Star Walk (A Lacey Fitzpatrick and Sam Firecloud Mystery Book 3)

by Melissa Bowersock

  She reached around him and gave the door knob a twist, pushing the door open. Then she stepped back behind him again.

  He hesitated at the threshold. Lacey caught herself straining, searching her own emotions to feel anything unusual, anything… outside of herself. But she couldn’t be sure. She might be imagining it. Now she fully understood why Sam insisted on going into his first walk without being told anything by the property owner. It was too easy to try to fit the impressions into the story.

  He stepped into the apartment, his soft knee-high moccasins soundless on the parquet floor. He glanced around, then drifted toward the bedroom area.

  “Estelle,” he said softly. “Estelle DeVoe. We know who you are. We know what happened, what you went through. We know how Geoffrey treated you. You weren’t wrong. He cheated on you, then lied about it. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t wrong.”

  He turned slowly, his eyes swiveling around the room, his soft words floating out in all directions around him. Lacey imagined a surprised expectation in the silence that followed, like a breath being held. Like hope stirring in a despairing heart.

  Sam pulled a lighter from his pocket and carefully lit the smudge stick, turning it slowly so the dry material on the tip took the flame. Pale blue smoke began to spiral up, a thin translucent trail. It rose delicately, fanning out, drifting through the room. The scent came fresh and clean to Lacey.

  “We see you, Estelle. We know you. We mourn you.” Sam’s words fluttered the tendrils of smoke. “We release you.”

  Lacey felt a chill up her spine. Still training the camera on Sam, she glanced behind her. Nothing.

  Sam turned to Lacey. “Back out to the balcony,” he said quietly. She stepped aside and let him go first. As she walked behind him, the pungent smell of cedar led her on.

  Sam walked to the railing and stopped. He turned a full circle, the smudge stick held high, the smoke trailing around him.

  “We know what happened, Estelle,” he intoned. “It wasn’t your fault. We know he drove you to it.”

  Lacey watched Sam on the little screen, watched the graceful way he wafted smoke all around. Purifying. Clearing. Releasing.

  “Celeste.”

  The whispered, disembodied word startled Lacey; she almost dropped the camera. She saw Sam’s shocked look.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked in a low voice.

  Lacey nodded. She gripped the camera. She almost felt light-headed, and shook her head to dispel the feeling.

  “Celeste.” The voice was chilling. Soft, plaintive, demanding all at once. Lacey felt goosebumps pop up all along her arms.

  Something hit her from behind. The insistent press of fingertips shoved her forward. In quick panic, she set her feet and glanced behind her.

  Nothing.

  “Sam—”

  Even as she said it, she saw him jerk forward, his head snapping back as his body was thrust ahead. The smudge stick leaped from his hand and fell to the entry floor down below.

  Lacey felt a scream trying to crawl up her throat. She was ready to toss the camera down and grab Sam, but he gripped the railing and steadied himself. Chewing on her lip, she kept filming.

  “What is it, Estelle?” he asked. “Tell us what you need.”

  “Celeste.” The word was drawn out in a soulful prayer, then faded into silence.

  “Estelle,” Lacey said, the sound of her own voice startling her all over again. “Do you want to see Celeste? Talk to her? I told her about you. She wants you to find peace. She… she loves you.”

  The silence was thin and brittle, as if all the air had been sucked out of the house. Lacey kept her eyes trained on the video screen, but felt as if gossamer hands trailed along her bare arms. She forced herself to stand in and not flinch away from the ghostly touch.

  “Celeste.” The voice was barely a whisper, but it was so close to Lacey’s ear, she imagined she could feel lips brush her skin.

  “Celeste.”

  Lacey renewed her grip on the camera. “Estelle, do you want to see Celeste? We can bring her to you. You can see your sister, tell her what you need to say. We can do that for you.”

  “Celeste.” The word reverberated softly through the air, like an echo that repeated over and over, fainter and fainter.

  And finally disappeared.

  Lacey stood still, straining for any sound, any motion, any soft rush of air. Without moving, she took stock of her senses. No sound. No touch. No motion.

