The House on Hallowed Ground

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  “And the paramedics,” I asked, “you called them?”

  “Right away, but I knew she was dead. There was no way she was still alive.”

  “What about the police?”

  “They showed up right after the EMTs, and so did the news.” Zoey nodded at the news trucks parked in the street and a growing number of looky-loos and paparazzi. The only thing holding back the crowd was a thin line of yellow crime scene tape.

  I put my arm around Zoey and turned her away from the gawkers and the flash of cameras.

  “Don’t you think it’d be best if you went inside?”

  “Maybe.” Zoey wiped a tear from the side of her face. “There’s a detective inside now. He’s been asking all kinds of questions. He wanted to know what time Lacey came by and why she was here. Did I know she’d gone out back by herself? That kind of thing. He said it was just a formality, but he didn’t want me in the backyard while they were working. Chad and I came out here to get away from it all.”

  “Did the detective give you his card?”

  “Ah-huh.” Zoey pulled a business card from within her robe, her hand shaking. “His name’s Detective Romero.”

  We were almost to the front door when I caught sight of the detective. His gold shield caught the morning light as he came through a small, wooden gate that separated the front and back yards. Tall, gray-haired, middle-aged, and handsome enough to play a leading role, the man looked like he could have come from central casting.

  “Excuse me, Zoey? This yours?” The detective held out a small, clear plastic ring. “Found this in the bottom of the Jacuzzi. Looks like Lacey may have tried to get it out of the spa and accidentally turned on the bubblers. Caught her long hair in the whirlpool return and it sucked her right under. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Zoey wrapped her hand around the ring and made a fist. With her eyes closed, she held the ring tight against her chest and pursed her lips.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Zoey opened her eyes, looked up at the sky, then pinched them shut again. A tear slipped down her cheek.

  “By the way,” Romero asked. “The gate in the backyard, the one leading to the park, was open. Your gardener says it’s usually locked and he doesn’t have a key. You leave it that way?”

  “Maybe. I...I don’t know. Chad and his friends use it to get to the trails.” Zoey shrugged. “You should ask him.”

  “What about smoking?” Romero asked. “Did Lacey smoke?”

  “No.” Zoey shook her head.

  “How about you?”

  “Sometimes, why?” Zoey frowned.

  “Probably nothing, but I found a cigarette butt out behind the spa. Had lipstick prints on it. I wouldn’t worry about it. Probably been out there for a while.”

  Zoey stood numb, her face pale. I doubted she comprehended anything the detective had just told her.

  “You can go back inside now if you like.” Romero tilted his head toward the backyard. “The coroner’s got the body bagged. He’ll bring it around in a few minutes. I’ll call if we need anything else. Again, Miss, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  With the ring still clutched to her chest and her other arm wrapped around herself, Zoey stood motionless, closed her eyes, and turned her head up to the sky. I pulled her close and felt her collapse like a rag doll against me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Zoey opened her hand. “The ring,” Zoey whispered, “it was my mother’s.”

  Chapter 6

  The minute I entered the house I knew why Zoey had chosen to wait outside while the police had completed their investigation. Despite the presence of paparazzi and news reporters, the front atrium with its secluded entry was the only area that didn’t face out onto the backyard. Inside, the house had been built with floor-to-ceiling picture windows and French doors from every room that wrapped around a back patio and offered an unobstructed view of the pool and spa. If Zoey had remained in the house, there was no way she could have avoided seeing Lacey’s body as the coroner pulled it from the Jacuzzi.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Zoey pointed to an oversized brown leather couch beneath a wrought iron chandelier. The couch faced out onto the patio and a spacious, well-groomed, park-like backyard. “I’ll be out in a minute. I need to check on something.”

  Wilson, who had been by my side the entire time, followed Zoey like a shadow down the long, entry hall into what I assumed must be the home’s west wing or private quarters. So much for following my orders.

