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Chapter One
"Moth harmonica."
That's what it sounded like, the guttural, heavy-accented syllables coming through my answering machine. A piece of haiku, until the woman rattled off an almost unintelligible series of digits that went on and on, like a credit card or the number of miles from earth to Jupiter. I picked up the telephone.
"Hi, this is Wollie," I said. "Who's this?"
"California? America? Ya?"
"Yes, California, America. Who's this?"
"Encino?"
"No, not Encino, West Hollywood. Forty minutes away, traffic permitting. Who's this?"
"Ya, ya, who this?" she asked.
"That's what I'm asking," I said. "Who are you?"
"I am Moth Harmonica."
Okay, I've heard worse. My own name, Wollstonecraft Shelley, is no picnic, especially for a girl. Or woman, as my friend Fredreeq insists I refer to myself. "Who are you trying to call, Moth?" I asked.
"Who are you?"
"No, who are --- " I stopped. This could take awhile and I didn't have awhile. "I think you have the wrong number," I said, and this brought forth a flurry of words that started with "Nein! Nein!" and ended with "Annika."
"Annika?" I said. "Wait. Not moth --- you're --- mother. Of Annika. You're Mrs. Glück?"
There was an excited assent, lots of "Ya! Ya!s" and another flurry of words. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to dispel a sudden bad feeling.
"Meine Annika," Mrs. Glück said, "called not tomorrow --- no, no, yesterday --- and yesterday is Sunday, we call every week Sunday. So I leave message for host family, but called me not back. I feel for Annika gefahr, um, danger, sie im big danger, as sie call not Sunday."
I was nodding now. My friend Annika had called her mother from my apartment the previous week. "She would freak out if I did not call each Sunday," Annika had said. "But she will call me back so it will not be on your bill." Which was why Mrs. Glück had my number.
I said, "I'd really like to help you, but I have no idea where Annika is. She's tutoring me in math, and we were supposed to meet last night --- " I hesitated, not wanting to admit how I'd worried, thinking Annika's never even late, " --- and she didn't show."
"Ah, Gott im Hummel, sie is dead."
"No, I'm sure she's not dead, I'm sure she's --- " The doorbell rang. "Can you hold on?"
I zipped through the kitchen and living room and opened the door to Fredreeq, told her to give me two minutes, and zipped back to the kitchen. "Mrs. Glück?" I said. "I'm sure Annika will turn up, and if I hear from her first --- "
"Nein, nein, for me you must to find her. The host family call me not back, and the agency call me not back, no one in United States of America to --- "
"But if she's really missing, I'm sure her host family will contact the police --- "
"Nein, no polizei, no trouble --- you are friend, ya? So you are to ask host family what is happen. For my daughter. Meine kinder."
Fredreeq, having followed me into the kitchen, pointed to her watch and mouthed the words "Joey" and "double parked." I nodded and waved her off. "Okay," I said. "Do you have the host family's number? All I have is Annika's line, with her machine." On which I'd already left two messages.
Minutes later I hung up and turned to Fredreeq, who was studying the contents of my refrigerator. It was early evening in late November, dark in my kitchen, but my friend was illuminated by the utility bulb. It was enough. She wore a tight, fringed jumpsuit in hot pink, low-cut with a big plastic zipper running the length of it. She had the kind of va-va-va-boom body that could pull this off, and the kind of temperament that would want to. Her hair this week was as blonde as mine, not unusual in Los Angeles, but whereas I had pale skin to go with it, Fredreeq was black, a less common combination. "Where's your water?" she asked.
"In the sink."
"You don't have bottled water? What do you take on the road?"
"I don't take water on the road."
"Sister, you have got to change your ways," she said, herding me into the living room. "You have cosmetic responsibilities now. Who is this Monica person?"
"Annika, not Monica. Our Annika, from the show. Her mother in Germany says she's --- disappeared." I grabbed my keys and backpack, alarmed at the word I'd just said.
"And who does the mother think you are, the FBI?"
"She doesn't know who I am, she just happened to have my phone number. She can't reach the host family --- Annika's an au pair, did you know that?"
Fredreeq handed me my jean jacket. "What are you doing answering your own phone? We gotta get you thinking like a celebrity."
The word "celebrity" made me want to hide under the bed with a bag of Oreos. But Fredreeq overstated it. I was only a celebrity to those rare people who watched a TV reality show called Biological Clock, too few in number, according to the Nielsen ratings, to materially affect my life. I reminded myself of this as I followed Fredreeq out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out to the street
Rush hour noise from Santa Monica Boulevard accosted us. There was pedestrian traffic too as we walked down Larrabee, mostly male, as befits a neighborhood known as Boystown. Fredreeq attracted her share of attention, her skintight jumpsuit an object of desire. West Hollywood is a bastion of gay and lesbian culture, which I, as a heterosexual female, found comforting in ways I didn't exactly understand.
I caught myself really looking at people, on the street, in cars, looking, illogically, maybe, for someone a half-foot shorter than I, brown-haired, apple-cheeked, pretty. A girl in the last days of her teens. Annika.
