THE HOUSE THAT VANITY BUILT

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  “You look pale,” I said. “And I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything. How about I make something. A little toast, perhaps?”

  Amy put her hand on her stomach. “I don’t think I could. I haven’t been able to keep anything down for days.”

  Wilson must have read my mind. Our eyes locked, our thoughts in sync. Nervous stomach? Forgetfulness? Swollen fingers and a missing ring? It could only mean one thing.

  “Are you—”

  “Pregnant?” Amy nodded. “I’m about three-and-a-half, maybe four months along. I hoped my stomach would have settled by now, but nothing helps. Jared told me it’s why he wanted to rush the wedding. He didn’t want me to waddle down the aisle.”

  My suspicion there may have been a greater financial reason behind Jared choosing the date of his birthday for the wedding was growingly apparent. “Does the doctor know about the baby?”

  “He’s thrilled. Jared insisted we tell his father right away. Dr. Conroy said he couldn’t have been happier. We were all going to be one big happy family, and he couldn’t wait to be a grandfather. It’s why I have to go back. What else can I do?”

  Amy’s phone buzzed. She glanced down at the screen. “It’s Carlene. You mind?”

  I waited while Amy explained what had happened to Jared. Even though Carlene wasn’t sitting on the sofa, I could feel her worried response. What I didn’t feel was a sense of surprise.

  Amy said goodbye to Carlene and stood up.

  “I have to go. Carlene wants me to come by her place, but before I go, can I ask a favor?”

  “Anything,” I said.

  “When I left Dr. Conroy this morning, I agreed to help plan the memorial. Would you come? I’d feel a whole lot better if you were there. Saturday. The Methodist Church on Wilshire in Beverly Hills. I don’t know the time yet, but—”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll—” I stopped and corrected myself. “—I’ll be there. You can count on it.”

  Chapter 3

  Amy rushed down the front walk to her car. With her keys in her hand and her head bowed, she was the image of a young woman whose world had fallen apart, and one who I feared was about to fall even farther.

  I pulled my phone from my skirt pocket. Dr. Conroy wasn’t the only one with contacts deep inside LAPD. While I waited for someone from LAPD’s Robbery-Homicide division to answer, I told Wilson to ready the Rolls.

  “Put a little speed on,” I said. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

  Wilson had two vintage automobiles parked in the garage: a Rolls Royce and a classic ’54 Jaguar. The Rolls was a black-and-gray Silver Wraith, like Princess Kelly had once owned, complete with leather interior and blacked-out windows. Perfect for what I had in mind.

  “We need to visit the Conroy Estate,” I said.

  “The House that Vanity Built? In Beverly Park? Are you kidding?”

  “You know it?”

  “Doesn’t everybody? It’s been tabloid gossip for years. Maybe not so much lately, but it didn’t get its name by accident. I would have loved to have gotten into one of those parties. But,” Wilson sighed and fanned a hand skyward. “I was much too young back then to have made the guest list. Believe me, I would have given my ruby slippers to have even been a lowly busboy. Can you imagine? I’ve heard the bathrooms have gold-plated toilet seats.”

  Wilson’s reference to Conroy’s wild parties and The House that Vanity Built didn’t surprise me. Even today, city bus tours made regular stops along Mulholland Drive to point out the infamous house, a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion that included six master suites, an indoor-outdoor pool, theater, solarium, and guest house. All of it made famous by the doctor, his wild parties with Hollywood stars, anorexic models, and monied men who came to party and believed Conroy’s cosmetic empire offered a promised fountain of youth.

  “No offense, Old Gal, but they’re hardly going to throw open the gates for you, even if your name is Misty Dawn.”

  “We’ll see about that, won’t we? But for now, we need to hurry. Amy’s gone to visit with Carlene, and if I’m right, the doctor’s been up all night. With a little luck, he’ll be napping when we arrive and will never know we’ve been there.”

  “Might I ask just how you intend to do that?”

  “I’ll explain later, Wilson. What’s important is that I get inside that house to see whatever it is the police saw, and what they didn’t.”

