Midnight Mysteries: Nine Cozy Tales by Nine Bestselling Authors

by Ritter Ames

  Larry came around to open my door. “What were you doing at this...Manor? Visiting friends?”

  “No. I didn’t tell you? Sabrina insisted I go with her. A friend of hers was doing a show, well, sort of. The performer was dressed like a ghost. Not like a Casper-type ghost. Think Halloween and a grown woman, and you’ll get the idea. And she told stories to the old people there. It’s a place for—it’s an assisted living facility.”

  “Well, I’m glad you had a good time.”

  “I didn’t say I did.”

  “You did not have a good time?”

  “It wasn’t that fun. There was like—a fight, food all over the floor, and I never got to hear the end of the story.”

  “Sounds more like a high school cafeteria than a retirement home.” He grinned. “Would have liked to be a fly on the wall and seen your expression.”

  “It turned out okay. Florian showed up, and she gave me a ride to my car and—”

  “And you say she was checking out the place for her dad?” He grabbed his carry-on, and we headed up the few steps from the garage to the main floor.

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Huh, it can’t be right, just two...” He opened the door to the laundry room and water came rushing out, running down the stairs to the garage. I stood there, a petrified mummy, water covering my open toes.

  “Damn. What happened?” He shook his head, looked around. “The washing machine hose. Damn. You better get your car out of the garage.” He handed me my keys. “Let me go shut off the main valve. Damn it, I bet Peter did some laundry. He was not—ah—supposed to. Never mind. Go, sweetie, move your car, just to be on the safe side.” He disappeared inside the laundry room, and I went back to the garage, too stunned to offer my help.

  Ten thirty at night and I was driving myself back home. Not exactly the way I had expected my evening to unfold. Poor Larry, some welcome home. Luckily the laundry room was next to the garage, which was lower than the rest of the home, and the largest mass of water ended up down the concrete steps and eventually out the driveway. But not all of it.

  He insisted I head home. For my own good, of course.

  The insurance agent was one of Larry’s old family friends, so I wasn’t surprised to see the water damage pro’s truck arriving before I left. No reason for me to stick around. I felt more like a burden than a helper, and in about twenty minutes Larry had everyone mobilized. He kissed my cheek and asked me to keep my cell close in case I had trouble on the drive home. My man of steel, concerned about my safety among the chaos. The traffic wasn’t that bad, and soon I was traveling on the San Diego Freeway, heading south. When I approached Irvine, the lit freeway sign announcing State Route 133 to Laguna Beach brought back what Larry had said about Florian and her dad minutes before the flood gates opened. “It can’t be right, just two...”

  Two what? Was he implying it couldn’t be right about my bumping into Florian? Add that to Sabrina’s hint she might have been drugged…exactly what was this Silver Leaf Manor? A newer version of The Rocky Horror Picture Show?

  Too late to call Sabrina. And as for Florian, I didn’t have her phone number with me. Plus, why was any of this my problem? I turned up the radio volume, just to take my mind off last night’s events, and as luck would have it, I hit on a Halloween commercial advertising spooky costumes with all the howling and the de rigueur screaming associated with the occasion. Sigh. Turned it off.

  Note to myself—Find out Miss Dolores’s last name. Assuming Dolores was her real name. Well, Silver Leaf Manor should know. I mean, certainly they wouldn’t hire people with spotty pasts. Not in such a high-rent place where I was willing to bet over fifty percent of the residents had relatives who were attorneys.

  In all the mess there was one sure winner, my cat. I was on my way home instead of spending the night at Larry’s.

  I exited the freeway ramp before the Pacific Coast Highway link and drove home through Camino Capistrano. A bit of a detour, but a quiet and hardly traveled road that time of night. I needed to gather my thoughts. About—Sabrina and Florian? Two adult, intelligent, self-sufficient women who never once asked for my help or support or even friendship. So, why oh why, was I obsessing over their assumed problems? Better clear my mind and stop the nonsense.

  Like Larry often reminded me, “Problems don’t find you, more like they can’t escape your relentless pursuit.”