  The living room—or the great room as it might be called in such a grand house—was an immense step-down affair: viewable from the entry and complete with a bar, fireplace, and black baby grand piano, creating three distinctly different conversation areas. Next to the great room was the dining room, an equally formal-looking room. The entire area was separated from the entry by a long gallery-like hallway complete with Spanish arches that ran the width of the room.

  While I waited on the couch, the three people I had seen Zoey huddled with outside beneath the big oak tree, entered the house. The tallest of the three, a young man whom I sensed was Zoey’s fiancé, spotted me sitting by myself, and stepped forward.

  “You must be Misty. I’m Chad.” He offered me his hand. “Zoey told me about you.”

  Twenty-something, tall, about six feet, slim and crushingly handsome with light blue eyes and blond hair, Chad looked like he could have stepped out from an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, forever tanned and healthy.

  With a nod to his friends, Chad introduced me to his drummer Zac, and Zac’s girlfriend, Kelsey. The two looked remarkably similar. Exact opposites of Chad. Both had mid-length dark brown hair tied back in a ponytail and were dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and dark, heavy military-type shoes.

  “I called Zac and Kels right after we found the body. Zoey was hysterical. We were lucky they were close by.”

  “Down the street actually,” Zac said.

  “Jerry’s Deli,” Kelsey added. “We had stopped for breakfast and just ordered pancakes when we got the call.”

  “And we came right over.” The two not only looked alike but finished each other’s sentences with ease. Zac grabbed Kelsey’s hand, and they took a seat at the end of the sofa.

  “I gave Zoey something to calm her down,” Chad said. “If she seems off, that’s why.”

  “What did you give her?” I asked.

  “Xanax. Her doctor prescribed it for her right after we moved in. Between finishing the remodel, the movie, and now this, I don’t know how much more she can take.”

  “How long have you been here?” I glanced around the room, taking inventory. Several large black and white Hurrells—pictures of Hollywood stars from an era gone by, including one of Zoey’s great-grandfather, William Chamberlain, hung on the wall. Other large prints had been stacked against the bookshelves waiting to be hung. Behind the piano, a moving box had yet to be unpacked, but for the most part, the room looked comfortable and as though the furnishings had been permanently arranged.

  “’Bout a month,” Chad said. “Zoey bought the place better than a year ago, but she wanted to do a lot of remodeling. She knocked out some walls. Re-did the bathrooms. Updated the kitchen. And then the pool. Took a lot more time than we expected.”

  “And money.” Zoey walked back into the room. She had changed clothes and was wearing a pair of black palazzo pants and a tight T-shirt. “The pool was Chad’s idea. I never wanted it.”

  Chad got up from the couch, went over to Zoey, put his arm around her and nestled his nose against her neck. “It’s not your fault, Zoe.”

  “I know it’s not my fault. But it still happened, didn’t it.” Zoey pulled away from Chad and turned to me. The tension between the two was palpable, and I wasn’t the only one aware of it. A quick look between Zac and Kelsey told me they also felt a chill in the air. �
�Misty, come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

  I followed Zoey down the long gallery-like hall toward the east wing of the house. Kitchen, den, and staircase that led to an upstairs area. Zoey stopped just short of the kitchen and pointed to a small door beneath the stairs.

  “One day I noticed the door wasn’t quite closed, and then, well...you need to see this.” Zoey opened the door and climbed inside.

  I knew before Zoey came out what she was going to show me. Over the years, I’ve worked with enough ghosts to know that some kept lairs, hiding places for those things ghosts felt empowered by.

  Zoey reappeared with a small, white wicker basket in her hands. “This is where I found some of my mother’s things. Whoever or whatever took them from my dressing table moved them here. Chad thinks I’m making this all up. That I’m stressed and imagining things. But I swear to you, just like I didn’t drop the ring Detective Romero found in the spa this morning, I didn’t put these things here either.” Zoey reached into the pocket of her pants, pulled out the ring, and held it up for me to see. “The ghost did.”

