Blues in the Night (13 page)

twenty-two

Over sandwiches and lemonade, he told me his story. He’d been fooling around that first year at Hakotel, going through the motions of studying the Talmud during the day to justify to his parents why they’d sent him to Israel and skipping night sessions to hang out with American friends, male and female, in the hot spots along Ben Yehuda, a street in central Jerusalem teeming with activity well into the morning hours.

“Nowadays, with the fear of terrorist attacks, the schools have tightened the rules,” Zack said. “But when I was there, you could stay out pretty much all night and no one would know. And there’s no drinking age in Israel.”

I nodded. The girls’ seminaries have always been stricter, even more so now, but I’d slipped out more than once to meet friends for pizza or drinks, or guys. Liora, pure soul that she is, hadn’t even been tempted.

“Then two things happened,” Zack said.

He had been so drunk one night that he’d passed out and didn’t remember returning to the dorm. He’d slept through the entire day and feigned illness to the rabbi who counseled and supervised the young men, but he’d sensed that he hadn’t fooled him. So a week later, ready to party again, he couldn’t refuse when the rabbi asked him to tutor a student who was having difficulties. At first, Zack had been annoyed with the rabbi and with this student who was killing his fun, but as hour followed hour, he found enjoyment in helping the young man and in the material that had become suddenly more interesting in the teaching.

And in the morning he learned that the bus he would have taken to Ben Yehuda had been attacked by snipers who killed seven passengers, including one of his friends.

“I felt as though someone had slammed me into a wall,” Zack said. “If Rabbi Frank hadn’t asked me to do this favor, if I’d taken that bus. . . . It was clear to me that God had saved my life, and He wouldn’t appreciate my wasting it.”

“But why the rabbinate?” I asked. “Why not law school, the way you’d planned?”

“I was never passionate about law. It just seemed more appealing than anything else. When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”

“In utero.”

“That late, huh?” He smiled. “I wish I’d been that focused. Anyway, I started tutoring younger kids and helping them with their personal problems. I loved doing it, and I loved my studies, and I was torn between teaching or counseling when Rabbi Frank suggested I could do both as a pulpit rabbi. All of a sudden I knew this was what I wanted.” He took a sip of lemonade. “I also found out that it was Rabbi Frank who took me back to the dorm when I passed out. The nightclub manager had phoned him.”

It was odd, I thought. An act of violence had brought Zack closer to God, and had driven me away. I wanted to tell him about Aggie, but something stopped me.

Zack was still hungry. I sat at the dining room table and watched while he fixed himself another sandwich and helped himself to more chips. There’s something about a man making himself comfortable in your kitchen that suggests a certain intimacy. I liked the feeling but was afraid to trust it.

“So what brought you to my shul yesterday?” he asked when he returned to the table.

“I’m not sure.” I told him how I’d felt seeing him at the Birkensteins’, that maybe God was nudging me. “Plus my grandmother forced me. Who told you I was there? Harriet?”

“Ron. He says you still have a thing for him.”

I did, mostly pity. “Ron and I are very much over. Is that why you came, to find out if it’s true?”

“Actually, your grandmother forced me.” He smiled. “I came because I thought we had unfinished business, Molly. I phoned you earlier in the day, by the way, but I guess you were out.”

“I was interviewing someone. Why didn’t you leave a message?”

“I don’t like voice mail in general, and I wasn’t sure you’d return my call. Later your line was busy, so I figured I’d take my chances and stop by. So is this for an article or your next true-crime book?”

“It’s for a book about a true crime, but I don’t know the truth yet, or how it’ll end up.” I told him about Lenore—about my hospital visit, about her death and what I suspected, about my talks with Connors and Saunders and Nina.

Zack had been shaking his head every once in a while.

“You think I shouldn’t be getting involved?” I asked, prepared to bristle. I suppose Connors was on my mind.

“Not at all. I admire your passion, and I find all this fascinating.” He took a bite of the sandwich. “You may be right about the journal, Molly. In which case Saunders is a likely suspect.”

“But why would he steal her journal? What could Lenore have written that he’d want to suppress?”

“That she was pregnant with his child.”

I shook my head. “Even if the police thought Lenore killed herself, Saunders had to figure they’d know from the ER doctors that she was pregnant. Which they did.”

“But not necessarily with his child. We don’t know that either.”

“Nina told me Lenore was still in love with him, Zack,” I reminded him. “The apartment building manager suspected the same thing.”

“Which doesn’t mean Lenore wasn’t intimate with anyone else.”

