The House on Hallowed Ground

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  “That’s supposed to explain how you know how many babies AJ’s wife’s got in her belly?”

  “We both know she’s pregnant. She’s big as a balloon and about to pop. The only difference is, in the cop’s case, he points a radar gun at a moving target, and sonar scans the target and bounces back with a number. Telling you how fast the target’s moving. In my case, I focused on the target’s energy, the girl’s belly, and come back with the number of souls on board. It all amounts to the same thing. We both just use different tools to learn something we can’t see.”

  We rode along in silence. Me aware Romero’s mind wasn’t only on AJ and the Q&A he had just had on his doorstep, but the conversation the detective and I had the day before about his wife.

  “Sometimes you just have to sit with the idea for a while. Get comfortable with knowing we all have other energies around us.”

  “Like sonar waves?”

  “If that’s how you like to think of it, yes, that’s one form of energy. There are lots of invisible energy forms around us all the time. Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

  “Maybe,” Romero said, “but if AJ’s wife has three babies and we don’t find him guilty of murder or delivering the flowers to Zoey, I’ll be the first to buy the guy a cigar, and you too.”

  “You won’t have to wait long to know, Detective. My guess is AJ’s going to be busy sooner than he expects. Probably before the end of the month.”

  “What about AJ? Do you think he sent the flowers or dropped them off?”

  “I don’t know. You interrupted me before I had a chance to go inside the house or get a feel for what was going on with him. The man’s stressed. That’s for sure. He looked like he hadn’t slept. But I got the feeling it had more to do with money issues. As for the flowers? Something about them bothers me. It’s a little too obvious, don’t you think? The card. The handwriting. The block lettering. If AJ really wanted to reach out to Zoey, particularly knowing he’d go back to jail if he was caught, I don’t think he’d be foolish and use the same approach as he’d done before. And why now? His wife’s pregnant, and unless we’re missing something, he hasn’t made any attempt to see Zoey until today. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “You think someone else sent the flowers and made it look like AJ sent them?”

  “I think someone else knew AJ got a get-out-of-jail-early card and used it to their advantage.”

  “Any ideas?”

  I had lots of ideas, some I was willing to share with Romero, but my cell phone rang before he could press me for answers.

  I pulled the phone from my bag and glanced at the caller ID. Wilson leaned over my shoulder and looked at the screen.

  “Don’t answer,” Wilson said.

  I scowled at him. “Hello?”

  “I’m in jail!” Denise wailed.

  “What for?” My jaw dropped.

  “I’ll explain later, but I need you to come and get me.”

  “Leave her there,” Wilson said.

  “I can’t do that.” I gave Wilson a dirty look.

  “What do you mean you can’t?” Denise was hysterical. “Please, you can’t leave me here.”

  “Not you,” I said to Denise.

  “What’s wrong?” Romero looked at me. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Denise,” I said. “She’s been arrested.”

  “For what?” Romero asked. “What did she do?”

  Wilson moaned. “Oh my God, look at him. The man’s smitten.”

  “Wils—” I cut myself short and shot Wilson a terse look.

  “What?” Romero looked at me. “Misty, what’s going on?”

  “Wil—I mean, will you or could you drive me to the jail? I need to pick her up. She needs my help.”

  Chapter 23

  On the way over to the LA County Jail, I tried to explain Denise to Detective Romero as best I could, and that I suspected she had been arrested for impersonating a reporter.

  “A reporter?” Romero tsked. “I don’t think we have a criminal code for that on the books. FBI agent. Cop. Doctor, yes. But reporter? No. It’s not like we arrest people for fake news or bad grammar. Too bad, huh?” Romero laughed at his own joke.

  Wilson buried his head in his hands. “Not only does the man have no taste, he thinks he’s funny.”

  “I appreciate the humor, Detective, but if I’m right, Denise may have been impersonating a reporter so that she can get close to Hugh Jackman.”

  “The actor?” Romero’s brow wrinkled.

  “I’m afraid so. You see Denise is also an actress of sorts, and—”

  “I thought she was your landlady.”

  “She is, but she fancies herself an actress. Song and dance mostly. Small productions, musical theater. That type of thing. And for reasons that defy logic, she has this kind of teenage-girl crush on Hugh Jackman. She’s convinced they’re soul mates, and I’m afraid things may have gotten out of hand.”

  Romero bit back a smile. I could see he didn’t think Denise was much of a threat. “You mean she’s been stalking him?”

  “Not in her mind, but yes,” I said.

  “You realize if Denise’s been arrested for stalking, it’s likely Jackman, or his manager anyway, may have filed a restraining order against her. Bailing her out not only won’t be easy but it won’t be cheap either.”

  I wasn’t familiar with the process. Fortunately, most of my clients were good, law-abiding citizens. While I had worked with the police before, this was the first time I’d worked with someone whom the police had arrested and was likely to spend the night in jail.

  “What is it I need to do?” I asked.

  “To start with, you’ll have to post bail. For stalking you’re looking at about a half-million dollars.”

  “A half a million dollars?” I choked. “You’re not serious?”