"There's Joey," Fredreeq said, waving to a green Mercedes stuck in slow traffic on Santa Monica, a mass of red hair visible in the driver's seat. "What's she doing circling the block? I told her to stay put. C'mon, let's catch up." She grabbed my hand and we ran as fast as her three-inch heels allowed, click-click-clicking our way to Joey.
*****
My friends were driving me to the night's location of Biological Clock. The reality show featured three woman, d'un age certain, as Joey put it, dating in rotation three men of various ages, so the TV audience could ultimately vote on which combination of genes should produce a child, with or without romantic involvement on the part of the chosen couple. I was one of the women.
It hadn't been my idea.
Here's how it happened. I'd been --- okay, still was --- recovering from a broken engagement to a guy named Doc. Doc had some issues that stood between him and marriage, namely, a wife and the certainty of an ugly custody battle for their daughter Ruby, once the wife became an ex-wife. The wife was keeping Ruby in Japan, so Doc had taken a job in Taiwan to be nearby, production work on a U.S. film called Mao, the Movie, which threatened to go on as long as the Cultural Revolution. Custody would be a problem for six years, until Ruby turned eighteen, and Doc felt I shouldn't wait for him. Joey and Fredreeq agreed. I felt otherwise, but nobody seemed to care about my opinions any more than Chairman Mao had cared about the opinions of the bourgeoisie.
Joey's husband, meanwhile, had invested money in this reality show, Biological Clock, which inspired Joey and Fredreeq to send my audition video to the casting director. I didn't know I'd made an audition video. I thought I was being interviewed for Fredreeq's niece's sociology project. Apparently, though, me talking about my dating history was compelling stuff. Also, I was the right age and had attributes --- big chest, long legs and height, six feet of it --- that made a nice visual contrast to the other two front-runner women contestants, and thus beat out several hundred hopefuls for the job. Not that I wanted the job. I turned it down flat once it was explained to me. I found the premise of the show cheesy, despite the disclaimer at the end of each episode that no couple would be required to have sex or bear children. As for fame, I'd be happy to fork over my fifteen minutes to someone else, the way senators give away their floor time in debates to fellow senators.
But then Biological Clock mentioned money. Despite the low budget, I'd be paid five hundred dollars a week for two nights' work, unusual for reality TV. And that wasn't all. The producers had invested in a number of other businesses, including a health maintenance organization offering benefits to the winning contestants and their dependants, current and future. There are those who say that insurance isn't sexy, but for those with dependent paranoid schizophrenic brothers on pricey anti-psychotic medication, it's sexy enough.
A horn honked.
"Girl, you got some kind of bad gene that makes you change lanes every twenty seconds?" Fredreeq asked Joey.
"Yeah, it's called effective driving."
"Well, maybe they do that in Nebraska to get around the cows, but here people get shot for those maneuvers." Fredreeq and Joey had an ongoing city mouse, country mouse routine, although Joey was no more country than any other ex-model/actress who'd lived in L.A., New York, and Paris for the last fifteen years. "And can we turn down this twangy banjo stuff? You want people to think you're a hick?"
"I am a hick. Hey, Wollie," Joey threw over her shoulder, "why so quiet?"
"Cell phone." I'd dialed the number Mrs. Glück had given me for Annika's host family. In Encino, a machine answered. The voice was warm, chatty, female. "Hi there. You've reached the Quinns. Gene, Maizie, Emma, Annika, and Mr. Snuggles can't come to the phone right now. But leave us a message and we'll call you back. Bye-Bye. Woof."
"Hi," I said, envisioning the people Annika had described. "I'm trying to reach Annika, your au pair. If she's not around, I'd appreciate a call from any of the Quinns. Preferably one of the humans." I spelled out my name, and repeated my home and cell phone numbers.
"Is that our Annika? From the show?" Joey asked. "How's she doing?"
"I'm not sure," I said. "She seems to be sort of . . . missing."
Joey turned to me. Traffic was at another dead stop as we neared Beverly Hills. Fredreeq had turned on the interior car light to rummage through her purse, and the glow made Joey's eyes very green and her face very white against her auburn hair. She was more than beautiful, she was intriguing, with a subtle scar running from temple to chin, white on white, a half-moon. "What do you mean, missing?" she said.
"She didn't show up for my math tutorial last night. And she didn't call her mom in Germany, which is her Sunday night ritual, so her mom is seriously upset, and she doesn't know a soul in America. Except me. And the host family, who's not returning her calls."
"Interesting."
"What is?"
Traffic moved. Joey faced front. The Mercedes moved forward. Our eyes met in the rearview mirror. "Annika," she said, "on the set last week, she was asking people where she could get hold of a gun."
Chapter Two
"The set" is one of those show biz terms that always makes me think of dancing girls in the forties doing the cancan on a stage at the MGM studio, or maybe a street in the Old West, the saloon and general store and jail all false fronts with nothing but fields behind. The set of Biological Clock, however, was whatever bar, bowling alley, or bistro Bing Wooster and the producers could persuade to let us film in. It wasn't filming but taping, as Joey pointed out, but Bing, who had filmmaking aspirations, had us all using movie lingo.
It was going on nine p.m. The set du jour was a restaurant called Pine on Beverly Boulevard, on a site that had seen a lot of restaurants come and go over the years. The fact that Pine was the kind that let a show like B.C. shoot there did not bode well for its longevity.