  Sam stared at her. “She’s gone,” he said.

  Exhaling in relief, she switched off the camera and let her aching arm fall to her side. Just then Deidre came out of the living room and rushed across the entry.

  “Smoke!” she called. “It’s burning!”

  “Oh, shit, the smudge stick!” Sam leaped past Lacey and took the stairs two at a time. By the time Lacey realized what was going on and hurried after him, he had already reached the entry and had grabbed the smudge stick from the rug where it had landed. He stamped on the smoldering rug, grinding the hot spot out with forceful steps. Wisps of smoke fluttered and disbursed.

  “It’s out,” Sam said. “But I’d feel better if we took the rug outside to the driveway and doused it with water, just to be safe.”

  Her eyes wide, Deidre nodded. “If you’ll bring it out, I’ll get the hose on it.”

  Sam and Lacey toted the large rug out between them. It was heavy, thick with a tight weave. This was no Wal-Mart rug, Lacey thought. They spread it in the middle of the concrete driveway and Deidre turned the hose on it. A spit of steam puffed up, but disappeared quickly under the steady stream of water.

  Back inside, they all settled gratefully in the living room. Lacey felt exhausted.

  “I’ll pay you for that rug,” Sam said. “When we’re done, we’ll just deduct it—”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Deidre said. “It’s old, it has no meaning for me and it was just there to cover the slippery spot.” She held up her glass of water and saluted him with it. “You get rid of the slippery spot and I won’t need a new one.”

  Sam smiled with some relief. “Okay. Fair enough. But I am sorry for the scare. I didn’t expect…” His voice trailed off and he looked over at Lacey. “Did you feel that, too?”

  Sipping her water, Lacey nodded. “I did. Fingertips on my back. Pushing me.”

  Deidre sat forward. “Wait. What happened?”

  Sam gave her a very dry, condensed version, without any of the panic Lacey had felt.

  “Estelle spoke to us. She said, ‘Celeste,’ her sister’s name, several times. Then she pushed each of us from the back. Pushing us… to do something?” he arched an eyebrow at Lacey.

  She took over. “When she first said the name, I told her I had spoken with her sister. I asked her if she would like to see her, talk to her. I think she was pushing us to do that very thing. Bring Celeste here.”

  “Do you think you can do that?” Deidre asked.

  Lacey thought back to her conversation with Celeste. “Yes, I think so. She still carries a lot of anger and sorrow over Estelle’s death. I believe she would agree to come here.”

  “If that’s all right with you,” Sam amended.

  Deidre snorted. “Are you kidding? I’ll do anything to clear this up. Yes, absolutely, bring her.”

  “She’s ninety years old,” Lacey said, “and lives in a retirement community. I found a picture of her from last year, and she was in a wheelchair. It might be difficult to get her up the stairs.”

  “Not a problem,” Deidre said. “There’s a small elevator in the back of the house.”

  Lacey brightened. “Oh, good. All right, then. I’ll call her and see if we can set it up for next Saturday. Does that work for everyone?”

  It did. Lacey felt like they were making real progress.

  “Um, what about the other apartment?” Deidre asked. “Were you able to…?”

  “Not yet,” Sam said, “but we’ll tackle that next.” Lacey felt a distinct r
elief at the reprieve. She wasn’t sure she’d have the energy or the focus to do more today. “We’re still researching that one, but we’ll figure it out.”

  “Good.” Deidre exhaled gratefully. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your work.” She took in both of them with a look. “As I told you before, without you doing this, I’d be ruined.”

  “We can’t have that,” Sam said, smiling. “But for now, this is as much as we can do. We’ll continue next Saturday.”

  Deidre walked them out. In the middle of the driveway, the rug lay, a sodden mess.

  “Oh,” she said, reminded. “Can we check the spot? See if it’s still slippery?”

  They retraced their steps to the entry. She put a tentative toe out onto one Saltillo tile that had been under the rug. Her foot threatened to slide out from under her.

  “Still slippery,” she said.

  “Do you have another rug?” Lacey asked.

  “Yes, I think I can find one.” She frowned down at the spot. “Maybe next week?”