“Why would she sleep with someone else if she was in love with Saunders?” I said with some impatience.

Zack shrugged. “Loneliness? Anger? Maybe she wanted to make him jealous.”

“Maybe.” I pleated my napkin. “Well, if Saunders isn’t the father, who is?”

“I didn’t say he’s
not
the father. I said the police wouldn’t
know
that unless she wrote it in the journal.”

I pressed my palms against my temples. “Is this Talmudic discourse? ‘Cause you’re giving me a headache.”

“Just establishing the facts,” he said seriously. “You have to examine all the possibilities. Who else would have worried about Lenore’s journal?”

He was really involved. I was amused and pleased and unprepared, because Ron had shown little interest in my work. “Whatever floats your boat, babe,” he’d say, as though I were crocheting doilies. I think he was surprised when a publisher bought my first book, and not unhappy that my advance was modest—I wasn’t showing him up.

“The fiancée may have stolen it, to protect Saunders,” I said. “That would explain the vandalism. She must have resented Lenore a great deal. And there’s Lenore’s mother.”

“The mother?” Zack looked skeptical.

“She left two messages saying she wants to talk to me. I can’t think why, unless Saunders asked her to get me to back off. Maybe she stole the journal to protect him. The building manager says she only saw Mrs. Rowan visit Lenore once, aside from a few times last week, and according to Nina, Mrs. Rowan and Saunders are still tight. That’s odd, don’t you think? And she hasn’t been very forthcoming.”

“In what way?”

“She implied she didn’t know why Lenore was on Laurel Canyon Saturday night. As if she didn’t know that Saunders lives there.” I tried one of Bubbie G’s harrumphs, but didn’t do it as well.

“You can’t blame her for not wanting to tell all to a reporter, Molly. No offense.” He smiled.

“Offense taken,” I said, but he had a point.

“I can see the mother stealing the journal,” Zack said, “but not killing the daughter. Which means we’re dealing with
two
people. Quite a coincidence.”

I took a few chips from his plate. “Suppose the mother believes it was suicide but thinks the police will investigate as though it were a homicide.
I
thought so, until Detective Connors told me differently this morning. So she steals the journal for Saunders, or because she doesn’t want it to be a Book-of-the-Month-Club pick.”

“Okay.” Zack nodded. “But if the mother stole it, why would she vandalize the apartment?”

I rolled my eyes. “To make it look like a burglary.”

He frowned. “Why bother? How would the police know the journal is missing if they didn’t even know it
existed
?”

That was a good question, and I’d already considered it. “People knew about the journal. Nina, Dr. Korwin—he has all his patients keep journals.
I
knew about it, and Lenore probably told some other people. What if one of them mentioned the journal to the police, and the police discovered that it was missing?”

Zack didn’t answer right away. “Does the mother have a key to her daughter’s apartment?”

“She must, because the manager told me she stopped Mrs. Rowan from going into Lenore’s apartment on Thursday afternoon. Detective’s orders.” I frowned.

“What?”

“I had a thought, but now it’s gone.” I shrugged to make light of it, but I hate when that happens. “Oh, well. It’ll come back to me.”

“We’ve overlooked three possibilities. One, Lenore may have written things in the journal that were connected to her ex-husband’s political campaign or his business or to someone else entirely.”

“
You’ve
overlooked it. I haven’t.” I stacked our plates. “What’s the second possibility?”

“That this has nothing to do with the journal. Maybe Lenore had something else that someone wanted to retrieve.”

I nodded. “And the third?”

“What Detective Connors suggested. That Lenore really
did
kill herself, and the burglar was anxious to retrieve something incriminating before someone else, either the police or a family member, found it.”

It was certainly plausible, and I couldn’t rule it out. “But then why would Lenore tell me she was afraid?”

“Because she was thinking of killing herself and hoped you’d talk her out of it. Or because she was afraid of having another child.”

“But why me? I hardly knew her, Zack. Why didn’t she phone someone close to her—her mother or best friend? Her shrink, for that matter.”

“You visited her in the hospital. You showed concern. Maybe she connected with you.”

“I don’t know.” I took the plates to the kitchen. “As to your first two possibilities, I plan to check into Saunders and some other things.”

Zack followed me. “Be careful, Molly. If you’re dealing with someone who could be a killer . . .”

“You just said there might not
be
a killer.”

“And if there is?”

“I’m careful.”

“I’m sure you are, but—”

I stopped him with a look. “I’m a big girl, Zack. I can take care of myself.”

“So I’m not allowed to worry?”

