Praise for Nancy Cole Silverman’s Mysteries
“With an addictive plot featuring a clever psychic, a young actress from a legendary Hollywood family, and a couple of mischievous ghosts, it doesn’t take a crystal ball to predict Silverman’s new Misty Dawn Mystery series will be a hit with readers.”
— Ellen Byron,
Award-Winning Author of the Cajun Country Mysteries
“A high-speed chase of a mystery, filled with very likable characters, a timely plot, and writing so compelling that readers will be unable to turn away from the page.”
– Kings River Life Magazine
“The author gives us a terrific story building up to a climax that will please the reader. The old saying regarding ‘people are not always what they seem’ fits perfectly in this case.”
– Suspense Magazine
“Will keep you turning pages late into the night and make you think twice about the dark side of the Hollywood Dream.”
– Paul D. Marks,
Shamus Award-Winning Author of Vortex
“Radio host Carol Childs meets her match in this page-turner. Her opponent is everyone’s good guy but she knows the truth about the man behind the mask. Now Carol must reveal a supremely clever enemy before he gets the chance to silence her for good.”
– Laurie Stevens,
Award-Winning Author of the Gabriel McRay Series
“Crackles with memorable characters, Hollywood legends, and as much action behind the mic as investigative reporter Carol Childs finds in the field.”
– Mar Preston,
Author of A Very Private High School
“Fast paced and cleverly plotted, an edgy cozy with undertones of noir.”
– Sue McGinty,
Author of the Bella Kowalski Central Coast Mysteries
“Carol is a smart, savvy heroine that will appeal to readers. This is a cozy with a bite.”
– Books for Avid Readers
“A thoroughly satisfying crime novel with fascinating, authentic glimpses into the world of talk radio and some of its nastier stars…The writing is compelling and the settings ring true thanks to the author’s background as a newscaster herself.”
– Jill Amadio,
Author of Digging Too Deep
“Silverman provides us with inside look into the world of talk radio as Carol Childs, an investigative reporter, finds herself in the middle of a Hollywood murder mystery…A hunky FBI Agent and a wacky psychic will keep readers guessing from beginning to end.”
– Annette Dashofy,
USA Today Bestselling Author of Lost Legacy
“Silverman creates a trip through Hollywood filled with aging hippies, greedy agents, and a deadly case of product tampering. Forget the shower scene in Psycho; Shadow of Doubt will make you scared to take a bath!”
– Diane Vallere,
National Bestselling Author of Pillow Stalk
“I loved the tone, the pace, and the drama which pulled me in immediately…All the while I suspected something was amiss, and when it came to fruition, I knew the author was going to pull a fast one, and yes, she did, and bravo because now I must read the next book to see how it all plays out.”
– Dru’s Book Musings
Mysteries by Nancy Cole Silverman
The Misty Dawn Mystery Series
THE HOUSE ON HALLOWED GROUND (#1)
The Carol Childs Mystery Series
SHADOW OF DOUBT (#1)
BEYOND A DOUBT (#2)
WITHOUT A DOUBT (#3)
ROOM FOR DOUBT (#4)
REASON TO DOUBT (#5)
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Copyright
THE HOUSE ON HALLOWED GROUND
A Misty Dawn Mystery
Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection
First Edition | September 2019
Henery Press
www.henerypress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Copyright © 2019 by Nancy Cole Silverman
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-551-2
Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-552-9
Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-553-6
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-554-3
Printed in the United States of America
To My Better Half
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes inspiration to write a book, and for that, I thank Misty Dawn, who jumped off from the pages of my Carol Childs books and insisted on her own story, as well as the very special group of fans and friends who helped me to bring her to life.
To better understand Misty, I interviewed a number of psychics — not for readings of myself, but to get an idea about the types of people they saw, the questions they were asked and their experiences with spirit guides. They were, as I expected, varied and intriguing. But this book would not have been as divinely inspired were it not for Patti Negri, a Hollywood psychic, who in the course of my interviewing her, insisted I stop and told me to just trust myself, that — in essence — I had this.
I also want to thank my good friend and Sister in Crime author, Rochelle Staab, who worked with me through numerous transitions and believed in Misty and Wilson as much as I did. I chatted nonstop with about spirits and their powers with my hiking partner Rhona Robbie, who read and offered terrific advice on an early draft. My keen-eyed proofreader, George Marlowe, caught errors that my less than keen eyes missed. And of course, my husband, Bruce, cheered me on throughout the process. Thank you all.
And to the entire staff at Henery Press, my editor Marie Edwards, Christina Rogers, who funneled numerous emails back and forth between myself and Henery’s staff, and worked hard to develop the cover for this new series, and most especially, my publisher Kendel Lynn: you make dreams happen. I am forever thankful for your belief in me.