  “Maybe,” Lacey said. “We’ll certainly hope so.”

  “All right,” Deidre said. “Fingers crossed.”

  Fingers and toes, Lacey thought as they drove away. They were making progress; she was sure of that.

  But was it enough?

  ~~~

  Lacey waited until late morning on Sunday to call Celeste. She had no idea what the nonagenarian’s day might be like; if she slept late or took afternoon naps. Lacey tried to pick an in-between time.

  The phone rang three, four, five times.

  She can’t exactly hurdle the living room furniture to get to it, Lacey thought.

  “H-hello?” That thin, reedy voice.

  “Celeste? It’s Lacey Fitzpatrick. I wanted to let you know how it went on Laurel Canyon yesterday. Is this a good time?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s perfect,” Celeste said, her voice more chipper. “I was just fixing myself a cup of tea. Can you hold on for a minute?”

  “Absolutely,” Lacey said. “Take your time.”

  She heard the clunk of the phone set down, small stirrings as Celeste finished in the kitchen, then the abrupt disappearance of background chatter, probably the TV being clicked off. The phone was picked up again.

  “All right,” Celeste said. “Please do tell.”

  Lacey smiled. That was something her grandmother would have said.

  “I’m not sure if I ought to classify this as good news or bad news, but we’re certain now it’s Estelle, and she’s still there. Sam said sometimes it’s enough when ghosts realize they’re being heard, being acknowledged, but apparently it’s going to take a bit more for your sister.”

  “Sam?” Celeste queried.

  “Sam Firecloud, my partner. He’s the medium. He’s the one who tunes into the ghosts to find out their stories.”

  “I see. And what did my sister tell him?”

  “First off,” Lacey said, “he spoke out loud to her, calling her by name. He told her that we know who she is and we know what happened to her. He told her it wasn’t her fault, that we know Geoffrey drove her to it. I guess you could call that an absolution in a way. At least we hope so.”

  “And then?”

  Lacey swallowed. “Then,” she continued, “she spoke your name.”

  “M-my name?” Celeste’s voice was soft with wonder. Or fear.

  “Yes. She said it several times, actually. I was videoing the entire encounter, and I could show it to you.”

  “Oh, my. That would be… amazing.”

  “That’s not all,” Lacey said. “After she spoke your name, I told her I had talked to you, that you wanted peace for her. That you loved her. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Oh, of course,” Celeste said quickly. “That’s all true.”

  “I thought so. But after I told her that, she… pushed me. From behind. Then she pushed Sam.”

  “Pushed? I don’t think I understand.”

  “I felt fingertips on my back, then she pushed me forward. We believe it was her way to tell us that she wants to see you.”

  There was a startled silence on the other end of the line. Breathing.

  “If you would like to do that, we can take you to her.”

  “I, uh, I don’t know,” Celeste said with a small nervous laugh. “This is just so… surprising.”

  “I’m sure it is. To tell you the truth, we’ve never run into this before, feeling that a ghost wanted to see a living relative. But both Sam and I are pretty sure that’s what she’s telling us. And if you’d feel up to it, we’ll make it happen.”

  Celeste sighed. “I’m not, uh, very nimble anymore.”

  “I saw your picture on the foundation’s website. You were in a wheelchair. We can accommodate that. And Deidre, the property owner, said there’s a small elevator in the back, so we can get you up to the third floor.”

  “I remember that elevator,” she said. “The housekeeper used it when she was there cleaning. She’s the one who found Estelle that Monday morning.”

  Lacey didn’t respond. She realized then that this was going to bring up all kinds of painful memories for Celeste. For a moment, she was sorry to cause the woman pain, when she’d inured herself to it for the last sixty-odd years. All the scar tissue that had grown over the wound was pulling apart.

  “If you’d rather not…” Lacey started, willing to give Celeste an escape.

  “No. I want to go. I-I need to go. If she’s been torturing herself all these years, I must do what I can to help her. Yes, I will go. When can we do that?”

  Lacey explained the timetable, that Saturday would be the soonest. She and Sam would pick her up. Luckily Celeste’s wheelchair folded up, so it could be stowed in the trunk of Lacey’s car. She was sure she and Sam together could get the woman wherever they needed to go.

  “All right, then,” Celeste said. Another nervous laugh. “I’m not sure what to think of this. It’s all… very strange.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Lacey said. “But we’re all committed to this, to helping Estelle. Obviously we might have different reasons, but we all want the same thing. We want her to find peace so she can move on.”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it, exactly. Well, then, I will see you Saturday morning.” She chuckled. “I’m quite excited. Nervous, but excited.”

  Lacey grinned. “I understand. We’re excited, too. This will be a first for us.”

  “And for me.”

