by Mollie Hunt
“Come in,” I said without getting up.
Freddie entered carrying a tray of coffee, sandwiches, and fresh fruit cups. “Compliments of the chef,” he said, then his gaze fell on Seleia and he stopped in his tracks.
“Freddie, this is Seleia.” I didn’t elaborate on our familial relationship. “She’ll be helping out until my replacement comes.”
He grinned and gave a little bow. “Pleased to meet you, Celia. That’s a pretty name. Like the old Paul Simon song.”
Seleia shot a glance at me, then said, “Hello, Freddie. Actually it’s spelled S-e-l-e-i-a. It’s French.”
“That makes it even prettier,” he said with conviction.
For a moment there was silence as the two young people sized each other up.
“You said something about food?” I inserted.
“Oh, yeah.” Freddie came the rest of the way inside, pushing the door shut with his foot. He placed the to-go tray on the sideboard. “Figured you might be hungry, waiting all this time.”
I looked at my phone. Eleven-thirty-seven. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful. What’s the hold-up? They wanted me to be here at the crack of dawn. Is it more of that show biz hurry up and wait?”
“We have an unexpected guest.” Freddie lowered his voice and leaned in close. “The writer’s here. Miz Moore, herself. Rumor has it she’s concerned about all the bad incidents and decided to fly up from L.A. to make sure there’s no more funny business.”
“Angela T. Moore’s here?” Seleia squealed in excitement. “Do you think we’ll get to meet her? I wonder if she’d autograph her books for me.”
“Oh, I’m very sure you’ll meet her. After all, you’ve got Jack. Or Jacks, I guess I should say. But I warn you, she’s not here on a social visit and isn’t in a very good mood.”
“Why not?” asked Seleia, blunt as a spoon.
Freddie looked at me. “How much have you told her about the... you know?”
“The hex?” Seleia jumped in. “I know that a gargoyle fell off this building a few feet away from me this morning, and that it’s not the first unusual thing to happen around here.”
“I still don’t believe there’s a hex,” I said, taking a wax paper package marked turkey in black felt pen from the tray. “I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Something odd happens and someone calls it supernatural. Then suddenly people are seeing signs and portents everywhere they look. And voila, you have an all-out otherworldly event on your hands when it’s only a matter of an ill-timed accident and a bit of overactive human superstition.”
Freddie shrugged. “Whatever’s going on, it’s enough to draw Miz Moore’s attention. She’ll get to the bottom of it or die trying.”
Seleia took a fruit cup and pulled off the plastic cover. Clark jumped down from her lap, stared me in the eye, and gave a long but silent meow to remind me it was his lunchtime as well. I rose and shepherded him into the back room. “I’m going to feed the cats. You kids can get along without me for a few minutes?”
“Sure, Lynley,” said Seleia, her brown eyes twinkling.
I held the door for Cary who enthusiastically joined the lunch parade. I imagined Freddie and Seleia would continue talking about the freakish hex, but instead I heard Seleia ask, “Angela T. Moore—what’s she like anyway?”
* * *
I missed Freddie’s description of the famous mystery writer because I was spooning high-quality cat food into delicate Royal Doulton berry bowls, but I didn’t have to wait long to find out in person. As Murphy’s Law would have it, just about the time we were all settled into eating our fare of choice, the call came to go to the set. Since Clark was the faster eater, I took him up, leaving Seleia with Cary in the trailer.
Because the shoot was indoors and the trip from trailer to set was a short, slightly jerky ride in the birdcage elevator, I held Clark in my arms, forsaking the heavy carrier or stroller. He lay draped across my shoulder like a furry scarf, and I wondered if he had some Ragdoll in him, a breed of cat gets its name from their sweet docility when held.