“Worry all you want, but keep it to yourself.” To be honest, I liked knowing that he was concerned. I washed a dish and handed it to him.

He picked up a towel from the counter. “I’m giving a class tonight, but how about dinner tomorrow? You can fill me in on your progress.”

“Monday night is mah jongg with my sisters.” I could have canceled with Edie and Mindy’s blessing, but I didn’t want him to think I was too eager. “What about Tuesday?”

“I have a bar mitzvah boy coming at nine, right after
maariv
. How about an early dinner? Five-thirty?”

“Fine.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up at five-fifteen,” he said, and this time I didn’t say no. “By the way, the shul board is throwing a party the Tuesday night after Tisha b’Av. Meet the new rabbi. Can I have them send you an invitation?”

“I’ve already met the rabbi.”

“I’d really like you to come, Molly.”

“That’s almost three weeks away.” In three weeks we could be over.

“So?”

“You don’t need me there. You’ll be busy meeting people.”

“Exactly why I
will
need you. To protect me from Reggie the Realtor and all those nubile young women you mentioned.” He smiled.

I told him to send the invitation and promised I’d think about it.

twenty-three

I spent the afternoon working on my manuscript edits, reviewing my notes on my talk with Nina, and learning through news articles on the Web that Robert Saunders had been poking his developmental fingers into much of L.A. and other Southern California counties for almost ten years, and that not everyone was happy about it.

I hate what’s happening to my city. I don’t yearn for the days when Wilshire Boulevard from downtown L.A. to the Pacific Ocean was all farmland. That was long before I was born, and I do love shopping and catching a movie at Century City and Santa Monica and other malls. But now the malls, with their multilevel department stores, movie complexes, restaurants, boutique shops, and kiosks, are encroaching like locusts on residential neighborhoods, including my own, and creating traffic snarls from early morning until late at night that would make Gandhi weep.

Twenty-plus years ago developers replaced the pony-ride park my grandparents used to take us to on Sundays with the Beverly Center, an ugly monstrosity that squats like an elephant, occupying an area bordered by La Cienega and San Vicente, and Beverly and Third. On the other side of La Cienega they built the Beverly Connection, whose labyrinthian parking lot must have been designed by someone on LSD. Across Beverly to the north they erected the Sofitel Hotel, from whose upper-floor windows you’d have a great view of the Hollywood Hills if it weren’t for the Pacific Design Center, two large shiny buildings (one is Lego blue, the other green, and I hear the next one will be yellow) about as picturesque as Play-Doh.

About three years ago they razed Chasen’s, an L.A. landmark where movie stars used to celebrate post Oscars, and built Bristol Farms, a high-end produce market. More recently they completed a huge mall called The Grove that houses a Nordstrom, a Banana Republic, and other stores and restaurants and clubs that surround and overwhelm what remains of the original Farmers Market. There were city council meetings where homeowners protested, but the bulldozers had their way, and while I admit the mall is gorgeous (I heard it was designed by the architect of the Las Vegas Bellagio) and I enjoy relaxing near the pond and fountains, it now takes me five times as long to drive from Fairfax to La Brea.

Ron had been right about Saunders’s interest in the Santa Monica Mountains. He’d submitted plans for a large housing subdivision with a nearby complex of hotels, restaurants, movie theaters, department stores, specialty shops—practically a city. He was also developing property in Malibu and Westwood, and now that I think about it, it may have been his name that I saw a few months ago on placards of protest planted on Westwood lawns. One newspaper piece about the Malibu project (the headline was
GOBBLE
,
GOBBLE
) reported a shouting match between a homeowner and Saunders’s representative at a council meeting.

In every case, Saunders had faced opposition. In every case, ultimately, he had won. I wondered whether his success was a result of his persuasive powers or his connection with good friends in high places.

This time I took Mount Olympus, a more direct route to Hermes. The street was wider and easier on my stomach and offered a breathtaking view of the city when I reached the top.

“Robbie isn’t here,” Jillian told me, something I already knew. She’d opened the door to show only a sliver of her face, which didn’t look all that welcoming.

“I was hoping to clarify a few things he told me on Friday. I assume he told you that he and I talked?”

“Robbie and I have no secrets.” A little smugness, a little disdain.

“Then maybe you can help me.” I smiled to show we were all friends now. “I’d hate to think my trip up here was a waste. Not that the view isn’t worth it.”

“It would be better if you talked to Robbie,” she said, a shade more pleasant. “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“No problem. It’s just that I spoke to one of Lenore’s friends today. She said some things about you and Robbie and Lenore, and I thought it was only fair to hear your side.”