"Keep it moving, folks," Bing Wooster said to the onlookers gathered with us on the sidewalk in front of Pine. "Come on, it's L.A. You never saw a film shoot before? Never saw a gorgeous six-foot blonde? Go watch her on TV. Eleven p.m. weeknights, ZPX."
I stopped scanning the crowd for teenage German girls and tried to look unconcerned, as if Bing's speech had nothing to do with me, as if the sidewalk were full of six-foot blondes wearing too much makeup. Bing was our big kahuna. Joey had explained that most shows have producers and directors and cameramen, but Biological Clock, being low budget, had Bing. Bing made creative decisions, operated the camera, and generally played God, six nights a week. Bing had an assistant, Paul, who did everything else: lighting, heavy lifting, crowd dispersal, and sending out for pizza. There was also Isaac, the sound guy, but he was so quiet that, despite his being the size of a grizzly bear, we tended to forget he was there. At the moment, Paul was changing tape, which was why Bing and I were stuck on the sidewalk, waiting to videotape me walking into Pine.
"Bing?" I said. "When did you last see Annika?"
Bing frowned at a figure halfway down the street, a bulked-up guy with a goatee. "Who? Annika? Saturday, maybe. I don't know. Paul, let's go, let's go, let's go."
Paul nodded, his baseball cap bent over the Betacam, a twenty-five-pound video camera the size of a small dog, something I was trying to make friends with.
I tried again. "Because Joey says--"
"Oh, well, if Joey says, let's all pause to listen to Joey, our instant producer . . ." Animosity curdled his voice. Since Joey's husband was the new investor in Bad Seed Productions, Bing was convinced that Joey was there to spy on and eventually wrest power from him. "What does our esteemed Mrs. Rafferty-Horowitz say?"
"That Annika talked to you about buying a gun," I said.
Bing stared at me for a moment, then glanced at the goateed guy down the street. "What am I, the NRA? Paul, thirty seconds to reload that camera or you're fired."
"I can't be fired, I'm not paid enough."
I said, "Because she's disappeared, Bing. Annika. Have you noticed?"
Bing looked at me again. "What do you mean, disappeared?"
"I mean that nobody's been able to reach her for--well, I don't know how long, exactly, but at least twenty-four hours. Which is scary. It's not like her."
Bing's eyes grew wide, stricken. "She's not here? I have a call in to the German guys tonight, I need her to translate."
Paul's baseball cap tilted up, revealing an acne-scarred face. "She hasn't been around all weekend."
"Christ. And you didn't think to tell me?"
"She's not on the call sheet," Paul said.
"She's not on the payroll, idiot, but we have a deal --- she talks to Munich for me every time we --- . Christ, get that camera loaded, then see if Sharon's still in the of?ce, tell her to ?nd someone who speaks German. What time's it in Munich?"
"Nine hours ahead," Paul said.
"Tell Sharon she's got till midnight." Bing ran both hands through his preternaturally thick black hair and groaned.
Paul's eyes met mine, mirroring my concern, then went back to his camera.
Fredreeq approached with a handful of makeup tools, from which she selected a lip pencil. "Don't think about this now," she said. "I've got so much base on you, if you frown, you'll crack. Open your mouth and hold still. I think Mac's drying out your lips, I'm gonna try Clinique. You're not licking them, are you? Don't answer. Hold still."
Fredreeq was not a professional makeup artist, but she'd worked as a facialist for years and was grabbing this chance to break into show business. She'd hung out on the set during my ?rst episodes, wormed her way into Bing's affections, bad-mouthed Venus, the original hair-and-makeup person, saying she made everyone look like drag queens, then offered her own services at bargain-basement prices. Bing gave her Mondays and Thursdays on a trial basis. Mondays and Thursdays were my work nights, so Fredreeq got to work on me and all three men, but not the other two women contestants. Venus, not happy about having her hours cut by a third, was now committed to one of "her" girls getting the audience vote, and had declared all-out war. Fredreeq was therefore heavily invested in me winning
B.C. contest. I myself wouldn't have cared, if not for the healthcare plan. "Fredreeq," I said, when my lips were my own again. "Annika hasn't been around the set. That's very weird. She considers this her second job, because Munich's planning a German version of the show and Bing promised to recommend her as a coproducer when she goes home. It's called Biologische Uhr, she talks about it all the time. Paul says --- "
"I don't care what Paul says." Fredreeq waved a rabbit-hair makeup brush in my face. "I don't know where this girl is and you don't either. But we know where she isn't, which is inside that restaurant, hiding in a basket of chicken ?ngers. So you put her out of your mind and get some heat going between you and Carlito. I know it's not easy, with that piece of hair he's got sticking up in front like a unicorn, but there's a lot at stake here."
Fredreeq's worries were twofold: me winning the Biological Clock contest and the show ?nishing out the season. Our ratings were paltry, even for ZPX, where a 1.4 household rating was a big deal. We struggled for the million or so viewers reported to be watching us, and listened to rumors that ZPX planned to replace us with Nearly Nude News.
wenty minutes later, I sat alongside Carlito Gibbons in a Naugahyde booth, watching him pick at his cowlick, as Paul-the-assistant placed a bottle of sake between us, the label prominently displayed. Takei Sake was the show's sponsor, and all six contestants drank sake, or tap water in sake cups, in every episode. Finally, Bing mounted the Betacam on his shoulder, hung over an adjoining booth like a toddler on an airplane, and started shooting.