  I took the basket from Zoey’s hands. On top was a delicate hand towel, monogrammed with the initials A.M.M. Beneath it was a small gardening shovel with a pink handle, a doll-sized porcelain teacup with matching saucer, and more jewelry. Pop beads, bangle bracelets, and barrettes like a child might wear in her hair.

  “The jewelry and hair clips are all from my dressing table. They’re things my mother gave me before she died. Why they’re here, I don’t know.”

  I picked up the strand of pop beads from the basket and held them in my hand. Sometimes, if items have been worn by the bearer for a period of time, it’s possible to get a reading from them. Usually, it’s more with items made from precious metals, but it was worth a try. With these I got nothing. They remained cool in my hand, as though I’d just picked them up off the shelf at a toy store.

  But what I did get was Zoey’s concern.

  “You don’t believe Lacey’s death was an accident. You think it was something else.”

  “It wasn’t an accident. I’m sure of it. I think Lacey was drowned. Deliberately. And whoever did it, I think they thought it was me. I need your help more than ever now. I need to find out who killed Lacey and why. The cops think it was an accident, and Chad thinks I’m stressed from work and the house. But I don’t think so. I think there’s a ghost in this house, and it wants to kill me.”

  The front doorbell rang. From the hallway, I heard the sounds of voices. I looked at Zoey.

  “That’s Crystal, my personal assistant. She’s here to take me to the studio. Chad didn’t think I should go alone.”

  “You really think you should be working today? Wouldn’t the studio give you the day off?”

  Zoey put the basket back in the closet under the stairs and stood up. “Any other time maybe, but I need to finish this morning’s shoot. We’re behind schedule, and the shoot can’t be postponed. If it had been me, I suppose they would have to, but since it wasn’t, I need to go. I’m an actress. I’m paid to turn it on and off anytime the studio wants. In a way, I suppose I’m lucky. It’s a way of escaping. And tonight, because of what happened today, I can get the studio to put me up at a fancy hotel. I can tell them I can’t go home, and they’ll be more than happy to put me up at the Ritz if I ask.” Zoey smiled at me, her face lit up like the young ingénue her fans all knew her to be on the screen. “But tomorrow...tomorrow I’ll need you to come back here and help me. ’Cause I’m scared.”

  Chapter 7

  Wilson and I didn’t talk on the way home. I needed to digest everything that had happened, and by the time we arrived back at the house, Denise was on the doorstep. Sans the tarot cards, she was carrying the same large, oversized bag, and dressed in heels and a colorful sheath dress. Her Realtor Outfit. Soon as she saw the Jag, she waved her hands above her head and ran to greet me, exactly as she’d done before.

  Only this time, it wasn’t because she wanted a reading. She had obviously seen the news.

  “Oh my God, Misty! You were at Zoey’s house. Poor girl. How is she?”

  Wilson parked in the drive, and I pushed myself from the passenger seat and banged the car’s door shut. For all the Jaguar’s sporty features, comfort wasn’t one of them. “Good as can be expected,” I said.

  “But Lacey.” Denise put her hand to her throat. “She was so young, and vibrant...and she was Zoey’s best friend. It’s hard to imagine she’s dead. Zoey must be terribly upset.”

  Without answering, I ambled toward the house, doing the best I could to stay ahead of Denise with my arthritic knees. Denise paused halfway up the walk.

  I stopped, knowing what was about to come, and turned to see Wilson as he slipped from the driver’s seat and out the window like an Olympic gymnast.

  “Were you driving Wilson’s car?” Denise furrowed her brow and looked back at the Jag.

  “I thought it would be okay. The key was on the key rack in the kitchen, and you did ask me to keep the place up. I assumed that included the cars. Was I wrong?”

  “It’s just—”

  I switched the subject, the less said about Wilson and his car the better. “I’m sorry, Denise. I know you want to talk about Zoey, but, I can’t. She’s been a client for a while now, and you know I can’t talk about her. It’s not professional.”