  How does one pursue problems? A problem isn’t something to be fabricated, it either is or isn’t. Sort of like the white van parked all screwy at the center of the closed gates to my place. What? It was indeed a dusty, white van, and I assumed it was idling because smoke came from the exhaust pipe. Waiting for someone to click open the gate so it could tailgate in?

  Damn. What to do? My only way home was through the gate, and I had no idea how to stop tailgaters. The van had only two windows, both dark. What difference did it make, really? I clicked the control, and the gate opened, slowly. The van went into reverse, and by the time the rear of my Mustang cleared the gate, it was on my tail. I drove at a snail’s pace, watching if the vehicle would turn right or follow me to the left. It went left. My heart thumped in my throat. A dusty white van. Like the costume of La Llorona, aka Miss Dolores. She said she had a van, had she mentioned the make? The color?

  She hadn’t.

  And my mind began to work in the weird way that always seemed to get me into trouble. What Larry had said—or started to say—about Florian’s father made me wonder if she might have been spinning a tale, might have not been at Silver Leaf checking out its suitability for dear old dad. It made me wonder if maybe she wasn’t working—undercover. And if she was, could it have been just a coincidence she was there at the same time as Miss Dolores? The same Miss Dolores who might have drugged my friend Sabrina for whatever reason? The same Miss Dolores who drove a van and might be following me that very moment? Had I somehow managed once more to put myself right in the middle of a mystery? I cringed.

  Larry wouldn’t believe it. He’d assume I was sticking my nose into places it didn’t belong. He’d scold me. But this time, I had a legitimate defense. This time I hadn’t been sticking my nose in. This time I’d really, truly just been in the right place at the wrong time.

  I drove past the cluster of mailboxes, approaching the entrance to the common garage waiting for us, more cavernous and darker than ever. It was either the garage or the open guest parking, and it was after eleven o’clock at night without a soul in sight. My whole body shook, and I had problems controlling my car. I decided to drive to my assigned spot, so if something went wrong it would be easier to identify my corpse. My what?

  Slowly, ever so slowly, I approached the parking space—the van so close behind it could have rammed me with the slightest tap of the gas. The moment I turned into the assigned spot the driver did indeed hit the gas and passed me to disappear into the wide mouth of the monster underground garage.

  Dear God. No more horror movies for me. I grabbed a tissue from my purse and wiped my hands and my forehead. I was so grateful there were no witnesses to my latest pursuit—chase—whatever. Five minutes later I locked my front door behind me and went to pour myself a glass of prosecco. Flash barely stirred, looked at me with half-open eyes, and went back to sleep. Did she even know I’d been gone? Little ingrate.

  I slept through the night and in the morning light my night terrors seemed plain silly, juvenile assumptions. Started the coffee maker then retrieved the newspaper from the front door as one of the neighbors walked by with a plastic tray stacked with cupcakes and cookies shaped like pumpkins.

  “School Halloween party,” she said nodding toward the goodies tray.

  I nodded back. “Looks like you’re all set.”

  She chuckled.

  I followed her glance. Flash was peeking out the door. Ah, the black cat, of course. Every year, around Halloween some little kid would ask to borrow Flash for trick or treat. Sort of cute.

  Larry called before
my first bite of toast. “Good morning sweetie.” He sounded spent.

  “You poor thing, did you get any sleep?” I would not mention the van.

  “I have the whole day to sleep. It’s under control. Some of the carpeting in the main room may need to be replaced, but, all in all, I was lucky. You’re not upset at me for sending you home, right?”

  “Of course not. You want me to drive over? I’m free since I worked yesterday.” Wonder how Sabrina is doing?

  “Actually I was going to drive down later and take you to dinner. It has been a while since we did that.”

  “Like a dinner date? Oh, what fun. Sure. What time?”

  “Lella, now I’m wondering if I’ve been neglecting you. You didn’t even pause, and none of your usual questions.”

  “What’s there to pause about? Dinner at my favorite restaurant, with my favorite man. It’s perfect.”

  His low, intimate laugh gave me pleasant goose bumps. Welcome back, darling, welcome back.

  “You seem to have already decided on the place. You want to tell me? Or you can surprise me.” He waited. “I like surprises.” That laugh again.