  In many ways, my mystic talents worked like those of a bloodhound. Timing was of the essence. The sooner I could get inside the Conroy estate to see where Jared lived, the more likely I’d pick up a scent that would help my investigation.

  While Wilson readied the Rolls, I left a message for Detective Cesar Romero. The two of us had recently worked a case concerning the drowning of a Hollywood starlet. The detective—a look-alike for his Hollywood namesake—was a senior investigator with LAPD and a lonely widower. That was until I introduced him to my landlady and Wilson’s sister, Denise Thorne. The two picked up immediately, as I knew they would, which elevated my relationship with the detective from professional consultant to that of friends and family, which allowed for a few favors.

  “Detective. Hi, it’s Misty Dawn. I need your help. I have a client who may be involved in a homicide investigation. The victim’s name is Jared Conroy. Heir to the Conroy fortune. I’m sure by now you’ve heard.” I explained how Amy, my client, had come by to tell me Jared had died at his bachelor party at a restaurant in Beverly Hills, and that his father, the renowned Dr. Elliott Conroy, had called the police and insisted on a thorough investigation. “Anyway, I need you to call. I have an uneasy feeling about Jared’s death and think we should talk.”

  Before we left the house, I returned upstairs and grabbed a hat, a black-brimmed fedora, and one of Wilson’s double-breasted jackets from his closet. The blazer fit me like a duster, a bit tight over my rounded middle, and because I was a good foot shorter than Wilson, hit midway down my long paisley skirt. The hat, with my gray hair tucked beneath the brim, provided enough of a disguise that when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. Not bad.

  I met Wilson in the garage. He looked at my choice of wardrobe suspiciously. “A change of persona? You think that’s really necessary?”

  “It is if I hope to convince people I’ve come from the mortuary.”

  “The mortuary?” Wilson snickered and slipped behind the driver’s wheel. “What is it you have in mind?”

  “Just drive, Wilson. In good time, if things work out, I believe you’ll be impressed.”

  We arrived at the guardhouse, a small brick building covered with ivy, that could have easily passed as a private residence were it not for a kiosk next to it, manned by a uniformed guard.

  With my hand on the steering wheel, so it would appear I was behind the wheel of the English drive Rolls, I scooted across the seat until I was sitting on Wilson’s lap.

  “Ugh!” Wilson groaned and pulled the Rolls forward. “Gonna half to watch all that late-night snacking, Old Gal.”

  I poked him in the ribs and smiled at the security guard as he leaned his head out of the kiosk.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m here from Sunrise Mortuary.” I used the name of a local funeral home and hoped the guard hadn’t heard any different. “Dr. Conroy requested I come by to pick up a suit for his son for the viewing on Saturday.”

  “I see.” The guard stepped back into the kiosk and checked his records.

  Wilson leaned back into the seat. “You really think this is going to work?”

  “It will if you hush up!”

  “Why? You think he can hear me?”

  “That’s not possible, and you know it.”

  “I didn’t think it was possible I’d have a woman sitting in my lap either, but—”

  “I’m warning you—”

 
“Pardon me?” The guard returned from the kiosk.

  “Sorry,” I said, “I’m muttering to myself.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I can’t find any record of the doctor’s call, and I can’t let you into the Park without it.”

  “Roger, right?” I pointed to his name tag. “Perhaps he’s forgotten. I’m sure he’s distraught. Tragic news about his son. I assume you heard?”

  “About Jared?” Roger stepped back to the kiosk. I had little doubt the guard had waved Jared through the residence’s private entrance just opposite his duty shack numerous times. “Yes. Terrible loss.”

  “Perhaps if you ask for the housekeeper, she might be able to help. In fact—oh, for heaven’s sake, I believe it was the housekeeper who called. You’ll have to forgive me. I must be having a senior moment. How could I forget? She said she was calling for the doctor. Her name was Lola or Lolita. Spanish, I think.”

