Canyon. Back in my car, feeling embarrassingly winded by the climb and determined to exercise more, I continued along Willow Glen and took one hairpin turn after another until I arrived at Apollo and what seemed like the crest of Mount Olympus. In any case, it was crest enough for me.
The street was graceful and wide, lined with Italian cypress trees standing proud as sentinels in front of predominantly white houses that reflected the muted brilliance of the setting afternoon sun. After inhaling a lungful of what I hoped was smog-free air, I crunched along the walk to the topmost house, a brand-new white stucco two-story with a white-tiled roof, mullioned windows, and multiple balconies. No landscaping yet, and no car in the driveway. No sign of occupancy, for that matter, but I rang the bell and waited a few minutes before giving up.
The occupants of the next few houses were home, but they hadn’t seen or heard Lenore or anything related to the hit-and-run. I was disappointed but undaunted, charmed by the vista and the ever-present cypress trees and the winding streets that suddenly changed identities (Jupiter becomes Oceanus, Apollo becomes Electra), much like the mercurial and capricious gods for whom they’d been named and whose escapades had kept me company during the summer months of my adolescence.
Several stops later on Hermes was a house I could easily covet: clean lines, weathered redwood planks, a peaked shingled roof, huge windows uncluttered with drapes or shutters. Two cars—a black Jeep Wrangler and a red Mercedes—sat in the driveway, and a tall, dark-haired, ponytailed woman in tight jeans and a crisp white cotton sleeveless blouse opened the door after I introduced myself, the cell phone at her ear a jarring note to the rustic splendor.
Her name was Jillian, and she was trying hard not to show her impatience. “A police detective was here a few days ago,” she told me. “I was out of town that night.”
“What about your husband?”
“Fiancé. He didn’t see or hear the accident.”
“I’m wondering if he saw the woman wandering around this area,” I said, wishing I had a photo of Lenore. “She was wearing a nightgown.”
Jillian shook her head. “He would have told me.”
“Maybe I could ask your fiancé.”
“Ask me what?” A man appeared in the doorway behind Jillian, then moved to her side and slipped his arm around her thin waist. He was a few inches taller than the woman and good-looking, with well-cut dark blond hair framing a broad face and friendly hazel eyes. They both looked to be in their mid-thirties.
“She’s a reporter,” Jillian told him, handing him the card I’d given her. “She’s looking into that hit-and-run the police asked us about.”
The fiancé tightened his lips and nodded. “Horrible thing. I hope they get the creep.” He glanced at my card, then up at me. “Molly Blume, huh? I’ll bet you get kidded about that. So you’re writing a story about her?”
“Something like that. I was wondering if you saw the woman wandering around. She was wearing a nightgown.”
“Wish I could help you out, but I went to sleep a little after midnight. Fell asleep during Leno—not his fault, mine.” He smiled, chagrined. “Sorry.”
So, I learned, were most of the residents, aside from those on vacation—sorry and asleep the night in question. Where were insomniacs when you needed them?
I had gone up and down Apollo and Hercules and had backtracked up Venus, then come down again on Achilles, which leads into Vulcan. The street names and their fickleness were losing their charm, and I was losing my sense of direction and optimism. I was sick of Italian cypress trees. I dreaded the climb back up to my car. My headache was back, my clothes were sticking to me. I was tired and thirsty and hungry. I needed a bathroom. I thought of Cyrano—“I press on, I press on”—and did the same, wondering whether I’d find my white plume.
I trudged onward and
The street was graceful and wide, lined with Italian cypress trees standing proud as sentinels in front of predominantly white houses that reflected the muted brilliance of the setting afternoon sun. After inhaling a lungful of what I hoped was smog-free air, I crunched along the walk to the topmost house, a brand-new white stucco two-story with a white-tiled roof, mullioned windows, and multiple balconies. No landscaping yet, and no car in the driveway. No sign of occupancy, for that matter, but I rang the bell and waited a few minutes before giving up.
The occupants of the next few houses were home, but they hadn’t seen or heard Lenore or anything related to the hit-and-run. I was disappointed but undaunted, charmed by the vista and the ever-present cypress trees and the winding streets that suddenly changed identities (Jupiter becomes Oceanus, Apollo becomes Electra), much like the mercurial and capricious gods for whom they’d been named and whose escapades had kept me company during the summer months of my adolescence.
Several stops later on Hermes was a house I could easily covet: clean lines, weathered redwood planks, a peaked shingled roof, huge windows uncluttered with drapes or shutters. Two cars—a black Jeep Wrangler and a red Mercedes—sat in the driveway, and a tall, dark-haired, ponytailed woman in tight jeans and a crisp white cotton sleeveless blouse opened the door after I introduced myself, the cell phone at her ear a jarring note to the rustic splendor.
Her name was Jillian, and she was trying hard not to show her impatience. “A police detective was here a few days ago,” she told me. “I was out of town that night.”
“What about your husband?”
“Fiancé. He didn’t see or hear the accident.”
“I’m wondering if he saw the woman wandering around this area,” I said, wishing I had a photo of Lenore. “She was wearing a nightgown.”
Jillian shook her head. “He would have told me.”
“Maybe I could ask your fiancé.”
“Ask me what?” A man appeared in the doorway behind Jillian, then moved to her side and slipped his arm around her thin waist. He was a few inches taller than the woman and good-looking, with well-cut dark blond hair framing a broad face and friendly hazel eyes. They both looked to be in their mid-thirties.
“She’s a reporter,” Jillian told him, handing him the card I’d given her. “She’s looking into that hit-and-run the police asked us about.”
The fiancé tightened his lips and nodded. “Horrible thing. I hope they get the creep.” He glanced at my card, then up at me. “Molly Blume, huh? I’ll bet you get kidded about that. So you’re writing a story about her?”
“Something like that. I was wondering if you saw the woman wandering around. She was wearing a nightgown.”
“Wish I could help you out, but I went to sleep a little after midnight. Fell asleep during Leno—not his fault, mine.” He smiled, chagrined. “Sorry.”
So, I learned, were most of the residents, aside from those on vacation—sorry and asleep the night in question. Where were insomniacs when you needed them?
I had gone up and down Apollo and Hercules and had backtracked up Venus, then come down again on Achilles, which leads into Vulcan. The street names and their fickleness were losing their charm, and I was losing my sense of direction and optimism. I was sick of Italian cypress trees. I dreaded the climb back up to my car. My headache was back, my clothes were sticking to me. I was tired and thirsty and hungry. I needed a bathroom. I thought of Cyrano—“I press on, I press on”—and did the same, wondering whether I’d find my white plume.
I trudged onward and
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