Dream House (14 page)

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

B
ACK IN MY PARKED CAR I MADE SEVERAL CALLS ON MY
cell phone, then spent the rest of the morning and a good chunk of the afternoon collecting
Crime Sheet
data at police divisions in the other areas the paper covers: Northwest, Pacific, West L.A., Culver City, West Hollywood. I left Hollywood for last, hoping I'd catch Connors, but he wasn't in.

I did have plenty of material for my column. There were the usual suspects—car thieves and street muggers—and, apparently, a rash of males flashing their privates, no doubt inspired by last week's warm weather. There
is
something to be said for arctic temperatures, although Manhattan's Naked Cowboy apparently struts his stuff even in the snow. Well, not
all
his stuff. He does wear briefs.

I'd noted only one new home vandalism, and that was in West L.A. in a non-HARP neighborhood. My guess was that the HARP vandal had been frightened into inactivity by the torching of the Fuller house and Linney's death. Unless, of course, the person who had vandalized the other residences was responsible for the Fuller arson. I didn't believe that for one minute. I didn't think Rico Hernandez did, either.

The small waiting room of Dr. Bernard Elbogen, practitioner of internal medicine, was overheated and furnished with a crackled brown Naugahyde sofa and four ugly turquoise vinyl chairs permanently indented from too many rumps. I fit mine onto a chair across from an elderly man whose shoulders and torso seemed to have shrunk inside his plaid sports jacket. Next to him was a middle-aged man with almost identical features—probably a son—who, in between entering data into his laptop, kept checking his watch and clearing his throat loudly for the benefit of the platinum blond receptionist at whom he darted annoyed looks. When that didn't get her attention, he walked over to her.

“We've been waiting a half hour,” he told her in a voice straining for politeness.

“We'll call your father as soon as there's a room.”

Judging from her bored tone, she'd said the same thing to a thousand-plus patients or family members thereof. I was pretty sure she was the woman I'd talked to this morning on my cell phone, though she'd sounded friendlier then, telling me how lucky I was someone had canceled. After my disappointing meeting with Hernandez, I wasn't feeling all that lucky, but I took her word for it.

I thumbed through an issue of
Newsweek,
smiled at some of the cartoons and quotes, read about another Democrat throwing his hat into the presidential ring, then about the latest attack in Israel. Sixteen killed and forty-three injured, some critically, on a bus blown up by two Palestinian Al Fatah terrorists who drove a car packed with explosives into the bus, turning it into an inferno of crumpled metal and charred bodies. I closed my eyes and sighed deeply.

“My lips are dry,” the old man announced in an Eastern European accent that reminded me of my Zeidie Irving's. Grabbing the cane at his side, he pushed himself up and walked to the receptionist's window.

“Can I have a little bit water, please?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes, stood, and disappeared from view. A moment later she returned and handed the old man a small white cup.

“Thank you.” He took a sip, wet his lips with his tongue, and shuffled back to his seat.

Fifteen minutes passed. I finished the magazine and picked up a copy of
Health.
I was reading about the danger of fad diets when the old man stood and made his way back to the receptionist.

“My lips are dry,” he told her again, his voice soft with apology. “It's the medicine. Could I maybe have a little more water, please?”

He handed her the cup and thanked her a moment later when she returned it, filled.

“If you have a problem, you should bring a water bottle with you next time, Mr. Abramson,” she said sternly. “I can't keep giving you water every few minutes.”

His lined face turned red, as though she'd slapped him. “I'm sorry. It's the medicine.”

You
should be sorry, I thought, glaring at her. For keeping an old man waiting so long, for begrudging him a little water, a little kindness. She was oblivious to my stare, and she probably wouldn't have understood if she'd seen it. Wait till you're old, I wanted to tell her.

I watched the son. He'd looked up from his laptop at the
receptionist's rebuke, and I saw anger pinch his lips. He made a motion as though he was about to stand, and I tensed in anticipation.
Tell her off,
I cheered silently. But indecision crept into his eyes, and then a sort of embarrassment because he saw me looking at him. He sat back, his face flushed, his eyes avoiding mine, and returned his attention and fingers to the laptop.

