Free Dream House by Rochelle Krich

oil painting of a woman above the stone fireplace. The room was heavy with the smell of a floral air freshener—to cover the smoke, Tim had explained before I'd asked.
    I made myself comfortable on a taupe chenille sofa. “Did the police say what happened?”
    Friday night, prompted by my brother and my conscience, I'd left after overhearing the news. I still hadn't phoned Connors. Even if I'd dared bother him on a Saturday night, he wouldn't have information about a case outside his jurisdiction. Porter would know, but the odds of his talking to me were slimmer than Calista Flockhart.
    “The fire department is handling the investigation,” Tim said. “Hank told me they're pretty sure it's arson.”
    “He didn't know his father-in-law was missing?”
    “He was on an overnight business trip. The caregiver didn't show that morning, and Hank couldn't cancel, so he asked the housekeeper to stay until he returned Saturday. She claims the Professor told her Hank had phoned and said he was returning Friday afternoon. He'd seemed fine and insisted he'd be okay for the hour or so he'd be alone.”
    I wouldn't want to be in the housekeeper's shoes. “You seem close to the family.”
    “We've been neighbors since I was a kid. This was my parents' home.” He waved his hand around the room. “Peggy and I moved in after my parents died. When I was a teenager I mowed the Linneys' lawn, and the Professor helped me with my history papers. Mostly, he told me how terrible they were.” Tim's smile turned into a sigh.
    “Was Linney's daughter on the local HARP board?”
    Bolt gazed at me, curious. “I don't think so, no. The Professor was. He was quite involved. Why?”
    “An unusual number of homes have been vandalized lately in HARP districts, and the targeted homes seem to belong to HARP board members.”
    Tim frowned. “Really?”
    The first time one of my pieces ran in the
Times,
I'd been dismayed to find out that the entire world hadn't read it. I've learned better. “There was an article about it in yesterday's L.A.
Times.
”
    “I haven't read yesterday's paper yet. My wife hasn't been feeling well, and I've been playing nurse. Not very well, I'm afraid.” He smiled ruefully. “I'll go get it. What section is it in?”
    “‘Calendar.'” A while back it would have been in a separate section called “Southern California Living,” but the
Times
is always changing things around; don't ask me why.
    While he was gone, I stretched my legs and took a closer look at the lithograph and framed photos, one of a younger Tim with a pretty brown-haired woman, another of a little girl and boy who looked just like the couple.
    Tim came back into the room, paging through the newspaper as he walked.
    “Your children?” I pointed to the photos.
    “None yet,” he said with some sadness. “But we're hoping. That's me and Peggy. My wife. We were childhood sweethearts.”
    He sat on an oversize armchair and read the article. I returned to the couch and waited until he was done.
    “Molly Blume,” he said, and looked up. “That's you, right?” He scanned my article again. “So this guy is targeting HARP board members?”
    “I thought so. I guess I was wrong.” I tried again to console myself with the fact that Connors had made the same assumption. “If Margaret Reston—”
    “Linney,” Tim corrected. “Reston's her married name, but she kept her maiden name for most things.”
    Whatever. “If Margaret Linney was never on a HARP board, I don't understand why she was targeted.”
    “Maybe it was the Professor who was targeted,” Tim said. “It was his house.”
    I frowned. “He told me it was his daughter's house.”
    “It was, as of around six months ago. The Professor signed the house over to Margaret when he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. He wanted to put his affairs in order while he still had the mental sharpness to do it. He
loved
that house. So did Margaret. I don't think she wanted to move. Even if the new