Instead of exiting the wrought-iron cage on the first floor, we traveled one more up. The ancient apartments had been built around the outer facade of the building with a surrounding mezzanine that served as access. The wide stairway spiraled up the center, the elevator at its core. Freddie opened the double gate and we stepped out. From a carved railing, dark with age and polished with use, I took a moment to peer down at the main floor, then up at the two floors above. The impression was almost Escher-like, and I turned away quickly, feeling a trace of acrophobic vertigo.
My equilibrium steadied as I faced the plaster walls with their paneled doors and moldings, also made from the ebony-hued hardwood. The walls themselves had seen a parade of colors through the ages, the most recent—and I use the term liberally—being a dark Victorian red. Paint peeled, and in numerous cracks and holes I saw blue, green, and dark brown from incarnations past.
Freddie escorted me around the mezzanine to apartment six. The door stood ajar, and as I crossed the threshold, I felt like I was stepping into another world. The huge, high-ceilinged room with its tile-fronted fireplace at one end, pocket doors at the other, and two long windows centered in the south wall between could have come right out of a 1940s film noir.
The fireplace end was made up to be McCaffrey’s office. Behind a massive desk covered with old-school files and papers, Ray Anderson lounged in a mission oak swivel chair. He had his big feet resting on the desk, in character with McCaffrey, the seedy PI. When he saw Clark Gable and me, he gave us the subtlest of winks. Gerrold and his assistant Bear were dug in at the opposite end of the room by the pocket doors, along with cameras, sound, and the other dial-dotted, switch-studded, cable-bristling equipment it took to film the scene. Gerrold was head to head with a tall, stylishly-dressed woman clutching a silk-covered tablet. She turned to me as I entered, and one word came to mind as I caught her clear onyx eyes: Formidable.
For a moment, she stood staring, as if assessing my every feature. I smiled nervously and gave Clark Gable a little pet. That seemed to break the ice and Ms. Moore smiled back. Crossing to me like a long-lost friend, she put out her hand and said, “Jack!” The hand bypassed mine completely and went straight to the orange tabby fur as she smoothed the cat down his long back. I surmised she was at least reasonably cat-savvy as the hand swept the long bushy tail, giving the gentlest of squeezes at the very tip.
Then finally she looked at me. “Rhonda Kane?”
“No, actually I’m Lynley Cannon. I’m standing in for Rhonda since she broke her leg.”
“Oh, of course. They told me but I had forgotten. Well, Ms. Cannon, we need to talk.” She took me by the arm and guided me back through the door onto the mezzanine.
“Angela?” Gerrold called out petulantly. “Angela, where are you going? We need Jack on set. We’re ready...”
Without turning, Ms. Moore waved a dismissive hand. “Keep your pants on, Gerrold. We’ll only be a minute.”
“But Angela...”
“Right this way,” Ms. Moore said sweetly as she closed the apartment door on Gerrold’s budding tantrum.
Angela T. Moore looked to be in her late fifties, though with her silver hair in a masterful coif and her face made up thoroughly and expertly, it was hard to judge. She was a bit on the stocky side, but dressed to make the most of her curves in a contoured indigo suit. A contrasting chartreuse and pink scarf was pinned at her neck with a tasteful vintage brooch.
She walked a few paces along the hall to a built-in bench where, sweeping her skirt to one side, she sat down primly. “Please join me, Ms. Cannon. May I call you Lynley?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m Angela Moore. You may call me Angela, but not Angie. I dislike being called Angie. I find it cheapening, yet so many people think it’s cute.” She grimaced as she placed the tablet on the seat beside her. “Now let me see my beautiful Jack.”
I sat down and shifted C
lark onto Angela’s lap. She enfolded him in loving arms and cooed into his fur. The big cat enjoyed her lavish affection with a rumbling purr.
“His real name is Clark Gable,” I said.
“Clark Gable! The Hollywood legend. I like that. There are two, are there not?”
“Yes, the other one’s Cary Grant.”
“Cary Grant—wonderful! I’m a great fan of classic film though I do prefer books to movies. Do you read, Lynley?”