I supposed he didn't want to create a scene. I supposed that in those few seconds he'd decided that the repercussions of an outburst would outweigh any momentary satisfaction. Maybe the office would give his father a hard time scheduling appointments or filling out insurance forms. Worse, maybe they'd ask him to find another doctor. I understood. But, damn, I'd wanted him to put the woman in her place. I wondered what I would have done if it were Bubbie G who'd been yelled at. To be honest, I didn't know.

And then it occurred to me that maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe the son was upset not with the receptionist, but with his father, who had annoyed her and was a source of embarrassment, like a whiny child. I thought about Oscar Linney and the people he might have annoyed. I thought about his bruises.

Twenty minutes passed before I was ushered into Dr. Elbogen's wood-paneled office. He was a portly man with Pillsbury Doughboy cheeks, dark hair, and a handlebar mustache that would have made Hercule Poirot jealous.

“I understand you're here for a consultation,” he said when we were both seated. “How can I help you, Miss Blume?”

“I'm a reporter,” I said, watching a frown eclipse his smile. I seem to have that effect on people. I handed him a business card. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about Professor Linney.”

The doctor dropped the card onto his desk as if it were contaminated. “I can't discuss a patient with you.”

“Of course not. I'm not here to ask about Professor Linney's physical condition. I wanted to know if he said anything about his daughter's disappearance.”

Elbogen sighed and relaxed against the black leather of his armchair. “He talked about it all the time. He was devastated. She was everything to him, his whole world.”

“Did he tell you what he thought had happened to her?”

The doctor shook his head. “All he knew was what the police told him, that Margaret was apparently kidnapped. He didn't want to believe she was dead.”

“Did he express any fears about his own safety?”

“No.” Elbogen looked at me appraisingly. “I thought you were interested in Margaret.”

“I'm doing a story about the father and daughter. When I talked with Professor Linney a few days before he died, he said people were hitting him. Do you think he could have been imagining that?”

“A detective phoned earlier and asked the same question.” Elbogen shrugged, uncomfortable again. “I'll tell you what I told him: I'm not a psychologist.”

I was pleased that, for all his professed lack of interest, Hernandez had followed up on my information. “I understand. Let me ask you another question, Doctor. Can Alzheimer's make a person paranoid?” This time I was careful to keep the question general.

“A third of Alzheimer's patients present with paranoia. So the answer is yes. But it depends on the individual, and on the stage of the illness. Some Alzheimer's patients can also become physically violent if they're agitated, because they think they're protecting themselves.”

I thought for a moment. “Are there medications that can make a person paranoid?”

Elbogen gave me a look that was part approval, part reluctance: I was playing Go Fish, I'd made a match, and he had to relinquish a card.

He nodded. “Parkinson's patients lack sufficient dopamine, a neurotransmitter in the brain, so we prescribe medications that
increase
the dopamine.”

“For example?”

“Levodopa and Carbidopa are some of the classic medications. There are newer ones, like Mirapex. Most of the medications that increase dopamine can potentially cause psychosis, and one of the symptoms of psychosis is paranoia. By the way, if a schizophrenic receives too much of an antipsychotic, he may present with Parkinsonian features, including tremors.”

Linney had suffered from Parkinson's. And possibly from MS, according to Margaret's planner. I wondered if that had been confirmed, but knew better than to ask Elbogen. “So if someone has Alzheimer's and is taking medication for Parkinson's, would that make him more susceptible to paranoia?”

Elbogen nodded. “Quite possibly.”

“Was Professor Linney taking medication for Parkinson's?”

Elbogen smiled in answer. “A for effort, Miss Blume.”

I'd noticed only a mild form of the tremors typical of Parkinson's in Linney, but no facial rigidity, which is another symptom. So I assumed he'd been taking something. I wished I'd checked his medicine cabinet when I was at the house. I'd have to come up with a reason to go back.

“Dr. Elbogen, did Professor Linney ever tell you he was being abused?”

“I told you I won't discuss a patient with you.”

“Okay, but do you
think
he was being abused?”