Carlito, the youngest of the show's contestants, was handsome in a class-president way. He came to life when he'd had some sake or when the camera was on him, speaking without hesitation on any topic, a talent that fascinated me. "I'm a paralegal," he said, responding to the evening's Biographical Question. "People don't know the difference between a paralegal and a legal secretary. I'm more than a glori?ed ?le clerk. I draft the bones of the complaint, the lion's share, only a few critical details of which are ?lled in by the attorney."
"Hey, what's the difference between an attorney and a lawyer?" I asked. Bing had given me strict orders not to let Carlito go more than three sentences without interrupting him.
Carlito brightened. "Good question. I like to say, Every law school graduate is an attorney, but it takes an outstanding attorney to be a lawyer. People don't realize --- "
"Cut!" Bing said. "Fine. Carlito, ask Wollie what she does for a living. Wollie, don't mumble. Sparkle. Be sexy. Head up. And don't look at the camera."
I nodded, feeling awkward, and tried to smile at Carlito. "Well, Carlito, I design greeting cards. I have my own line, the Good Golly Miss Wollies --- they're alternative greetings, not the standard Happy Birthday to a Wonderful Nephew genre. Not that there's anything wrong with those. Nephews need birthday cards. I just don't do them. To supplement my income I'm painting a mural of frogs in the kitchen of a house in Sherman Oaks. Oh, and I'm working on getting a bachelor's degree in graphic arts. I'm ?nding math a little challenging."
Carlito had stopped listening and was checking out the menu.
"Cut," Bing said. "Okay, I've got some usable stuff. Let's bring in the doctor."
Following the Biographical Question, each Biological Clock episode featured an expert in the parenting ?eld who raised hot-button issues that helped the viewing audience assess our parenting potential. The show wasn't big with the eighteen- to twenty-four-year-old demographic, but it had once won its time slot with whatever twenty-?ve- to forty-nine-year-old women were awake at that hour, which Bing liked to point out, in case this was as compelling to anyone else as it was to him.
Paul escorted to our table a ?ftyish man in a good suit, who smiled broadly and shook hands all around. "Daniel Exeter. Hi. Sorry I'm late, I had an ectopic pregnancy to deal with."
"Where's your lab coat?" Bing asked. "Paul, didn't you tell him to bring a lab coat?"
Daniel Exeter looked taken aback. "It's in the car, but as I told Paul, it's not something I wear outside the clinic and --- "
"It's all about visuals, Dan. Raises your IQ thirty points and establishes credibility, which is what TV is all about. Get it for him, Paul."
The doctor ?shed a valet-parking stub out of his pocket. "Porsche Carrera."
Paul took off at a trot. Bing eased himself out of the booth and said, "Right in here, Dan, opposite our stars. What are you drinking? Sake?"
"It's Daniel, actually. A glass of white wine will be ?ne."
"Too gay; let's go with Scotch rocks. And forget ?rst names. To us, you're ‘Doctor.' "
Bing got us situated. Paul came back with Dr. Exeter's lab coat, its Westside Fertility logo visible on the breast pocket. Joey, helping out, adjusted a light on a tripod and nodded to Fredreeq, standing by with a compact of pressed powder. As a former actress, Joey always knew what was going on ten minutes before Fredreeq and I did. Isaac, his ears covered with headphones, moved in with his boom, a large, fur-covered microphone on a broomstick.
Bing had Carlito ask the doctor which was better, sex or arti?cial insemination.
"Is anything better than sex?" Dr. Exeter asked. "Sorry, little joke. For the average couple trying to conceive, sex works just ?ne. However" --- here he glanced at me --- "when a woman enters the winter of her reproductive life, that fact becomes a fertility issue."
"Go ahead, Dan, ask her how old she is," Bing said. "No, don't look at me --- never look at the camera. Look at Wollie. The girl."
Dr. Exeter turned back to me. "How old are you, Wollie?"
"I'm --- "
"No, don't tell him, Wollie," Bing said. "Say something coy."
Behind him, Joey rolled her eyes. I said, "Actually, I don't mind telling --- "
"Wollie! Just say, ‘I'd rather not say.' "
"I --- I'd rather not say," I said, hating myself for not being able to come up with something snappier. Also for setting feminism back a few years.
"All right," Dr. Exeter said, "let's assume you're a senior citizen, in ovarian terms. Late thirties, early forties." He leaned back and took a sip of his Scotch, then made a face. "Adoption, surrogacy, donor eggs, surrogacy and donor eggs, these are all options for late-in-life mothers. Trying to do it yourself at that point is a long, heartbreaking proposition. A thirty-?ve-year-old woman is ?fty percent less likely than a twenty-year-old to conceive unassisted. A forty-year-old has a one in ?fteen chance each month. At forty-?ve, you're like a vegan trying to contract mad cow disease."
"But what about --- " I said.