Chapter 1
The house on South Norton Drive looked like any other mid-century cottage on the same quiet tree-lined street. A two-bedroom, two-story Craftsman with a deep-set front porch surrounded by a white picket fence. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the home. Certainly nothing wraith-like. No cobwebs or darkened windows. Just a nice, quiet little house. But then, that was before I moved in.
In my defense, psychics can’t read themselves.
My name is Misty Dawn, formerly Hollywood’s leading Psychic to the Stars with a clientele that once read like the Who’s Who of Hollywood. A respected consultant to the FBI on major crimes, and confidant to a former First Lady who had me on her speed dial. After such an illustrious career—thirty years at the top, doing late-night talk shows and private consults—I never imagined I’d find myself in the latter part of my life with a diminished clientele. I had outlived most of the big names I had read for, and with limited resources, I found myself in need of a place to
live. But, like I said, psychics can’t read themselves.
It was my client Denise Thorne, a Realtor, who came to my rescue. The Craftsman had been her brother’s home. The recently deceased Wilson Thorne, a flamboyant, self-absorbed, and very fey Academy Award-winning Hollywood set designer who had died suddenly in his sleep. The home and all its contents had been left to his sister, who because of a temporary upset in the real estate market, was undecided what to do with the property. She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
It was one of those rare, rainy Southern California days. I had just made Denise and myself a cup of tea, and we were seated at the kitchen table inside my aging ’68 Volkswagen Van, my sole possession, where I had been temporarily living with my cat Bossypants.
Denise said, “Misty, I have an idea. Why don’t you move into my brother’s place? It’s certainly better than these cramped quarters, and you could hang out your shingle and start afresh.”
It was a tempting offer, considering my rusted trailer had begun to leak with the rain.
Denise assured me I’d be doing her a favor. Her brother Wilson had been a collector. Every inch of every room in the house had something from a television or movie set or stage production he either worked on or fawned over, and liquidating the house was going to take some time. If I moved in it’d give me a decent place to live and save her from making a rash decision as to what to do with the place.
I replied while Denise’s offer was very generous, I was concerned what I would do with my van. I couldn’t just walk away from it. Parking it in a lot would be an expense I didn’t need. “It’s part of who I am,” I said. “I’d have to find somewhere safe to keep it.”
“You can park it in my brother’s drive for all I care. As for your cat, long as she doesn’t knock things over I suppose it’ll be fine. Wilson was extremely fastidious about the house. Lots of collectables and artwork. He never had pets of his own. Always worried they’d make a mess of things. Truth is he was highly allergic. Fussy sort. Sneezed at the thought of a feline. But now that he’s gone I suppose it shouldn’t matter. Come on, Misty, what have you got to lose? The house would be perfect. Great location. Corner lot. Just off the boulevard in the valley. And...” Denise raised her brows teasingly. “As we say in Realtor speak, it’s got great curb appeal. For someone like yourself, there would be a lot of passersby. People out walking their dogs. Couples. Potential clients.” Mentally, I could see Denise had already moved me into her brother’s cottage and was calculating what I feared might be rent. “Of course, I’d have to charge you.”
There it was, my excuse. Money. I didn’t have any and could afford absolutely nothing. While I had earned a good living in my glory days, I had always been a soft touch, and financial planning had never been my forte. I’d probably given away as much as I’d ever made. I somehow believed tomorrow would always take care of itself.
Then there was Denise. The woman was a psychic junkie. She had made a hobby of going from psychic to psychic to compare readings and, had I allowed it, would have seen me on a daily basis. At age forty-five, Denise had developed a kind of teenage girl crush on the actor Hugh Jackman. She was convinced if they met, Jackman would leave his wife of nearly twenty-two years and ask her to be his life partner and join him on stage. Thus rekindling what had been a flailing acting career. Delusional was not a word Denise understood. She believed she and Jackman were soul mates. Like Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, the big screen was waiting for them.
“I don’t know, Denise, I–”
“Stop. We can make this work. It’ll be a win-win for us both. Unlimited counseling sessions for me, none of this once a month stuff. And you? Aah! Misty, you could make a comeback. Give it a year. What harm can it do?”
I can’t say Denise twisted my arm. The fact was both my van and I were in varying degrees of disrepair. My van needed the obvious: new tires, new transmission...new everything. And me? Between my arthritis, my cataracts, and overall age-related ailments, I wasn’t much better. Hence, I accepted Denise’s offer on her brother’s cottage sight unseen and told her I would move in. On one condition. While I’d be happy to oversee the care and maintenance of the home, I could not, under any circumstances, make myself available for unlimited counseling sessions.