  As usual Flash picked the wrong time to come biting my ankle. My fault, I hadn’t given her enough attention. Bad mommy.

  “Oh, I assumed you wanted to have dinner at Cannons. We haven’t been there in a very long time. Ouch. Sorry. Flash is in a bad mood. So, Cannons or whatever you like works for me. Stop it, Flash.”

  “Go take care of the cat. I’ll pick you up at six, so we can have a drink and watch the sun go down. And if you have other ideas, call me.” He was still chuckling when he hung up. Sometimes I wondered how people without pets judged the rest of us.

  Frankly, I didn’t care. I picked up Flash and walked to the kitchen. Oh, no. I’d meant to ask him about Florian’s dad. Must remember tonight.

  After the third phone call to Sabrina, I gave up. We had known each other a lot longer than I’d known Larry. Why wasn’t she returning my phone calls? I’d left two messages, but this last time I simply hung up. Could she be in the hospital? She had relatives living with her; certainly someone would understand my concern.

  Nothing was turning out as anticipated. First, my son leaving town without having a chance to say hello. Next, the water problem with Larry. And finally, Sabrina’s mysterious—what? Couldn’t call it illness… Couldn’t bring myself to call it a drug overdose. Okay, that was farfetched for sure. Especially since I knew nothing about drugs. The only one pleased with the day was Flash. Belly full, she stretched by the patio door where some morning sun marked the spot. Ah, to be a cat. Enough with the poor-me nonsense.

  I headed upstairs to put fresh linens on the bed, anticipating Larry staying over after dinner. Finally, something pleasant to look forward to. Kyle called around noon to announce he would be sticking around New York a little longer since he foresaw a callback from the audition. I had my doubts about the reason; the whole two minutes we were on the phone I could hear a woman’s voice in the background. Oh, Kyle.

  And as I worked on my Halloween candy list, Sabrina’s daughter called. “Hello, Mrs. York.” Always so polite, she was my cat sitter when I had to go somewhere. “Mom is home, but feeling very tired. She asked me to put you up-to-date.”

  “Thank you. I’ve been so concerned. Were they able to determine if it was something she ate?” Don’t mention drugs, don’t mention alcohol, be kind.

  “More blood tests are needed. Food poisoning is the general diagnosis, but she waited too long to seek help. She’s lucky it didn’t get worse. Mom should be able to function on her own by morning if you want to come see her…”

  “I might do that. I’ve been very concerned. Thank you for letting me know.”

  After hanging up I congratulated myself for not mentioning Miss Dolores, but the need to know was eating me inside.

  Google. Yes, that’s what Kyle always did when he wanted to learn things. Ah. Time to try finding out if indeed Google was the endless source of information my son claimed. I went up to my room with a newly found energy, and within five minutes I had Google.com open on my screen. So exciting. At first anyway. Two hours later? Not so much.

  I had a headache; my eyes burned like I hadn’t slept in days, and the only things I’d learned, aside from the fact I needed better reading glasses, was that La Llorona was the most popular folktale south of the border and Dolores was just as popular a name as the tale.

  At some point I’d thought I really had discovered something. I’d stumbled into a Dolores Quintana, actress, one of her theater credits listed La Llorona, and another one had San Juan Capistrano as a location. But when I’d frantically clicked on her name and the new page came up with her picture and age…well…I knew I’d learned nothing. I closed down the computer and made myself some lunch.

  The only other source of information would be Lawrence Devin, retired homicide detective. Therefore, my next project should be making myself as attractive and desirable as possible to get him to share his knowledge with me. Not an easy task.

  By six o’clock I sat waiting, wearing my new pink peau de soie shirt to compliment my not so new chocolate brown suit. I kept the jewelry simple. Cannons could be elegant or casual, depending on the day of the week. This being Friday, there might be some couples dressed to impress.

  Larry’s Mercedes shone under the street lamp of the guest parking, black onyx on wheels. “I’m guessing you didn’t get any water in your car?” I asked.

  “No, but I had it detailed just in case. Am glad I did, you look like a fairy-tale princess.”