"Yes, we all know exceptions --- the Irish Catholic neighbor who keeps churning them out, the grandmother who gets knocked up --- but those are anomalies. And the movie stars you hear about? Probably not using their own eggs, not if they're over forty, but who's going to cop to that in Hollywood?" He picked up a breadstick and began to butter it. The butter was ice-cold and uncooperative. "Nature didn't intend for you to need bifocals to see the baby you're breast-feeding. Fortunately for you, God created fertility doctors." He took a bite of the breadstick, producing an audible crunch. Isaac moved the boom in close, to pick up the sound. The doctor pointed the breadstick's jagged end at Carlito. "You have it relatively easy. Given a normal rate of motility --- "
"What's motility?" Carlito asked.
"How many sperm are swimming. Assuming yours are plentiful, with suf?cient forward progression, go easy on the marijuana, keep your underwear loose, and you can do this when you're as old as Larry King."
The thought of Carlito's swimming sperm made me think not of sex but of tadpoles, and I wondered, not for the ?rst time, if I was cut out for this work. Even though no B.C. participants would be required to actually procreate, the audience would expect to see us kiss. I prayed that my warm feelings for my fellow contestants would heat up.
Dr. Exeter ?nished off the breadstick. "So what was the question? Oh, yes, sex. Go at it like rabbits, and don't waste any time. Every menstrual cycle counts."
"What about freezing her eggs right now?" Fredreeq asked. "In case Prince Charming is running late?"
The entire room, it seemed, turned to look at her, sitting in the booth behind us.
"Cut! Hey, Miss Dumb," Bing yelled. "You are the makeup artist. You do not speak."
"Yeah, sorry, forgot," Fredreeq said.
"Good question, though," the doctor said, turning back to the camera. "You can freeze anything, but what survives the thaw? Sperm. Also embryos --- fertilized eggs, that's egg plus sperm --- which requires both Prince and Princess Charming. Eggs alone? Not so great. The technology's improving, but even when it happens, the time for freezing is in your prime. Early twenties, in a perfect world. In your case, uh, Willie, I'm afraid that boat has sailed."
"Great, beautiful," Bing said. "Let's move in on our dream couple. Dr. Dan, do that whole speech again, so we can get Wollie and Carlito's reaction to it."
My reaction was simple. How many menstrual cycles had I squandered on my former ?ancŽ? Five. Not that I blamed Doc for moving to Taiwan, but the devotion that made him a good father to his child meant he'd never father mine. He couldn't abandon Ruby to her wacky mother, and by the time he was free to divorce and remarry, my eggs would be in a retirement home.
"I need a bathroom break before my close-up," Carlito said.
This was a chance for the rest of us to take ?ve. Out came cell phones as people took care of whatever business needed taking care of at 10:57 P.M., mostly checking in with signi?cant others. As I had no signi?cant other, I kicked off my shoes and took a walk around the restaurant. The other diners were gone, and the waiters sat at a table near the kitchen, counting tips and eating a meal of their own by candlelight, roast chicken with all the ?xings. Their camaraderie was evident.
Melancholy engulfed me. I wanted to mother a child almost more than I could say. If I won the B.C. audience vote, one prize would be six months of fertility services at Dr. Exeter's clinic, either with my fellow winning contestant or with a man of my choice. I was keeping an open mind about the contestants, but the man of my choice was in Taiwan and although he'd come back one day, he wasn't coming back to me, not for six years. I looked at my watch. How long before another man would look sexy to me, not merely appealing? What was the statute of limitations on true love? Longer than the working life of my ovaries?
A greeting card began to take shape in my head, featuring hens. It would be a combination birthday and condolence, something along the lines of "Happy 40th, Sorry About Those Eggs."
A voice whispered in my ear, startling me. It was Paul, the production assistant.
"Wollie," he said. "I've been, like, ?ipped out all weekend. About Annika. Something's not right. She wouldn't just not show, because every Monday she's at the production of?ce like an hour before call. Saturdays too. And Sundays, she always wants to watch editing, or just hang." He looked miserable, his face tense with anxiety. Poor guy. For someone like Paul, Annika would've been an angel of mercy, a girl that pretty wanting to "just hang." She'd probably adopted him as she'd adopted me, not caring that to American girls her age, he was a geek. Annika was an egalitarian. Plants, children, homeless pets, math-challenged adults --- there seemed no end to the things she cared about.
"When did you last see her?" I asked.
"Friday. But we talked on Saturday. I called to see if she wanted to come on a location scout Sunday. She said she couldn't get the car, but it sounded not right to me."
"Not right how?"
"Just...you know when someone's, like, blowing you off ? Like that. Only she wasn't ever like that."
"Did she ask you about a gun?"
Paul took off his baseball cap and scratched his unwashed-looking hair. "She asked if I had one, and I was like, Get real, why would you even want one, and she said, Tell you later. Then she asked Bing, and Joey, and Joey was saying about the waiting periods, and Annika was like, You're kidding, so Joey said, Talk to Henry. Henry was the contestant that night, him and Kimberly, the miniature-golf-date episode. And Henry says, Find a gun show, you can buy one on the spot, and everyone's like, No way, you can do that? And Annika says, Okay, Paul, if I ?nd a gun show and give you money, can you buy me one? And I go, Not this weekend, I got the location scout, and she seemed kind of bummed by that and said she'd get back to me."