“It just doesn’t work that way, Denise. Reading someone more than once a month isn’t something I can do. And any honorable psychic would tell you the same.” Most psychics, the real ones anyway, aren’t fortune tellers, but enablers. I like to think of my job as helping people help themselves. Put them in touch with their dreams and their higher self by teaching them to focus on what it is they really want to bring about in their lives and help them to do it.
Denise dropped her head and stirred her tea, clanking her spoon annoyingly against the side of the china cup. Clearly, this wasn’t the response she wanted. I reconsidered my position. While Denise’s intentions violated my psychic code of right and wrong, I sensed my response had been too heavy-handed, and relented.
“I will, however, since it’s your brother’s home, put on a pot of tea now and then and—”
“And invite me in, often as I like?” Denise raised her head from her cup and dropped the spoon on the table.
I closed my eyes and nodded. Even as I did, I knew this was going to be a problem. But there was no point in arguing. Denise believed this was a win for the both of us. I needed a win right now as much as I needed decent shelter over my head.
The house was exactly as Denise had promised. Charming. The yard green and well-manicured. Every blade of grass appeared to have been lovingly combed and neatly coiffed into place. A large flowering magnolia tree shaded the front walk, and on the porch, two white wicker rockers with green striped cushions set on either side of a brightly painted cherry-red front door.
With my cat Bossypants in my arms, I stood on the front porch and inserted the key into the front lock. Despite the fact I could feel the latch turn and the deadbolt slide open, the door remained locked. I readjusted the cat in my arms—Bossypants gave me an anxious meow—and I twisted the handle again, shaking it to make certain the latch had engaged. Then I gave the door a strong second shove. No luck. I tried again. Perhaps the rain had caused it to swell and all it needed was a little more effort on my part. With my shoulder against the door, my cat squirming beneath my arm, I gave it another try. When that didn’t work, convinced something was blocking my efforts, I stood up on the tips of my toes and glanced through one of the three small square-shaped windows at the top of the door.
Was it my imagination or did the lights from the hallway chandelier flicker? Nonsense. It must have been the sun’s dappled light filtering through the old magnolia as it hit the glass. Determined not to be bested by the likes of a cherry-red door, I hugged my cat firmly to my chest, twisted the key in the lock another time and pushed against it with all my might. This time with more force than I’d used before. The door remained resistant. Not to be outdone, I gave it one more try. I took a large step back, a deep breath, and with all my might, plus fifteen pounds of cat, heaved myself against the frame.
Like a jack-in-the-box, the door sprang open. Suddenly, I was an unstoppable force. With my cat in my arms, I went flying onto the entry’s wooden floor and landed like a sack of potatoes. Bossypants screamed and sprang from my arms. Before I could stop her, she disappeared beneath the staircase directly in front of me. As I lay on the floor and tried to catch my breath, I stared up at the Tiffany-styled chandelier. This time it wasn’t my imagination. The light flickered three times. And as I started to get up, I heard a sneeze.
Achoo!
That was when I knew the house was haunted. Experience had taught me it was best to let whatever ghost-like spirit inhabited the house to play out its frustration. Ghosts can be unpredictable, particularly when their turf has been encroached upon unexpectedly. When mortals invade their space, temper tantrums are never unusual. Most spi
rits prefer to deal with humans only when they’re good and ready and always on their own terms.
Best to wait him out.
For the next day and a half, I proceeded with my move and pretended as though nothing was amiss. As I did, I witnessed all kinds of amateur hauntings designed to send someone less experienced running from the house. The copper pots that hung above the stove would sway whenever I entered the kitchen. The water pipes would clank randomly, and the doors, particularly those to the upstairs bedrooms, would bang shut for no apparent reason.
I volleyed back with a few tricks of my own.
The first was relatively simple. I took all the magazines off the coffee table, volumes of Architectural Digest, The Hollywood Reporter, and books on famous Hollywood homes, and put them on the floor. I replaced them with items of my own: an aloe vera plant I’d been carrying around with me for years, a glass vase a client had made for me, and a large magnifying glass I used from time to time to help me read.
All of which immediately disappeared, which prompted my second move: the armoire.
Upstairs in the master bedroom was a mirrored, wooden wardrobe that looked as though it might have once graced an eighteenth-century castle. Inside were several identically matched men’s suits, perfectly spaced an inch-and-a-half apart, and a burgundy, black and gold striped smoking jacket, which I appropriated for myself. Knowing this wasn’t going to go down well, I retreated to the master bath where I took a long, hot shower. Refreshed, I took my bra and panties, flung them over the shower rod, and donned the smoking jacket. I then retreated downstairs to the study, where I had seen a cigar box on the desk. I picked what I felt certain might be a favorite—a Cuban—cut off the end, seated myself in a fine leather chair, and with my legs up on the desk, lit up. A sure sign to my overseer who I knew was watching, I didn’t plan on retreating.
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