“If I'd thought so, I would have done something about it, wouldn't I? Is that all?” He sounded indignant, and defensive.

Which made me wonder. “One more question? According to Margaret Linney's planner, she met with you two days before she disappeared. Can you tell me what that was about?”

Elbogen flinched as though I'd thrown freezing water at him. Obviously, I'd touched a nerve. But which one?

“Was it about herself or her father?” I pressed when he didn't answer.

“Have a nice day, Miss Blume. Please pay the receptionist on your way out. A personal check will be fine.”

“The police will be looking at the planner,” I said. “They'll be asking the same questions.”

“You can't leave things alone, can you?” His puffed reddened cheeks looked like ripe tomatoes. “You don't care how many lives you ruin. It's all about the story.”

I like to think I'm ethical, and I'd never deliberately hurt anyone, but in my profession I often trespass on people's privacy. So I'll admit his comment stung, especially in light of Linney's death.

It would have stung more if I hadn't heard the fear that quivered behind the indignation in the doctor's voice.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

I
T WAS AFTER FIVE BY THE TIME I CAME HOME, AND THE
ominous charcoal sky promised more rain. My landlord, Isaac, was out of his apartment before I shut my car door. He must have heard me pull into the driveway.

He looked like Big Bird. He'd tightened the hood of his bright yellow slicker around his face, hiding his forehead and throwing his beaklike nose into prominence.

“Your mail was getting wet, so I took it inside,” he informed me as I climbed the steps to the porch.

I was tired and hungry. Though I like Isaac, he can be chatty, so I hoped he'd hand me my mail. But he invited me in and I couldn't say no. The price of postage has gone up, I thought, and was immediately ashamed of myself.

I'd been in Isaac's apartment, and it's always something of a jolt seeing the hodgepodge of sofas, chairs, bureaus, and other pieces he's accumulated from marriages to three women with tastes ranging from Danish Modern to French Provincial to lacquered Chinese. It's like walking into one of those discount stores on Western Avenue so crowded with furniture and accessories that you can't really notice anything, and you're afraid you'll either bump into something and bruise your shin or break something ugly and have to pay for it.

I followed Isaac through the living and dining rooms into the kitchen, where he'd put my mail. I wanted to go home, peel off my boots, and curl up on my sofa with a cup of hot chocolate while I skimmed Margaret's planner. But Isaac offered me coffee, and I hesitated only a second or two before I said fine. He seemed lonely, probably because he hadn't been able to sit on the porch, watching people the way he does every day. Maybe he was always lonely, and I'd never really noticed. Maybe I was more attuned because of Linney and the old man in Elbogen's office.

So we sat at his yellow Formica breakfast room table, where he was working on a decoupage of a rose. We had fresh brewed coffee and polished off half a loaf of Entenmann's pound cake (Isaac always stocks up on kosher nosh for me), and I admired recent photos of his Chicago grandchildren and listened while he told me about the cute things they'd said when he last talked to them and how he was thinking of maybe going to see them for Chanukah next month if he could get a cheap ticket on Priceline.

Back in my apartment I checked my phone messages: Zack, canceling our date tonight because of last-minute shul business. He was sorry and would phone me later. My mom, reminding me that I'd offered to take Bubbie G for a haircut on Thursday. Linda Cobern, asking me to call. Who was Linda Cobern? I wondered, and then I remembered: the witchy woman who worked for Councilman Harrington. Served me right for giving her my card.

It was six-thirty. I pride myself on returning calls promptly, and Linda Cobern might still be at the office, but I wasn't in the mood to be harangued about my
Times
piece. Even the thought made me grumpy, or maybe it was the relentless rain that was fogging my windows and chilling the apartment, and Elbogen's parting jab, and the fact that I'd be spending the evening alone.

I understood about tonight. I really did. I admired Zack's sensitivity and dedication to his congregants. But I couldn't help wondering whether this was an example of what life would be like if I married a rabbi, and whether I was suited to be a rabbi's wife.