"Why would she need you to buy the gun for her?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Maybe you have to be twenty-one or a U.S. citizen or something."
Maybe. But why would a math-whiz au pair who phoned home every Sunday want a gun? I started feeling sick again. "Have you called her today?"
He nodded. "Today, yesterday, but I just get her machine. I don't have the number for the people she lives with."
"Paul! Are we lined up with Munich yet?" Bing's voice boomed from across the restaurant. "And hey, bartender! You get ZPX? I got an episode airing."
The bartender aimed a remote at the TV screen suspended above the bar, catching our opening sequence. A ticking clock grew bigger and bigger, then metamorphosed into an hourglass, which in turn became a test tube and, ?nally, a baby. Disco music pulsed in the background. The faces of the six contestants came into focus, each with a big question mark like a halo suspended overhead. The girls were ?rst: coquettish Kimberly, with perfectly ironed straight black hair. Savannah, the dazzling redhead. And me.
I looked away. If there's anything worse than hearing my voice on tape, it's seeing myself on television. The opening sequence was bad, the actual episodes worse. Towering over my dates even when seated, breasts too big, hair too wispy, weird facial expressions that reminded me of my mother --- it was more torturous than a bad photograph. Carlito, coming from the bathroom, was drawn to the small screen like a cat to canned tuna. Fredreeq, too, although her VCR would be recording the episode, came to watch. They stood together in perfect harmony for once, like the theme music, joined in mutual adoration of their work.
I thought of Annika, who never tired of watching the show, her show as much as anyone's, even though she never turned up onscreen, in the credits, or on the payroll. She was so often on the set, Biological Clock's biggest fan. I could picture her here, one eye on the television as she called Munich for Bing and negotiated on his behalf in German.
It was on the set that I'd last seen her. Four nights ago, at a bad Chinese restaurant in North Hollywood. Long past midnight Bing had yelled, "That's a wrap!" and Annika had followed me to the bathroom.
"I have a problem, Wollie," she'd said. "I am in some trouble and I do not know who to tell who will not think badly of me. Could we talk for ten minutes? No more."
I'd said yes, of course, knowing it would be far more than ten minutes, knowing Annika and I had never talked on any subject for less than an hour. But then Paul needed me to sign for a paycheck and Fredreeq needed to pull off the false eyelashes she'd been trying out on me, and Bing needed to discuss with us the bags under my eyes, and by the time I was alone and ready to go, Annika wasn't around. I didn't really look for her. I didn't check the bathroom. I didn't ask if anyone noticed where she'd gone. I was tired. I went home.
I hadn't seen her since.
She was my friend, and I hadn't even given her ten minutes.
Chapter Three
Woke up Tuesday thinking about Carlito. We'd stopped
?lming a mere ?ve hours earlier, after an on-camera discussion about Carlito's desire to have children. His was a patriotic view of procreation, a commitment to keep America's gene pool strong in the face of unattractive, evil, and just plain stupid people out there multiplying like rabbits. This, for me, was not Carlito's ?nest hour.
Biological Clock taped six nights a week, with a different couple combination each night, and a new expert and restaurant every three days. Bing handed off this footage to a stressed-out editor, who turned it into a week's worth of episodes, each episode featuring all the contestants. This gave viewers the impression that the six of us partied together Monday through Friday, when in fact each contestant worked two long nights per week, never encountering their same-sex competition. We did get to know our dates. After nine or ten hours together, bonds form --- the kind, I suspect, that are experienced by victims of natural disasters.
How, I wondered, had Annika stayed on the set with us all those times and got up the next morning to take care of a toddler, her real job, her job job? After four hours of sleep, I felt like mice had been chewing on my esophagus.
I made my way to the navy blue kitchen, considered coffee, opted for apple juice, and headed for the shower before the kitchen walls made me nauseous. The apartment belonged to Hubie, a friend who needed someone to water his plants while he followed the rock group Supertramp around Europe. Hubie's offer came just as my former ?ancŽ, Doc, left for Taiwan. The house I'd shared with Doc was expensive, the thought of acquiring a roommate depressing, so I'd moved my stuff into storage and myself into Hubie's until I could ?gure out what to do with the rest of my life. I hadn't ?gured it out yet, but I still had ?ve weeks. Hubie would be home by Christmas, and it was now a week before Thanksgiving.
I left another message on the phone machine of Annika's host family, the Quinns. Then I got dressed and hit the road.
The weather was gorgeous, the air clear and smogless in a Disney-blue sky. Halfway to the 405, the every-hour-is-rush-hour freeway, I decided instead to take Beverly Glen Boulevard to the San Fernando Valley. I was passing De Neve Square, a tiny park above Sunset, when I remembered to turn on my cell phone. There was one message, from the friend whose frog mural I was painting. His Texas twang precluded the need to identify himself. "Darlin', take the day off. My ?oor guy called to say he varnished them and they're still wet. Check in tomorrow."
Darn. I missed my frogs. And now I was halfway to Ventura Boulevard. Disinclined to make a U-turn, I checked my mental lists to see if I had any Valley errands.