  “Like I told Zoey, stalking’s a serious charge. But the good news is, there’s plenty of bail bondsman around, and one of them can help you out with the money. If Denise owns a home and is willing to put a lien on it to guarantee she’ll show up for trial, the bondsman will issue a bond. Beyond that, I’m afraid, you’ll still have to come up with about fifty-thousand dollars.”

  “Cash?” My personal checking account never had more than a couple thousand dollars in it. And my savings wasn’t much better. How could I possibly come up with a sum like that?

  “But I may have another idea, provided you’re convinced Denise isn’t a real threat to Mr. Jackman or herself.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “Denise could be released into my custody. If I were to tell the sheriff she’s a principal witness in a criminal investigation, the sheriff could be convinced to release her to me.”

  Wilson put his hands to his head again and began rapidly shaking his head from side to side, the words coming out of his mouth like rapid gunfire. “No, no, no, no. No, no. Please, Misty, tell him not to do that.”

  “I can’t—” I was about to tell Wilson I couldn’t leave Denise in jail when Romero reached over and put his hand on top of mine.

  “It’s not a lie. Denise was in your house the night of the séance. In a sense, that makes her a material witness. Someone I still need to talk to. And, just so you know, she’s someone I wouldn’t mind spending more time with.”

  Romero’s idea worked like WD-40 on a stubborn lock. He flashed his detective’s ID at the Sheriff’s senior administrator. Words were said. Papers crossed the desk. Signatures were scrawled on dotted lines. And suddenly, Denise was a free woman. Marched out from behind the jail’s heavy metal security doors and back out onto the streets. Holding her purse in front of her face to hide her identity, just in case of paparazzi—there were none—Denise jogged from the jailhouse to Romero’s car. When Wilson realized his sister
was about to sit next to him, he slipped over the front seat like a seal diving for cover and joined me in the back of the car.

  Romero hadn’t even put the key in the ignition when Denise turned to me. “I don’t believe you didn’t see this coming. If you’d warned me, I never would have been arrested or humiliated myself. How could this happen? How could you let me do this?”

  Denise hung her head and tears ran down her face as she poked into her handbag for a tissue. I reached for one in my bag, but the detective was faster. From within his coat pocket, Romero took out a handkerchief and offered it to her.

  Wilson moaned. “There is no justice. Look at him. He’s falling for her.”

  I spoke up. “Perhaps, Denise, the universe is trying to tell you something.”

  “Well if the universe is trying to tell me something why didn’t you tell me first?” Denise sniffed and wiped her eyes.

  “Ladies,” Detective Romero glanced back at me in the rearview mirror. He had this. “Perhaps it might be better if we let Denise explain what happened.”

  “What happened is I’m ruined.” Denise blew her nose. “Oh, I know it sounds terrible. The police think I broke into Hugh’s hotel suite, but that’s not entirely true.”

  “What do you mean not entirely?” I couldn’t believe what Denise had just said. “How could you do such a thing?”

  “Misty.” Romero’s eyes caught mine in the mirror. A warning shot.

  Denise batted her wet eyelashes at Romero and continued. “Well, first, you must remember I was there for an interview. Hugh and I were supposed to meet in the lobby, at least that’s what his assistant had told me. But when Hugh didn’t show up, and I realized time was getting short and he’d probably not have time for the interview, I decided to go to his room and wait for him there.”

  “His room?” Romero’s jaw tightened. “Just how did you manage to get the key to his room?”

  It was well known most of the celebrities in town for the awards shows stayed at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. Security around the hotel was as good as it gets, so how Denise managed to get a key to Hugh Jackman’s room was beyond even my imagining.

  “I took it,” Denise said.

  “You took it?” This went far beyond Denise impersonating a reporter or printing up fake business cards. “How?” I asked.

  Denise looked over her shoulder at me and bit her lip. “It’s like I told you, Misty, the other day. I went to the hotel for a fan meeting, and when it was clear I wasn’t going to get any one-on-one time with Hugh, I was very disappointed. Then today, when I went back for what I thought was going to be a scheduled interview, I could see I was never going to get any one-on-one time with him. I knew I had to get creative, which isn’t hard when you’ve been acting as long as I have.”

  “Ugh!” Wilson clawed the air like a wild cat. “Here she goes.”

  “You see, years ago I played the role of Fagan for a local production of Oliver at the Pasadena Playhouse. Maybe you saw it?” Romero shook his head. “Fagan was a pickpocket, wonderful role, and I had to learn a few tricks of the trade so to speak.”

  “You learned to pick pockets for a role?” Romero asked.

  “You know the song ‘You’ve Got to Pick a Pocket or Two’? I could sing it for you if you like.”

  “Pleeeeeeeeeeease.” Wilson pleaded. “Don’t encourage her.”

  “Another time,” Romero said, “but I’m getting the idea. You played this role, and because of that, you were able to pick Jackman’s pocket?”

  “Yes, but in my defense, all I took was the key. I wasn’t after his wallet or anything like that. I assure you, it was all very innocent. Hugh was at the bar, right where I was scheduled to meet him. But he was surrounded by fans. I realized very quickly this interview was never going to happen. Not like I wanted anyway. So I sidled up to the bar, ordered myself a ginger beer, ’cause that’s what he was drinking, slipped my hand in his pocket, and took his room key. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “And then you went to his room and waited for him there?”

