sabrina
, when Humphrey Bogart is staring at Audrey Hepburn after he tells her he’s sorry he screwed up and he can’t live without her, and she’s staring back, and the camera zooms in, and the background music swells, and she’s all tingly ’cause she knows he’s going to kiss her? That’s how I felt.

“So basically,” I said, my heart racing as we stood inches apart in the tiny, hot kitchen, “what you’re telling me is that you’re using me?”

“That would be right. Assuming you’re willing to be used. It’s for a good cause,” he added.

“Then how can I say no?”

There was enough chemistry between us to activate a nuclear reactor.

“There’s just one thing,” he said. “I lied.”

I braced myself. “What about?”

“I’m not a tuna and onions guy, but I’m willing to give it a try.”