Uh-oh. The Quinns --- Annika's host family --- lived in the Valley. Encino.
Forget it. I could turn around. I was smack in the middle of the low-rent section of Beverly Glen, just past Fernbush, with old, yardless houses practically falling onto the street. I could take a right on a little road called Crater and turn around, no problem.
Yes, problem, said a voice in my head. Ruta. My childhood babysitter, dead for years, still talking to me. They don't answer their phone, these people, you should go visit them.
"In L.A. you don't just drop in on people," I said. "It's not done. I don't know how they do things in Germany, but I don't think Mrs. Glock expects me to run all over the San Fernando Valley, bothering everyone."
Of course she expects it, Ruta said. She is a mother. This is her little girl.
"Plus, they have a dog. A guard dog, probably. A pit bull. Mr. Snuggles."
Not to mention the fact that I didn't know where in Encino they lived. I could go home, get Mrs. Glock's number, call her in Germany, get the address, and visit the Quinns some other time. Immediately I felt better.
Until I remembered directory assistance. To my annoyance, 411 gave me an address on a street called Moon Canyon Road. What kind of people, I wondered, are listed in directory assistance? I tried to recall what Annika had said about them. A mom with some home-based business, a doctor or lawyer dad, a child Annika adored. I did not want to barge in on them.
None of this would've happened if you had taken more math in high school, Ruta said. Or ?nished college when you were supposed to, instead of futzing around, in and out, in and out all these years. Then you wouldn't have need for a math tutor. Then you wouldn't care so much about this girl. But you didn't, so you did, and you do, so now you must.
I wished I were someone else: the kind of person who can be rude to telemarketers, who doesn't recycle, someone who'd simply get herself another math tutor and to heck with somebody's mother in Germany. I wished I'd given Annika ten minutes last week.
I was nearing Mulholland now, the summit of Beverly Glen, where the road was wider, the real estate costlier, and the view spectacular. I pulled over and searched my trunk for the Thomas Guide, a book of maps as common to Southern California cars as Gideon Bibles are to hotel-room drawers.
Fifteen minutes later I was in the wilds of Encino. I hadn't even known Encino had wilds. I thought of Encino, when I thought about it at all, as suburbia, inhabited by women with standing appointments to "get their hair done" and men who maintained the lawn. Or hired immigrant workers to maintain the lawn. This Encino, however, was enchantingly rural, marred only by distinctive white trucks at the end of the street indicating a ?lm shoot. Film shoots, around L.A., are as common as surfboards.
I drove slowly down Moon Canyon Road, enjoying the multicultural architecture: a Spanish hacienda next to an Italian villa opposite a Tudor manor. I came to the number I was looking for, which was painted on a rock, and parked on the street. An electronic gate stood wide open --- a sign from the universe, if you believe in such things. The gate was wood and managed to look quaint rather than high security. I walked through it and followed a ?agstone path through a yard that was half garden, half forest, complete with a pond inhabited by koi. The house was traditional American, butter-yellow clapboard with white trim on the shuttered windows. I looked up. A balcony extended from a second-story room. Wind chimes tinkled on a porch, and when I rang the doorbell harmonizing chimes sounded somewhere in the house.
The response was immediate. Set in the front door was a small window at face level, and through the glass I could see a small furious canine head --- not a pit bull's --- appear and disappear, appear and disappear, as if the animal was jumping up and down repeatedly on the other side of the door, although how this was achieved without a ladder I couldn't understand. The yapping would drive a reasonable person to drink. "Hi, Mr. Snuggles," I said, and awaited the appearance of a human or the sound of a voice telling Mr. Snuggles to shut the heck up.
None came. I rang the doorbell again, which brought on another of Mr. Snuggles's jumping fits. Was anyone home? I looked around for cars, but the driveway was some distance from the house, presumably leading to a garage or carport in the back. Maybe the family was simply out of town, and Annika with them, in a place without telephone access. A canoe trip, for instance. An impulsive, spur-of-the-moment canoe trip. Perfectly good explanation, I decided, and I descended the porch steps, preparing to leave.
A big white bird waddled up the ?agstone path to meet me. Too fat for a swan, too white for a turkey, it was, I deduced, a goose.
"Hello, Goose," I said, walking toward it.
The goose took exception to this, ?apped its wings violently, and honked. I backed up.
This was a mistake. The goose lunged at me, enraged, honking and hissing. I turned to get out of its way and stumbled over a rosebush, and the goose was on me, pecking my calf through my painter's pants. This hurt a lot more than one would think. I became a little enraged myself, and more than a little scared, and tried to kick the bird. As I was wearing Keds, the damage would've been minimal, but in any case, I missed. The goose came at me again. I swung at it with my backpack, missed again, and with my right hand slapped at it, connecting slightly. Then I turned and ran.
The goose, affronted by the slap, intensi?ed its demented honking and came after me. We ran around to the back of the house, and I spotted the garage. It was a six-car garage, with ?ve cars in residence. I jumped into the back of a pickup truck, a Toyota Tundra, and ducked.