  A Spanish name was an easy guess. There wasn’t a house in the park that didn’t have a housekeeper and figuring the Conroy’s employed a Hispanic housekeeper was hardly a long shot. As for guessing the housekeeper’s first name might begin with an “L,” that was a bit of a stretch. But I used a trick a lot of less-than-authentic psychics use when trying to convince someone of their connections with the spirit world. I picked an initial and went for it, knowing the guard would fix on a name and fill it in.

  “You must mean Lupe,” Roger said.

  I blinked. “Yes, that’s it. Lupe.”

  Roger took a step forward and studied the Rolls. His eyes combed the vehicle from the flying goddess hood ornament on the front to the trunk.

  “Nice ride,” he said.

  I patted the open window frame. “Yes, isn’t it? I’m lucky. The mortuary’s owner lets me drive it for things like this. She’s a beauty. Not a scratch on her, and she purrs like a pussycat.”

  Wilson growled, and I punched him again in the ribs.

  Roger walked back around the car and gave it one final look, then slipped back into the kiosk and picked up the phone. I put my hand on Wilson’s leg and tapped my fingers nervously while Roger checked out my story. Minutes seemed like hours.

  Finally, Roger appeared from the kiosk. “I suppose it’s fine. Lupe didn’t remember the doctor saying anything about someone coming by to pick up Jared’s suit, but she’d prefer not to interrupt the doctor now. He’s napping.” I winked at Wilson. Told you so. “She said she’d meet you in the courtyard. You know the way, right?”

  I told Roger this was my first call to Beverly Park. He placed a sticker outside on the windshield, then took a map from within the kiosk and marked the Conroy estate with an “X.”

  “Straight ahead, two miles. When you reach a four-way stop, turn left. Go three blocks and take a right on Ridgecrest. Can’t miss it. Driveway’s about a mile long. Have a good day.”

  I rolled the window up so the guard couldn’t see the car drive itself away.

  Wilson looked over at me. “Score one for the Old Gal.”

  I punched his shoulder. “And you didn’t think I could do it.”

  Chapter 4

  Jaw-dropping. That’s the best way to describe the Conroy mansion. The home—if one could call it that—looked like a small version of Versailles. Built to impress. White stone and red brick with tall arching windows and a gray slate roof. Under California’s cloudless blue skies, the manse looked as out of place as the gilded statue of Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess of beauty, that graced the twenty-foot marble fountain in front of the home’s center motor court.

  Lupe, or the woman who I assumed to be Dr. Conroy’s housekeeper, stood beneath the mansion’s huge columned portico and waved for us to pull the car around to the side of the motor court.

  “We’ve been getting floral deliveries all morning,” she said. “I’m not sure if they’re for the wedding or the memorial, but I’d prefer you not to block the entrance.”

  Wilson pulled the Rolls to the side of the house, and I got out. Quick as I could, lest Lupe got curious about the Rolls and came too close and realized the seat of the English drive was set too far back for a short, plump senior like myself.

  “You must be Lupe.” I shuffled across the gravel drive toward the front door. The woman looked to be about my age, late sixties, early seventies. Hispanic with dark, graying hair, and a pleasant round face. “The doctor told me to talk to you. My name is Annie Johnston. I’m from the mortuary.”

  My fictitious name for the day rolled off my tongue as easily as I extended my hand to shake hers. I wasn’t about to use my own name. My plan to infiltrate the Conroy Estate was dependent upon Lupe not knowing my real identity.

  “I apologize for my intrusion,” I said. “But my boss insisted I come by and pick up a suit for Jared’s memorial.”

  The second she heard Jared’s name, Lupe dropped my hand, squeezed her eyes shut and covered her mouth with a clenched fist. I had hit a nerve.

  “I apologize. I didn’t mean to appear insensitive. This must be a very difficult time for you.”

  Lupe brushed her eyes with the back of her hand. “Jared was a good man. And it’s all been so sudden. One moment we were planning a wedding. Everyone here was so happy, there was so much to do and look forward to, and now—ugh! It’s awful, Jared’s dead, and we’re planning a funeral.” Lupe swallowed hard. “I’ve been fielding flower deliveries all morning. If you give me a moment, I’ll go find a suit.”

