usually started the day with nothing more than three cigarettes and two mugs of horseshoe coffee, but this morning Silja had prepared him a bowl of muesli and sliced bananas and dried apricots, and he didn’t have the heart to refuse it. He sat out on the terrace and tried to call Mo while he was eating, but all he heard was the same recorded message.
‘Maybe he had to go out of town,’ Silja suggested.
‘Maybe,’ said Noah, with his mouth full of oats and nuts. ‘But he never mentioned it, and he’s not answering his cellphone, either.’
A little after ten thirty, he called Mo’s office on Beverly Boulevard. The nasal voice of one of his production assistants said that Mo hadn’t yet appeared, but ‘you know, Mo is Mo. He comes and he goes.’
After he had finished his breakfast, Noah decided to drive over to Santa Monica to see for himself if Mo was at home. ‘He could be sick. Who knows?’
‘If he’s sick, his wife would answer the phone, wouldn’t she?’
‘I don’t know. I just have this feeling that something isn’t right.’
Silja put her arm around his shoulders. ‘I know that you have lost your Jenna, but you must not think that all the world has become bad.’
The weather had turned unseasonably hot, and by the time they reached Mo’s house on Lincoln Boulevard the temperature was almost up to 115 degrees F. Inside the Super Duty, the air conditioning was set to Nome, Alaska, but outside the sidewalks were rippling with heat.
Mo lived on a corner plot, in a pale blue split-level house that was typical of the development of the 1960s. It looked like the kind of place that Lucille Ball’s neighbours might have lived in. There was a sloping lawn in front of the house, most of it burned patchy brown, and a scrubby yew hedge around the veranda.
Mo’s thirteen-year-old Cadillac was parked in the driveway, a bronze Fleetwood with sagging suspension.
‘Looks like he must be at home,’ said Silja, as they pulled up outside.
Noah shook his head. ‘He doesn’t drive much these days, because of his eyesight. He says he’s so long-sighted he has to go next door to read the newspaper.’
They walked up to the front door and Noah rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang it again, but there was still no answer.
‘There, you see,’ said Silja. ‘He must be out of town.’
‘His office would have said so. He may not put in regular hours, but he still has to work to a tight production schedule.’
Noah walked along the veranda and tried to peer in through the living-room window, but the dark brown drapes were drawn and all he could see was his own reflection.
‘Mo!’ he shouted. ‘Mo, it’s Noah! Are you in there, Mo? Is everything OK?’
‘Maybe we should try around the back,’ Silja suggested.
They opened the side gate and went into the backyard. There was nobody there, only a sun-faded airbed floating in the middle of the circular pool. Noah looked in through the kitchen window. Three beefsteak tomatoes and a cucumber were arranged on one of the counters, as if somebody was right in the middle of preparing a salad, but the kitchen was deserted.
He tried the window of Mo’s den. Mo wasn’t there, either, although his desk was strewn with at least a dozen crumpled-up balls of paper, and his computer was still switched on. On the walls were Mo’s framed certificates from the Screenwriters’ Guild, and several autographed photographs – ‘ To Mo from Dick Van Dyke ’ – ‘ To Mo, The Only Man Nearly As Funny As Me, Mel Brooks .’
‘We should call the police,’ said Silja.
Noah nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right. This is very weird. Very unlike Mo.’
He walked back to the kitchen and tried the door. It was unlocked. He hesitated, and then opened it a little way and called out, ‘Mo? Anybody at home? It’s Noah!’
He stepped inside. The kitchen was unnaturally chilly. Not only was the air conditioning on full, but the refrigerator door was wide open. Noah closed
‘Maybe he had to go out of town,’ Silja suggested.
‘Maybe,’ said Noah, with his mouth full of oats and nuts. ‘But he never mentioned it, and he’s not answering his cellphone, either.’
A little after ten thirty, he called Mo’s office on Beverly Boulevard. The nasal voice of one of his production assistants said that Mo hadn’t yet appeared, but ‘you know, Mo is Mo. He comes and he goes.’
After he had finished his breakfast, Noah decided to drive over to Santa Monica to see for himself if Mo was at home. ‘He could be sick. Who knows?’
‘If he’s sick, his wife would answer the phone, wouldn’t she?’
‘I don’t know. I just have this feeling that something isn’t right.’
Silja put her arm around his shoulders. ‘I know that you have lost your Jenna, but you must not think that all the world has become bad.’
The weather had turned unseasonably hot, and by the time they reached Mo’s house on Lincoln Boulevard the temperature was almost up to 115 degrees F. Inside the Super Duty, the air conditioning was set to Nome, Alaska, but outside the sidewalks were rippling with heat.
Mo lived on a corner plot, in a pale blue split-level house that was typical of the development of the 1960s. It looked like the kind of place that Lucille Ball’s neighbours might have lived in. There was a sloping lawn in front of the house, most of it burned patchy brown, and a scrubby yew hedge around the veranda.
Mo’s thirteen-year-old Cadillac was parked in the driveway, a bronze Fleetwood with sagging suspension.
‘Looks like he must be at home,’ said Silja, as they pulled up outside.
Noah shook his head. ‘He doesn’t drive much these days, because of his eyesight. He says he’s so long-sighted he has to go next door to read the newspaper.’
They walked up to the front door and Noah rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang it again, but there was still no answer.
‘There, you see,’ said Silja. ‘He must be out of town.’
‘His office would have said so. He may not put in regular hours, but he still has to work to a tight production schedule.’
Noah walked along the veranda and tried to peer in through the living-room window, but the dark brown drapes were drawn and all he could see was his own reflection.
‘Mo!’ he shouted. ‘Mo, it’s Noah! Are you in there, Mo? Is everything OK?’
‘Maybe we should try around the back,’ Silja suggested.
They opened the side gate and went into the backyard. There was nobody there, only a sun-faded airbed floating in the middle of the circular pool. Noah looked in through the kitchen window. Three beefsteak tomatoes and a cucumber were arranged on one of the counters, as if somebody was right in the middle of preparing a salad, but the kitchen was deserted.
He tried the window of Mo’s den. Mo wasn’t there, either, although his desk was strewn with at least a dozen crumpled-up balls of paper, and his computer was still switched on. On the walls were Mo’s framed certificates from the Screenwriters’ Guild, and several autographed photographs – ‘ To Mo from Dick Van Dyke ’ – ‘ To Mo, The Only Man Nearly As Funny As Me, Mel Brooks .’
‘We should call the police,’ said Silja.
Noah nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right. This is very weird. Very unlike Mo.’
He walked back to the kitchen and tried the door. It was unlocked. He hesitated, and then opened it a little way and called out, ‘Mo? Anybody at home? It’s Noah!’
He stepped inside. The kitchen was unnaturally chilly. Not only was the air conditioning on full, but the refrigerator door was wide open. Noah closed
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