Jillian’s eyes narrowed. “My side about what? Exactly what did she say?”

“Could we talk inside? It’s rather warm out here.”

After a brief hesitation, she opened the door. I stepped into the cool stone-tiled entry and followed her down three steps into an enormous living room with dark hardwood floors and a vaulted, two-story wood ceiling.

We sat at opposite ends of a chintz sofa, the only furniture in the room aside from a stone-based glass coffee table covered with campaign brochures bearing Saunders’s handsome smiling face. She was wearing jeans again and another crisp white cotton blouse, this one with three-quarter sleeves. Her dark hair hung down her back. I noted a few gray strands at her forehead, some lines around her brown eyes.

“Your home is magnificent,” I said. It was the first truth I’d uttered since I’d arrived.

“Thanks. We’re in the process of redecorating, as you can see. This couch and table are temporary, of course.” She glanced at the offending pieces, then back at me. “It’s hell finding the right decorator.”

“I know what you mean,” I murmured, my lapse into honesty over. My decorators had been a Pottery Barn catalog and a salesman at Plummers, a furniture store on Venice Boulevard in Culver City that used to have the added attraction of being near an Entenmann’s shop, no longer open, where you could get day-old doughnuts for half price. “How long have you been living here?”

“A little over a month. Robbie owns a lot in Beverly Hills, near both of our parents, and we plan on building there—after the wedding, of course. We’ll probably come here weekends, just for the view.”

“It’s quite a view.” I glanced at the floor-to-ceiling windows and felt renewed envy. “Do you have a wedding date?”

“December tenth at the Biltmore downtown.”

The Biltmore is a beautiful hotel with a ballroom that has a gilded ceiling and old-world charm, and new-world prices. I picked up a brochure. “Between planning the wedding and campaigning for the city council election, the two of you must be very busy.”

“It’s a little crazy, but it’s exciting. Robbie has a great deal to offer. He’ll make a wonderful councilman, and after that, who knows?” Jillian smiled.

“He’s a land developer, right? I understand he’s planning a new subdivision in the Santa Monica Mountains.”

“I don’t know much about that. You’d have to ask Robbie.” A note of caution had entered her voice.

“Did I read that there was a problem with the zoning?”

She shrugged. “There are always problems, but Robbie manages to solve them. He’s very good at what he does.”

“I’m sure.” I glanced around again. “How long has he owned this home?”

“Down to business, right?” Jillian looked amused. “What you’re really asking is, did he and Lenore live here? The answer is yes. And no, that’s not why I want to move. It’s been over two years since Robbie and Lenore lived here, so her presence is long gone. Although she seems to be haunting us from the grave, doesn’t she? Don’t quote me on that,” she warned, suddenly nervous.

“I won’t.” I smiled. “I take it you didn’t like her.”

Jillian laughed. “What makes you think that?” She tucked one leg beneath her and assumed a serious expression. “Look, Miss Blume—”

“Molly.” You’d be amazed how much people open up once you’re on a first-name basis.

She nodded. “Lenore’s dead, Molly, and it’s a tragedy that she killed herself, but I won’t pretend to be sorry that she’s out of our lives.”

“I admire your honesty.”

“I’m not sure Robbie will. I think you’d better come back tomorrow.”

“Her best friend says if you hadn’t come back into the picture, Robbie wouldn’t have divorced her.”

“That’s crap. Robbie was thinking divorce even before Max died. Lenore wasn’t coping with mommyhood, but she refused to let Robbie hire a nurse. Changing diapers and dealing with a crying baby wasn’t his thing. I encouraged him to stick with her through the trial and afterward. Maureen did, too. His mother,” Jillian said when I looked blank.

Public opinion, I suspected, but I asked her why.

“Because it was the right thing to do. There are rules, and you play by them. She was his wife, he had a responsibility.”

She was playing with the huge square-cut diamond on her ring finger that matched the diamond studs in her ears. I wondered if this was the original engagement ring, or a new one. Maybe Robbie had a direct account with DeBeers.

“I understand that you and Robbie were seeing each other before the divorce was final. Even before the baby was born.”

She shrugged. “Robbie and I were friends long before Lenore ever
met
Robbie.”

“You were friends who happened to be engaged before. And you moved into this house right after the divorce.”

“The marriage was over!
Dead.
” She glared at me, nostrils flared, face flushed. “Lenore didn’t want to accept it. She was making ridiculous demands. Robbie was outrageously generous, but every time they’d be close to a settlement, she’d up the ante.”

