Harley Kozak - Dating Is Murder

The second book in the Wollie Shelley Mystery series, 2005

Moth harmonica.

Thats 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 number or the miles from earth to Jupiter. I picked up the telephone.

Hi, this is Wollie, I said. Whos this?

California? America? Ja?

Yes, California, America. Whos this?

Encino?

No, not Encino, West Hollywood. Forty minutes away, traffic permitting. Whos this?

Ja, ja, who this? she asked.

Thats what Im asking, I said. Who are you?

I am Moth Harmonica.

Okay, Ive 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 a while, and I didnt have a while. 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-youre-mother. Of Annika. Youre Mrs. Glck?

There was an excited assent, lots of Ja! Ja!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. Glck 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 ist in 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. Glck had my number.

I said, Id really like to help you, but I have no idea where Annika is. Shes tutoring me in math, and we were supposed to meet last night-I hesitated, not wanting to admit how Id worried, thinking, Annikas never even late-and she didnt show.

Ah, Gott im Himmel, sie is dead.

No, Im sure shes not dead, Im sure shes- 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. Glck? I said. Im 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 shes really missing, Im sure her host family will contact the police-

Nein, no Polizei, no trouble-you are friend, ja? So you are to ask host family what is happen. For my daughter. Mein Kind.

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 familys number? All I have is Annikas line, with her machine. On which Id 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 blond as mine, not unusual in Los Angeles, but whereas I had pale skin to go with it, Fredreeq was black, a less common combination. Wheres your water? she asked.

In the sink.

You dont have bottled water? What do you take on the road?

I dont 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 shes-disappeared. I grabbed my keys and backpack, alarmed at the word Id just said.

And who does the mother think you are, the FBI?

She doesnt know who I am, she just happened to have my phone number. She cant reach the host family-Annikas 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 had 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 didnt exactly understand.

I caught myself really looking at people, on the street, in cars. Looking, illogically, maybe, for someone considerably shorter than I, brown-haired, apple-cheeked, pretty. A girl in the last days of her teens. Annika.

Theres Joey, Fredreeq said, waving to a green Mercedes stuck in slow traffic on Santa Monica, a mass of red hair visible in the drivers seat. Whats she doing circling the block? I told her to stay put. Cmon, lets 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 nights location of Biological Clock. The reality show featured three women dun certain ge, 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 hadnt been my idea.

Heres how it happened. Id 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 an American 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 shouldnt 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.

Joeys husband, meanwhile, had invested money in this reality show, Biological Clock, which had inspired Joey and Fredreeq to send my audition video to the casting director. I hadnt known Id made an audition video. Id thought I was being interviewed for Fredreeqs nieces 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 Id thus beaten out several hundred hopefuls for the job. Not that Id wanted the job. Id 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, Id have been happy to fork over my fifteen minutes to someone else, the way senators give away their floor time in debates to fellow senators.