“Yes, avidly. I’ve loved your series. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“Oh honor, pshaw! We writers don’t think of ourselves that way—oh, maybe if you’re Steven King or Jo Rowling. But not me. Never me.”
I smiled, no less intimidated—or fooled—by her I’m just one of the little people line.
“What did you want to talk about... Angela?”
She looked at me as if I’d interrupted her train of thought. “Talk about?”
“Yes, you said you wanted to talk to me?”
She was still vigorously petting Clark and I could see he’d about had enough. Gently but firmly I took him back and put him over my shoulder where he settled at once.
Angela sighed, picked up the tablet and opened the cover. “Do you know why I’m here, Lynley? I’m here to rescue my work. I’ve been informed of a rumor that my show is cursed. That there is a hex upon it, whatever that is supposed to mean. I’m here to root out the saboteur who is spreading such lies and deal them their just deserts.” She gave me a look that could have frozen fire. “If you know anything about this travesty, admit it now and I promise to go easy on you. If I find out later you’ve been lying to me, I will sue you for everything you’ve got, and believe me, I will win.”
It took me a minute to grasp her intent. “Hey, hold on. I don’t know anything about the hexter. I’ve only been here a few days, remember? I don’t know where the rumors started, or even why they started. I only know that it didn’t have anything to do with me.”
“Your predecessor then? The Kane woman?”
“No, of course not. She’s a cat handler, not a prankster. She wants this production to succeed just as much as you do. Perhaps even more so, because if it fails, you still have your incredibly successful books and your loads of money to fall back on. For Rhonda, failure means no job, no income, and an uncertain future for her very talented cats.”
Famous author or no, I was more than a little miffed at her accusations. Who was she to come in here and throw her weight around?
She was my boss, that’s who.
I toned it down a little, reminding myself that artists take their work very seriously and don’t like people messing with it.
“I’m sorry, Angela. I know you must be terribly concerned, but I assure you, neither Rhonda nor I have anything to do with the hex talk. In fact, some people hold that it was the hexter’s prank that put Rhonda in the hospital. She’s very concerned as well.”
“I appreciate your candidness, but you must understand that I need to quell these rumors as quickly as possible. The show must heal.”
“If there’s anything I can do to help, just ask. I have a little experience sleuthing out the bad guys.” I wasn’t sure where that came from, but I was extremely fed up with the whole hex hoax. Yeah, I would have loved to help put an end to it if I had the first clue how.
Angela held my gaze, then she said, “Alright, Lynley. I believe you.”
She made a note on her tablet, gave Clark one more scratch behind the ear, then stood and began off down the hall in the opposite direction from apartment six.
“And I might take you up on your offer,” she said over her shoulder. “Expect my call.”
Chapter 18
Cats rule, literally! A cat named Stubbs was the unofficial mayor of Talkeetna, Alaska; Tama, a female calico, was honorary stationmaster at the Kishi Station in Japan; Catmando served as joint leader of Britain’s official Monster Raving Loony Party. Earl Grey is a cat, but that didn’t stop him from running for Canada’s Prime Minister. His platform raised awareness of animal cruelty, their motto, “Because neglect isn’t working.”
Seleia and I drove home through rush hour traffic, but for once I didn’t mind the stop-and-go-slow that befalls Portland between the hours of three and seven. I had a lot to think about. I’d talked to Rhonda on the phone and she said Vera, my replacement, would be ready to begin in two days’ time. That meant tomorrow would be my last. In a way I was sorry about quitting, both because I loved working with Cary Grant and Clark Gable and because I don’t like to leave a mystery unsolved. My cat-like curiosity wanted to get to the bottom of the bizarre and baffling hex. I wanted answers, details, closure, and by leaving the show, I would most certainly never get it.