  I could hear the disbelief in Romero’s voice. It was laced with a myriad of emotions: surprise, humor, conflict, frustration. The surprise was no greater than my own. How quickly Denise has lassoed the detective’s interest. Albeit, not without the blessings of the detective’s former wife. Sometimes spirits give us a little shove.

  “I knew he’d have to come back to his room, and I didn’t think of it as breaking in. I wasn’t there to harm him. I know it sounds awful, but I knew if I didn’t do it now, he’d be gone. He leaves in a couple of days, and who knows if we’ll ever meet again?”

  “All you really wanted to do was meet Hugh Jackman, face to face?”

  “Is that so bad? Honestly, Detective, I’d do anything. I’m convinced if we could just talk he’d know I’m a talented actress and not just some crazed fan. That we have a lot in common, and maybe, who knows, we’d click. You know what it means to really click with someone? To look across a crowded room and know—”

  “That somewhere you’ll see her again and again?” When Romero quoted the line from Rogers and Hammerstein’s Some Enchanted Evening, Denise flushed.

  “Why, Detective, I didn’t realize you were a theater buff.”

  “Musicals mostly,” Romero said. “Did a little theater myself back in high school. Anything Rogers and Hammerstein I could recite line for line.”

  Wilson collapsed against me. “There’s no justice.”

  We turned onto Fryman Canyon, just a block from Zoey’s house where Wilson and I had left the Jag. Romero asked Denise if she’d like to join him for coffee. The two of them had a lot to talk about.

  Chapter 24

  Thursday morning I found another breadcrumb on my doorstep. This time in the form of Heather Jefferies. She had stopped by to visit, and in her hands she had Wilson’s book, Historic Hollywood Homes.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I woke up this morning and had the oddest feeling I should see you. I realized I still had the book Denise lent me the night we first met, I thought it was a good excuse.” Heather held the book up and smiled apologetically. “Plus, I wanted to tell you. My husband and I have decided to buy the house down the street. We’re going to be neighbors.”

  I welcomed Heather inside. “I had a feeling you’d buy the house. Just so you know, now that we’re going to be neighbors, you don’t need an excuse to stop by. In fact, I’ve been thinking about you too.” I took the book from Heather and placed it on the entry table in front of the study.

  “You think that means I might be psychic?” Heather stepped into the living room and looked about anxiously. “I’ve had the strongest feeling, ever since the night of the séance, that I should call. I feel like there’s so much more for us to talk about.”

  “So do I. In fact, I’ve had a few questions myself, and I suspect you may have the answers.” I waited for Heather to take a seat on the couch.

  Bossypants joined us from beneath the stairs and curled up on my lap as soon as I sat down.

  “You have a cat,” Heather said.

  “I do. At least when she makes herself available. Lately though, she’s done a good job of hiding.”

  “May I?” Heather gently picked up the cat, put her in her lap and began to stroke her. Bossy purred contentedly.

  “I think she’s found a friend,” I said.

  “I’m an animal lover.” Heather scratched Bossy behind her ears, and Bossy continued to purr. “My mother never allowed animals in the house growing up. I wished she had, but she was very particular.”

  “That’s interesting,” I said. “In fact, it’s one the things I wanted to chat with you about. When you were a child and lived in the Pink Mansion, did you have a piano?”

  “Yes. Why? Is it important?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Did you play?”

 
“Not then. I was too young. But my mother did. Every afternoon. I remember Alicia and I used to sit on the floor in front of the piano and play with our dolls while my mother practiced. She was quite an accomplished pianist.”

  “By any chance do you recall what she played?”

  “A lot of different things, but my favorite was ‘Clair de Lune.’”

  I stopped Heather before she could go on. “‘Clair de Lune’? You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I’m positive. It’s kind of slow and haunting. Years later, when I was in college, I took piano lessons and tried to learn to play it myself. I’m afraid I didn’t get my mother’s gift for music.”

  “Your mother never taught you to play as a child? Even simple melodies on the keyboard? Perhaps something like ‘Chopsticks’ that you and Alicia may have played together?”

  Heather shook her head. “I never touched the piano as a little girl, and Alicia Mae didn’t either. It was my mother’s instrument. But Alicia loved to listen to my mother play. She said it reminded her of her mother, because she used to play the piano too.”

  “Do you remember anything else Alicia said about her mother?”

  Heather continued to stroke the cat. “Only that her mother would come for her one day, and they would go home together.”

  “Did she say when?”

  “I don’t remember. I was very young, and when I was about six or seven, we moved. I grew up, put my dolls away, and forgot all about Alicia Mae until my husband and I started looking for homes in the area. Why?”

  “When Zoey first came to see me, it was because she thought the Pink Mansion was haunted. She said several times she was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of the piano playing. She described the music she heard as ‘Clair de Lune,’ a tune her mother used to play. Chad tried to tell her she imagined the whole thing, but I’m wondering if there might be another ghost in the house who’s been playing the piano.”