you had asked me before I heard of Maggie Reston whether a house
could be a magnet for murder, I would have automatically thought
of The Dungeon, which is what we've always called the coal-gray
house on Martel. As it turned out, I would have been wrong,
but I would have been in good company. For as long as I can
remember, everyone in the neighborhood has hated the three-story
cube that hogs sky and sunlight and its gloomy fašade, and has
speculated about its reclusive owners.
The house has become the stuff of dark legend. As kids, my friends
and I, intimidated by its brooding countenance, shivered as
we whispered deliciously gruesome stories about occupants we
never saw, men who kidnapped children and kept them in a Chateau
D'If-like basement. Years have passed. The flowers along the
walk, beheaded regularly like Henry the Eighth's wives, have
been replaced by threatening junglelike shrubs. But the house's
charcoal walls are still decorated from time to time with bright-colored
graffiti, probably by a new generation of kids who whisper about
the bad guys inside.
I have learned that bad men have become brazen in the sunlight.
I have learned that, as Tennyson says, "Woods have tongues as
walls have ears," and that dark houses are not necessarily those
with dark secrets. But on that Monday morning I assumed the
police report was about The Dungeon:
October 31. 9:37 P.M. 100 block of South Martel Avenue. A vandal
threw a pumpkin through the front window of a house and several
eggs at the front door.
It was probably another Halloween prank, I thought, all trick
and no treat, a nasty, petty act. According to the police reports
I'd read on my rounds of the stations, there had been Halloween
vandalisms all over the city of angels - disheartening, but
I copied the data from the Wilshire Division board for my weekly
Crime Sheet column, the one that appears in the rubber-banded,
sprinkler-soaked, sun-bleached independent tabloids you find
on your lawn next to the KMART and Target flyers. Several hours
later, back in my apartment, I phoned my sister Mindy.
was The Dungeon, right?" I asked after I told her what I'd read.
The house is across the street from hers.
think, huh?" Her sentence blossomed into a yawn. "No, it's the
one-story taupe Tudor down the block. It looks awful, but they
have someone repairing the damage right now." She yawned again.
Whoever said yawns are contagious was right. Mindy's three-month-old
son is the reason for hers. Mine are the result of another late-nighter
with (Rabbi) Zack Abrams, the man in my life, although you'd
think by now my body would have adjusted to sleep deprivation.
Not that I'm complaining.
you or Norm hear or see anything?"
Mindy laughed. "Are you serious, Molly? At nine-thirty on Friday
Norm and the girls were sleeping, and I was trying to stay awake
while nursing Yitz. We weren't exactly out trick-or-treating."
My family--my mom and dad and seven of us Blume kids (Mindy
is second, I'm third)--is Orthodox Jewish and we observe the
Sabbath. Even if Halloween hadn't fallen on Friday night, Mindy
and Norm wouldn't have taken their two girls trick-or-treating
(despite its commercialization and allure, the holiday has its
origins in religious ritual), though they always stock up on
Hershey's Kisses and Reese's Pieces for the children who come
to their door. And for me.
Thinking of chocolate made me long for some, but I'd had my
quota for the day. "Who lives in that house?"
Fennel. He thinks he owns the neighborhood."
Every neighborhood has a Walter Fennel. I scribbled his name
on a pad, though the Crime Sheet doesn't identify victims. "I
take it you don't like him."
okay. He's kind of cute sometimes. But he's an eighty-year-old
busybody with way too much time on his hands. He's Mister HARP.
HARP? We call him HARPY."
I crinkled my nose at an image of the predatory bird. "Not a
great name for an organization."
were thinking the musical instrument. That's their Web site
logo. Community harmony and all that. Fennel headed our area
board until a month ago. He still patrols the neighborhood daily
looking for violators."
of whom may have lobbed the pumpkin and eggs?" I'd heard Mindy
and others complain about the Historic Architectural Restoration
and Preservation board in their Miracle Mile North area. The
members decide what you can do to your property's exterior-which,
according to Mindy et al., isn't much.
hate to think it's a neighbor." There was a but in Mindy's voice.