  I snuggled up against him and stole a kiss before getting in the car and buckling up. I didn’t ask where we were headed, but once we crossed the San Diego Freeway underpass and headed toward the beach it became obvious—Cannons was indeed the chosen restaurant. The leisurely short drive took us through Dana Point’s main drag. A few storefronts had orange-and-black decorations, otherwise there was little to remind us of the upcoming trick-or-treat tradition. I never had warmed up to Halloween; my excuse being it was an acquired taste. Having grown up in Italy, the only celebration I connected with that time of the year was November the second when Italy celebrated All Souls Day. Instead of candy, we overloaded on flowers—chrysanthemums being the major culprit. A little because of the season, and mostly because we associate mums with cemeteries. I’d grown up calling chrysanthemums dead people flowers.

  After relinquishing the keys to his precious car into the fidgety hands of the teenage valet, Larry interlaced his fingers with mine, and we walked up to the hillside restaurant. A lot had changed from our first date four years ago. The restaurant had expanded, terraces with views to die for built to the backside, facing the harbor. Miniature orange-and-black lit lanterns formed a canopy over the main patio. So apropos.

  “Did you buy candies for the trick-or-treaters?” Larry stroked my hand, waiting for our drinks to arrive.

  “I made a list and checked it twice,” I joked. “Must make sure I don’t accidentally buy my favorite mini chocolates…”

  “Coward.” He kissed my open palm.

  Might as well start testing the waters, as my fellows Americans liked to say. “Larry, how come you’re so sure Florian’s dad didn’t have a stroke?”

  “Oh, that. Relax. He didn’t.”

  “How do you know for sure?” Our salads arrived. Bad timing. I munched for a short time but had problems containing myself. “Did you ask Florian?”

  His eyes met mine. He took a bite of his baby spinach. Our eyes locked, I waited.

  “Sweetie.” He blinked. “Let’s not talk about Florian. I can’t discuss her dad or the conversation you two had a few evenings ago in Laguna Beach.” He did talk to Florian.

  “Why not? You’re not a cop anymore. What’s so secret about a friend’s dad having a stroke?” Judging by his reaction I had chosen the wrong approach. Ouch. “But you’re right, this is our time. No more talking about Florian.” I smiled.

  The smil
e I received back was worth my white lie.

  With such a lovely evening we decided to have our coffee outside, watching the few boats still coming in to dock for the night, their lights flickering against the black sea like fireflies in a summer sky. There was a full moon, and a few small clouds wandered lazily over its glowing face, creating the illusion of tears as if the moon was weeping.

  “Larry, how would one go about finding out the real name of a person who only uses a—show name?”

  “A show name? Oh, you mean a stage name. Actors not using their birth names? That’s easy, if you enter the stage name on Google, it will come up with links to the actor’s personal history, and they usually include the birth name. I can show you when we get home.”

  I kept quiet, sipped my decaf. Remembering fondly the years past when I could drink espresso and still sleep all night. “I tried that, didn’t work.”

  “You—so this is not a generic question. Who is the actor in question?”

  “Not sure if the word actor is appropriate; anyway, Miss Dolores.”

  “Miss Dolores.” No interest transpired from his tone. “I’ve never heard of her. Is she movies? Theater? Sorry, sweetie, I’m obviously not up to date with the latest.”

  “Nah, more like a one-woman show. Too bad I don’t know much about her. I should have offered her a drink and then saved the cup and—”

  He laughed. “Have you been watching some new Law and Order spin-off while I was gone?”

  This was not going well. I decided to drop the Miss Dolores ID quest until I could get more details from Sabrina, and go back to the Florian subject. All while feeling like dirt for being deceitful to my lover who had been nothing but wonderful.

  We were driving back to my place when I worked up the nerve to mention the name again. “I guess there is no need for me to go visit Mr. Florian since you said there was no stroke.”

  “Who is Mr. Florian? Oh, Florian is her former husband’s name. Her dad is Mitchell, Bob Mitchell and—” He slammed on the brakes, pulled to the side of the road. “I’ve just been played, haven’t I?” His tone low, neutral, devoid of anger.