  I glanced back at Wilson. He stood with his arms and legs crossed and leaned casually against the front of the Rolls, and smiled knowingly. My plan to get inside the Conroy house had hit a snag, and he knew it.

  “Now what are you going to do, Old Gal?”

  “Excuse me.” I trailed after Lupe. “Would it be too much for me to ask for a glass of water? I’ve been running from place to place all morning. I forgot my water bottle. It’s a little warm, and I need to take a pill.” I patted my chest. “I’m afraid my heart likes to bounce around like a tennis ball if I don’t take my pills regularly.”

  If I had eyes in the back of my head, I would have seen Wilson smile. Score two for the Old Gal. He knew full well my medical remedies amounted to nothing more than what I could grow in my garden, and my erratic heartbeat was a thinly veiled guise designed to gain access to the mansion.

  “Follow me.” Lupe led the way back beneath the portico and through a set of glass and wrought-iron front doors with gold-leaf filigree insets that must have been ten feet high. They opened onto a marble hallway, and soon as she shut them behind us, Wilson left my side. Like a bee to honey, he disappeared down the long hallway ahead of us.

  I worried the echo of our footsteps across the marble flooring might alert the doctor to my presence, but Lupe assured me we were alone, or as alone as one might be in a house where the servants outnumbered the occupants. The doctor couldn’t hear us. He was in the east wing, in his study, napping.

  “Wasn’t always so quiet around here,” Lupe said. “But since I’ve been here, the doctor’s wild party days with celebrities and lots of beautiful people...they’re long gone.”

  I followed Lupe into an expansive kitchen with a twelve-foot center island that opened onto a sunroom with hanging ferns and potted palms. Lupe stopped in front of a double-wide sub-zero refrigerator and took out a bottle of water and handed it to me.

  “I’ve coffee if you’d like,” she said.

  I accepted the bottle and glanced casually at my watch. “That’d be nice. I do have some time, and I have to admit, I am curious. One hears such stories.”

  “Hard not to. The house had quite a reputation. In its day, it was right up there with Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Mansion. But that was well before I started working for the doctor.”

  I took a seat at the kitchen’s island, and with my water bottle in hand, feigned taking a pill.

  “These days it’s only the doctor her
e in the house and a few staff. Jared lived out back in the guest house.”

  “Must get lonely, a big place like this with just the doctor around.” I scanned the kitchen and the adjoining sunroom. The light showed brightly through the windows and danced silently through leaves of several potted palm trees and onto an empty settee. “If only the walls could talk, right?”

  “I take it you’ve heard the rumors.” Lupe took a cup from one of the kitchen cabinets and poured me some coffee. “Cream? Sugar? Or maybe something a little stronger?”

  From a drawer beneath the island, Lupe pulled out a silver flask and splashed a swig of what looked like rum into her cup. I covered my own. I suspected this wasn’t her first morning brew, and I planned to use it to my advantage. The poor woman had no one to share her grief with, and I sensed she would welcome a gentle ear.

  “Can’t avoid hearing a thing or two now and then,” I said. “In the eighties, this house had quite the reputation. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I don’t trade in gossip. The doctor wouldn’t like it if I did. But between you and me, there’s still plenty of evidence around here things were wild back in the day.”

  I glanced back into the sunroom. Wilson had taken a seat on a small couch beneath a palm tree. And he wasn’t alone. Seated next to him on the settee were two gray-haired ladies, women my age, dripping in jewels. Made up to the max, and dressed in long, jewel-colored silk robes, like goddesses. I had seen their kind before—restless spirits. A less experienced psychic might have mistaken them for ghosts, but I knew better. These were luminaries: pests identifiable by a slightly greenish tinge about their silvery-shadowed selves, and in my opinion, much less respectable than ghosts.

  “Do you think the house is haunted?” I asked.

  Lupe laughed. “I don’t believe in ghosts. The doctor, however, he’d tell you differently. I hear him sometimes. He still talks to his dead wife. As for me, I think the doctor’s only haunted by her memories and mourns her loss. Poor soul’s a broken man.”