"Walter was harassing a homeowner on South Formosa about a new
exterior light fixture, demanded to know whether he'd received
HARP board approval. The homeowner, Ed Strom, told Walter to
mind his own business."
I mentally scanned South Formosa and came up blank. Until five
years ago, when I was twenty-four and left home to marry the
philandering charmer who is now my ex, I'd grown up in the neighborhood,
which has a large population of Orthodox Jews, many of whom
wouldn't know him, Molly. He and his wife just moved here from
New York. They bought the Gluckmans' house. Anyway, someone
reported Strom to the board, and the city fined him. He refused
to take down the fixture and swore he wouldn't pay the fine.
Wednesday somebody ripped the fixture off the wall."
swears he doesn't know anything about it."
assume the police questioned Strom."
and his wife were with friends Friday night."
could've paid someone to do it," I said, pointing out the obvious.
It's one of my failings.
could have. But a lot of the area homeowners are angry at HARP,
Molly. They sympathize with Strom. Of course, Walter has his
allies." Mindy sighed. "I'm all for preserving the neighborhood's
character, but some HARP rulings are egregious, not to mention
expensive. I don't think people realized how intrusive and controlling
HARP could be. And it's all because of that damn house."
The Dungeon, I knew, had prompted area homeowners, anxious to
prevent the construction of similarly oversize structures, to
request HARP status. As my grandmother Bubbie G says, you have
to be careful what you ask for.
the makeup of the board?" I drained the last of my coffee and,
with the cordless phone at my ear, padded barefoot to the kitchen
for a refill.
people, all appointed, so there's no neighborhood input. There's
going to be an opening soon. I'm tempted to try to get on the
board to add a little sanity, but until Yitz sleeps through
the night, I'm too tired to commit to anything. I'm not even
working full-time yet." She yawned again, as if to emphasize
I yawned, too. Pavlov would have loved me. "When do they meet?"
a month, seven P.M. on Thursdays. Unless there's an emergency.
Why, are you planning on going?"
Sounds like good material for a feature."
In addition to penning my weekly Crime Sheet column, I'm a freelance
reporter and I write books about true crime under my pseudonym,
Morgan Blake. I also have income from a substantial divorce
settlement I invested in property. I think I earned every penny,
and if you met my ex-husband, Ron, you'd agree.
Right now I was between projects, as they say in Hollywood.
I'd just pitched a piece to the L.A. Times on the latest outrage
in the health care industry. This was prompted by my parents'
insurer advising my mom that mammograms and ultrasounds are
covered "in network" at the facilities she'd selected, those
within reasonable driving distance of her home, but the radiologist's
reading of the films isn't, if you can believe that.
I was also awaiting the galleys of my second book, Sins of the
Father, and I'd completed the second draft of my newest true
crime, The Lady from Twentynine Palms. I needed a few weeks
to achieve objectivity and distance before I reread the manuscript,
made changes, agonized about the book's worthiness, and FedExed
it to my editor and agent. A HARP story sounded like the perfect
been done," Mindy said. "There was an article in the L.A. Times
magazine a couple of years ago on another HARP. Whitley Heights,
At least I hadn't spent hours on the piece. "I must have missed
can try a different angle. Some Hancock Park homeowners are
pushing for HARP status. They got the city to commission a historical
survey, which is a major step. Wednesday night they're presenting
the survey and getting neighborhood reaction. Should be interesting."
do you know all this? From a client?" Mindy is a tax attorney,
and many of her clients deal in real estate.
Edie. She's with the opposition."
Edie is the oldest Blume sibling. She's organized and determined
and formidable once she's committed to a cause. "I see fireworks
see a story."
hoping," I said, ignoring Bubbie G's advice, and we both laughed.