I’d obviously touched on a sore point. “But eventually she agreed.”

“Her mother finally made her see reason. Thank God.” She took a calming breath. “I thought you promised Robbie you were going to keep this quiet.” She sounded nervous again and probably regretted her outburst.

“
If
I can corroborate what he told me. So far, I’m hearing conflicting stories, Jillian.”

“I really shouldn’t talk about this.”

Maybe it was anger at Lenore or frustration with Robbie. Whatever it was, I sensed she wanted to tell her story. Most people do, which makes my job easier. “To be honest, Jillian, everybody I’ve talked to so far thinks Robbie treated Lenore badly. I’m interested in the truth, and I’d like to be fair, but—”

“You want the truth?” Jillian unfolded her leg. “Lenore manipulated Robbie into marrying her.”

“How did they meet?”

“She worked for him. She began as a secretary, and within a year she managed to become his personal assistant. I have to give her credit. She’s bright and she did a good job, and she was
so
interested in his business.” She drew out the word, adding a breathless, vampy quality. “Have you met her?”

“Once, in the hospital.”

“She probably wasn’t at her best.” Jillian’s smile was nasty. “She’s very pretty and incredibly charming, and she’s got this sweet, innocent, you’re-my-hero act down pat.” She wrinkled her nose, as if sniffing dog doo. “Robbie ate it up.”

“That’s how she manipulated him?”

“That’s how she started. Then she seduced him so she’d get pregnant.”

This wasn’t the Lenore Nina had described, and I wondered how much Jillian’s bitterness had colored her view. “It could have been an accident.”

“With Lenore there are no accidents. She probably used an ovulation chart to make sure the time of the month was right. She
knew
Robbie would marry her, and she’d be set for life. Like mother, like daughter.” Jillian saw the surprised look on my face. “You didn’t know? Lenore was conceived out of wedlock, just like Max. Her daddy married Betty, then skipped when he knew he’d been taken for a ride.”

“Lenore told Robbie this?”

Jillian snorted. “She didn’t even tell him her parents were divorced. She told him her father died when she was an infant. Maureen had the family checked out. She told Robbie, but he was determined to marry her.”

“He could have told Lenore to get an abortion.”

“That wasn’t the point.” She shook her head impatiently: I wasn’t getting it. “He was infatuated with her. He thought he
loved
her.” She made it sound like a dirty word. “There was no talking him out of it. Believe me, we tried.”

I was annoyed by her patronizing attitude. “You and Maureen?”

“Someone had to talk sense to him. Robbie’s father wasn’t around to do it. Maximillian died eight years ago of a heart attack. Max was named for him,” she added.

“Maybe Robbie really
did
love her.”

“He hardly
knew
her. Their backgrounds were totally different, their interests, their social circles.” She waved the hand with the rock. “She didn’t fit into his world.”

“But you do.”

“Yes, I do. And I’m honest enough to say so. Our families have been close for years. We even went to the same schools. Robbie realized he’d made a huge mistake. Lenore was uncomfortable around his family and friends, so he rarely saw them, and when that wasn’t good enough for her, they moved to Santa Barbara, and she was lonely. Robbie is used to entertaining clients. It’s an important part of his business. Lenore
hated
entertaining.”

“I can see how that would destroy a marriage,” I said, risking a little sarcasm.

“You think I’m a snob.” Jillian shrugged. “You can teach someone how to dress and choose wines and set a table, but you can’t teach her how to be witty or sophisticated or how to fit in. Life isn’t like the movies. I think Lenore watched
Pretty Woman
too many times.”

I decided I didn’t like Jillian. “I guess she did.”

“There’s a reason the wealthy marry each other, Molly. It’s not elitism. It’s compatibility and practicality.”

“I can see what you mean. And that’s why you and Robbie are getting married?”

“That, and because we love each other deeply.”

And because Robbie is successful and wealthy and probably owns more homes than a Monopoly set. “You’ve waited a long time to be happy together. You must have been upset when Lenore threatened that happiness a second time.”

“Lenore wasn’t a threat. She was an annoyance. Robbie had no interest in her.”

“But she was interested in him. That’s why she came here Saturday night, right?”

Jillian sighed. “She told Robbie she was afraid she might harm herself, but she’s cried wolf before. Robbie feels terribly guilty that he sent her away, but how could he have known she
meant
it this time?”

I furrowed my brow and hoped I looked genuinely puzzled. “This is where we have a discrepancy, Jillian. Lenore told her friend she came here that night with every hope of reuniting with Robbie. Why would she say that?”