  I went up the steps to the porch and put my key in the lock.

  “Even a little?” Denise asked.

  “Even at all,” I said.

  “Then at least tell me about the house. I haven’t been inside in years. What’s it look like?”

  “You’re asking me as a realtor then, not as a fan?” I turned the lock on the door.

  “If it’ll loosen your tongue...a realtor.” Denise smiled coyly. What did I have to fear?

  I pushed the door open and Denise followed me inside while she continued with her comments about the house.

  “For your information, realty wise, I think Zoey overpaid for the place. It stood empty for nearly ten years. The last owners were jet setters. Never home. Owned houses all over the world and then priced the property so high realtors refused to show it. I heard Zoey paid six million for the place. Six million. Can you imagine? That house wasn’t worth a dime over five. And then she spent a fortune remodeling. And insisted the place be painted pink. Like it was originally. Who does that today? Pink, of all colors.”

  Denise’s interest in the property matched my own. As a realtor, I understood her curiosity about what improvements Zoey might have made on a six thousand square foot mini-mansion that had everything from a wine cellar to an upstairs gym. But it was Denise’s understanding of the history of the property that made me think she might know something that would help me better understand what was going on inside the house.

  “Well if all you want to know,” I said, “is what she’s done with the place, I suppose I could share with you a little of what I saw.”

  Wilson glared at me from the front porch and swept past me to the study. A not so subtle reminder he didn’t want his sister in the house. Anticipating his intent to slam the door, I grabbed the handle and closed it quietly behind me, then nudged Denise in the direction of the living room.

  “There’s a book on the coffee table you should look at. It was your brother’s. Historic Hollywood Homes. I was looking through it yesterday after Zoey left. You might find it interesting.”

  Denise settled herself into one of the wingback chairs with the book on her lap.

  “You know,” she said, “the entire Fryman area was once owned by Tom Mix, the silent film star. The man made a fortune in real estate. The property Zoey’s house is on, Mix lost in a bet to another actor named Clayton Mann. He was the original owner and built the Pink Mansion for his wife and daughter back in the early forties.”

  “Were you ever inside?” I asked.


  “Once, years ago for an open house. The listing agent back then had worked up a one-sheet with the house’s history. The Manns didn’t live there long. They sold the house back in 1943, three years after they moved in. Rumor had it the couple had a four-year-old daughter who drowned in the backyard pool during a birthday party. If that happened today, a realtor would have to list it on the property records, but that was so long ago. I doubt there’s ever been any reference to it.”

  “A little girl?” My mind flashed on the cache of items hidden beneath the stairs Zoey had shown me. The pink trowel, the pop bead jewelry. Things a child might treasure and maybe hide.

  “Yes, and sometime either before or after the Manns moved out, the pool must have been filled in. It wasn’t there when I attended the open house. Then again, the property’s always been a bit of a mystery and changed hands half a dozen times before the last owners finally agreed to sell. Poor Zoey. She must blame herself for putting in a new pool and spa.”

  “She’s very upset,” I said. “To lose your best friend like that. It can’t be easy.”

  “I tell you, it’s the family curse. She’s just lucky it wasn’t her.”

  Everyone in Hollywood knew about the Chamberlain family curse. Going all the way back to Zoey’s great-grandfather, the Chamberlains had experienced as much fame and fortune as they had tragedy. None had survived past fifty, and all had died as the result of some freak accident.

  Denise’s wrist phone buzzed. “Ugh. I’ve got to go. I have a showing down the street, and since I was in the neighborhood, I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. Plus, I have a bit of good news.” Denise raised her hand and crossed her fingers.

  Denise’s good news could only mean one thing. “You got a meeting with Hugh Jackman?”

  “Almost,” she said. “I met his publicist. Hugh’s doing The Ellen Show tomorrow, and she promised to get me in.” Denise shook her hands beside her head. “It’s happening Misty. It’s really happening.”