  ~~~

  TEN

  Lacey’s full intention on Monday morning was to plunge back into the Lance Tynan mystery, to see if she could uncover anything in his perfect life that caused his soul to linger. She was surprised and delighted to open her email inbox and see one from the L.A. County coroner’s office with a large file attached. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and a bagel with cream cheese, then settled in at her laptop to read.

  Not quite like reading the paper, she realized. The descriptions of body parts and procedures cast a definite pall over her breakfast—no pun intended. Still, she read on.

  She was no medical examiner but she had enough knowledge and experience to follow along.

  Mild atherosclerosis and coronary occlusion. No evidence of thrombosis. Mild hypertrophy. Mild myocarditis.

  That struck her odd that all the evidence seemed mild rather than severe or even moderate. Could it have been a perfect storm of conditions, she wondered. She scanned down to the toxicology results.

  Blood alcohol content: .12. Higher than the legal limit but not by much. So he had a couple highballs.

  Traces of morphine.

  Traces of codeine.

  Lacey stared at that. Morphine… for what? Pain? Codeine, the same? She glanced back at the autopsy report, scanning for any indicators of recent surgeries or any kind of chronic pain issue. She found none. She sat up in her chair and stared up at the ceiling, trying to recall any mention of medical problems. She’d check her notes later, but she’d be darned if she could remember anything
, not so much as a toothache or an ingrown toenail.

  Morphine; codeine. The coupling of the two triggered something in the back of her brain.

  She shoved her coffee cup and bagel aside and opened up her browser to do a search. Morphine, codeine, toxicology, autopsy. As soon as the results came up, she scanned the titles of the reference articles there on the screen. No, no, no, she thought as she read down the list. No… wait.

  Heroin.

  Heroin had a half life of two to six minutes and usually metabolized too quickly to be detected in a decedent. It hydrologized into morphine, and traces of codeine were sometimes found to be present as a result of impurities. If the morphine to codeine ratio was higher than one… blah blah blah.

  She went back to the autopsy results and scanned through again. She had to start at the beginning, looking for initial exterior observations.

  Subject is a white male, forty-two years of age, height six feet, average build. Fully healed scar on left distal ankle, evidence of recent hypodermic needle in left arm…

  Hypodermic needle. Heroin.

  Sleep was bliss. Sleep was escape.

  She scrolled down through the rest of the autopsy to the initial police report.

  Subject found naked in bed, unresponsive by wife at 1:04 A.M. Resuscitation efforts unsuccessful. Pronounced dead on scene.

  No mention of a hypodermic needle.

  Lacey drummed her fingers on the table and stared out the window. Was the man an addict? Had he actually overdosed and stopped his own heart?

  No. She shook her head. How could a successful star keep a secret like that hidden? If the studio knew…

  She sat up so abruptly, she almost knocked her laptop off the table. The studio would know. Lance Tynan was a star, a cash cow. The studio would know and they would do everything in their power to keep it under wraps. He didn’t have to keep it a secret; the studio would do that for him. Or try to.

  At least that’s the impression she had of Hollywood’s golden age. Stars groomed by the studio, molded into the personas the studio dictated. New names, new identities, bad habits covered up. Bouts of alcoholism or drug abuse denied or dismissed. Lacey had a vague recollection of one, Fatty Arbuckle, taking his bad boy excesses too far, to the point that it became news and was beyond redemption by studio heads or compliant reporters. She couldn’t remember exactly, but knew she’d heard something about it. Something her friend Richard Crosley had talked about.