Or even a rabbi's girlfriend. At mah jongg I'd joked about being sexually frustrated, but though my clothes may skirt Orthodox standards, the prohibition against extramarital sex is one rule I'm not about to break. Even when I'd come dangerously close, telling myself that sanctifying intimacy was quaint but irrelevant, something had always kept me back. God, from whom I couldn't seem to run away; my conscience; the values my parents had instilled in me; an image of Zeidie Irving watching me from Heaven, his kind face filled with disappointment. So Ron had been my first lover, and so far, my last, and I wasn't sorry.

But Orthodoxy prohibits
any
physical contact between men and women outside of marriage. While I have bent that rule, and so had Zack (maybe he'd done more than bend it; he'd never said, and I'd never asked), he definitely wouldn't break it now. I respected that, too, but I missed being touched, being kissed.

Which is one of the reasons, I reminded myself, that strictly observant men and women have short courtships—like my brother Judah and sister-in-law Gitty, whose first embrace was in a private room after the wedding ceremony.

And I was the one who'd asked for more time, as if another month or three or eight would give me a certainty I knew didn't exist. Sometimes you have to take a leap of faith.

I phoned my mom, thanked her for reminding me about Bubbie G, and listened to her vent about a woman who had
berated her last night at parent-teacher conferences for giving her daughter a “demoralizing” A-minus on an essay that would probably “scar her for life.”

You could laugh or cry, we both agreed.

Then I phoned Bubbie G and confirmed that I'd pick her up on Thursday at eleven.

“You sound not yourself,
sheyfele,
” she said. “Everything is all right?”

The endearment (it's Yiddish for
little sheep
) and the concern in her gentle, accented voice were an instant balm. If I closed my eyes, I could practically feel her satin-soft hand stroking my cheek.

“I'm fine, Bubbie. Just a little tired.”

“Have a
gleyzele
hot tea, and then a bath,” she advised. As far as Bubbie is concerned, a glass of hot tea and a bath solve most problems. “You're writing about the man who died in the fire, yes? And his daughter? This is making you sad, no?”

“Very sad. And I'm having a hard time learning what really happened.”

“
Der emess iz a kricher,
Molly.”

Truth is a slowpoke.

I'd have to remember that.

Over a spartan dinner of broiled trout and a salad—compensation for the pound cake—I read Margaret's planner. I learned that she'd practiced piano three hours a day, that she'd played doubles tennis Tuesdays and Thursdays, that she had a standing monthly hairdresser appointment. I learned—no surprise here—that in the past months she'd spent most of her time meeting with Jeremy Dorn and the contractor and the decorator who had been helping her with the Muirfield house. On May twenty-eighth she'd written
Talk to Linz.
The tile setter.

She'd also been busy with her father. In January she'd taken Linney to a lab for X rays. In February she'd taken him to Elbogen, and again in March, after he'd had a second set of X rays. In mid-May she and Linney had met with an attorney to transfer ownership of the Fuller house to her. X rays, again. Later that month, three weeks before she'd disappeared, there had been a flurry of activity.

“Dad's party,” she'd written. A birthday? His retirement as chair of his USC department? Margaret had made all the arrangements: table, chairs, and linen rentals; florist; caterer.

He must have been more alert six months ago, I thought. I couldn't begin to imagine his bitterness and his fear, the knowledge that every day might bring with it more confusion, another fact or face or memory lost forever, a silent, treacherous slipping away from the world he knew into a dark, lonely place.

The page for June thirteenth and fourteenth was missing. I checked to see if Hank had stapled the pages out of order, then remembered: Margaret had torn that page out.

I scanned the planner again. Three sets of X rays in four months. I thought about that as I reread the last few pages and pondered the cryptic entries, brooded about Linz. Why had Margaret written
Tiler
if she'd fired the man two weeks earlier? And why, come to think of it, hadn't she written his name, the way she had in the May entry? Maybe she was referring to a different tile setter.

Something else niggled at me. I was in the tub with my eyes closed, inhaling the sweet jasmine of my bath oil and hoping the warm, soothing water would jiggle free from my unconscious the little puzzle piece that was eluding me, when my ex-husband Ron phoned. I saw his number on my portable phone's caller ID. A moment later I heard his voice on the answering machine.

“Something I have to tell you, babe. It's important.”