I've been in some undigni?ed situations in my life, but hiding from poultry was a low watermark. It worked, though. The goose gave a few more honks, but they lacked conviction. It must have seen me jump into the truck, but either geese have short memories or it felt I'd conceded the ?ght, because it waddled off toward the house. I know this because I peeked.
Suddenly I heard the song "Anatevka," from Fiddler on the Roof, coming from somewhere behind the house. I climbed out of the pickup and saw drops of blood; the palm of my hand was wounded. Happily, the Toyota was red. There was also a minivan, a bright green Volkswagen bug I'd seen Annika drive, and a white Lexus inhabiting the garage. In the driveway was a Range Rover. All the vehicles looked freshly washed.
"Anatevka" grew louder. I followed the sound across the lawn and came to a structure that appeared to be some sort of guest-house or artist's studio. The door was open. I looked in.
The structure was a high-ceilinged, skylit room. Along one wall was a kitchen, dominated by a granite island work surface. The rest of the space was a hobbyist's dream: power tools, gardening supplies, sawhorse, sewing machine, kiln, easel, loom, and computer artfully arranged, a masterpiece of organization and aesthetics. A working ?replace occupied the wall opposite the kitchen. Autumn leaves and pomegranates covered the granite work surface, a wreath-making project in progress.
Across the room, a woman with her back to me stood on a ladder. She wore heels. She was stacking glass bottles in compartments on ?oor-to-ceiling shelves. Dozens of bottles ?lled the shelves, the kind used for lotion or bath oil, Art Deco–looking things in amber, violet, and moss green. A subtle scent, spice or oil or potpourri, permeated the room. It reminded me of Annika. Near the loom sat a little girl, playing with the volume on a CD player. The mournful "Anatevka" zoomed in and out.
"You are making Mommy a little crazy," the woman said, without pausing in her jar arranging. "Please stop."
"Dora the explorer, Dora the explorer, Dora the explorer," the little girl chanted.
"If you watch Dora the Explorer now, you can't watch Sesame Street in half an hour."
"Dora the explorer. Dora the explorer. Dora the exp --- "
"Okay, okay, okay. But no more TV till bedtime, when Mom-my's at pastry class. Run into the house and tell Lupe you can watch Dora."
The little girl jumped up, then caught sight of me and stopped. I smiled. She didn't smile back, but when I gave her a little wave, she raised a hand in response, opening and closing her ?st in a toddlerlike gesture. The woman saw it and turned.
"Hi." I sneezed. "Sorry to barge in. I tried the house, and nobody answered, so..."
An overfed yellow cat jumped with a thump onto the granite work surface and sniffed at the leaves. The woman on the ladder and the child looked at it, then turned back to me, as if it was still my turn to speak. They were both blond, with wide faces and peaches-and-cream complexions. They wore light blue work shirts and white jeans. I tried to recall if I'd ever seen a mother and daughter wearing matching outfits outside of a catalog.
"Mommy, that lady has blood."
I looked down. Three drops of blood lay on the white tile ?oor, from my hand. It didn't seem polite to say their bird had assaulted me, so I closed my ?st over the bleeding palm and said, "My name is Wollie. I called yesterday and left a message. I'm a friend of Annika's..."
"Of course." The woman climbed nimbly down the ladder, someone who obviously lived in high heels. "I'm Maizie. I'm so sorry, I was writing down your number last night and little monkey here hit the delete button. Emma, love --- " She frowned at the girl, now chanting something that sounded like alla myna engine. "Emma, why don't you run in and watch Dora?"
"Emma want to stay with Mommy."
Maizie looked like she might argue the point, then turned to me. She had an attractive face, with good bones. "So. Annika. It's all so --- disturbing."
"Yes." I sneezed again.
"Allergic to cats?" she said. "Sorry. This guy wandered in and adopted us. Adopted Annika, actually. Are you a close friend?"
My stomach clenched, thinking of the last time I'd seen her. I nodded. "She's like a little sister. A smarter sister. She's been tutoring me in math. We met on the set of a TV show."
"She is smart." Maizie smiled, dimples softening her face. "It sold my husband on her. He respects intelligence." She ruf?ed her hair. It was thick hair, well cut. "We've been out of town; Annika had the weekend off and I've been telling myself she misunderstood, thought we were coming back later. But now it's Tuesday. I hate to say this, but I think she's --- taken off."
"Where?" I said.
"I can think of a few places." Maizie glanced down at her daughter, who followed the conversation with the intensity of a cub reporter. "But there's a lot in her life I'm not privy to. A boy she's quite taken with; I've been trying to remember his last name. And there's --- well, she's on duty with Emma from six A.M. until four in the afternoon, eleven on Fridays, which leaves a lot of free time. And she ?lls up those hours. It's one of the things we love about her, her independence, but it makes it hard to --- narrow it down."
Emma spoke up. "Annika not here, Mommy."
"No, she's not, bunny."
"Where is Annika?"
"We don't know. That's what we're trying to ?gure out."
"We better go ?nd her, Mommy."
My sentiments exactly. "Is her stuff still here?" I asked.
Maizie took a moment, then nodded. "Come see for yourself," she said.
Excerpted from DATING IS MURDER © Copyright 2008 by Harley Jane Kozak. Reprinted with permission by Broadway, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved.
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