On the other hand, I’d had all day to mull over the gargoyle incident. If the smashdown had been closer or later or different, it could easily have hit me, and that would be a fast end to my curiosity. In spite of telling Rhonda I’d help her investigate, as well as the impulsive offer I’d made to Angela T. Moore volunteering aid, my instinct screamed to cut and run. I’d come into the middle of something that was beyond my ken; best leave it for someone more savvy about the industry, someone like Angela, who had the knowledge, understanding, and clout to see it through.
“What are you thinking about, Lynley?” Seleia asked. “The hexter?”
I sighed. She knew me so well. “As a matter of fact, yes. It’s probably good that tomorrow is my last day. And I think it would be best if you skipped it and stayed home. Wait!” I countered to Seleia’s predictable protest. “It’s just plain too dangerous for you there. I hate to be blunt, but someone could have been killed today. Your mother would never forgive me if I got her only daughter murdered,” I joked to lighten the mood.
Seleia laughed. “Oh Grandmother, I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. And you can’t fire me—we have a verbal contract which is perfectly legal and binding among people of honor.”
She’d got me there—I’d told her, verbally, she was hired for the duration. “I’m sure there’s a clause about breaking the contract if said employee is in danger of being dispatched by falling gargoyles or other surreptitious methods of demise.”
“I wasn’t aware of such a clause,” she articulated. “If it wasn’t discussed at the time of the original contract, then I’m afraid it won’t stand up in court. Oh, Lynley,” she burst out, back to her normal sweet self. “I’ll be careful, and it’s only one more day. Please? I really want to come. I like the people...”
Aha! I thought to myself. This isn’t just about a job. It’s about... “Anyone in particular?”
“Well,” she blushed. I could hear the smile in her voice. “Sort of. Freddie’s really nice, don’t you think? I got a chance to talk to him a lot while you had Clark at the office set.”
“Oh, and what did you two talk about?”
“Mostly he talked about the show—he’s been working in theater and then television with his great aunt since he was a kid.”
In my mind, he was still a kid, but to Seleia who had limited experience with show business or boys, he must seem a cat of another color and very grown up indeed.
“He knows about a lot of stuff,” she was saying. “He’s taking college courses through Portland State while he’s working. He’s really smart. And he’s very polite, too, very respectful, if you’re concerned about that.”
I wasn’t until she mentioned it. “What else did you do while I was handling the cat?”
“After he helped me bring Cary up in the stroller, he took me on a tour of the sets. There are four in the building—the foyer; McCaffrey’s office where you were today; some sort of living quarters; and a big apartment up on the top floor that used to be the penthouse suite. It’s empty now but it must have been very grand. There’s a huge central room and even a swimming pool on a big open air deck. The pool’s pretty gross now, with algae and garbage, but it’s completely lined with mosaic tile. They’re going to c
lean it up for the scene with the rich murderer lady.”
“Freddie told you the plot?” That was more than I’d gotten from the closed-mouth crew.
“Just little bits of it, but I’ve read the book. I signed the confidentiality agreement and you did too so it’s okay for me to talk about it with you.”
“That is an impressive old building,” I remarked as we crept across the Burnside Bridge. “I don’t spend much time in Northwest, but I know most of the landmarks. This is one I’ve never heard of.”
“Did you know it has secret passages, built by the Chinese during the Tong Wars in the late nineteenth century?”
“Really? Did you see them? Did Freddie take you?” Thoughts of the two young people alone roaming the darkened passages of a derelict building made me a bit nervous.
“No one knows where they are. Freddie’s looked but he hasn’t found anything. Maybe it’s just a myth but I’d like to think it’s real.”
“The Tong Wars were real—I remember my grandmother telling tales about them—but I somehow doubt they ever reached this far west. From what I know, the tunnels were built under Chinatown.”
“The Shanghai Tunnels?”
“That’s what they call them now.”
“They were used to shanghai drunken sailors and sell them to pirate ships as slave labor.”
“Yes, the contemporary story of abduction or subterfuge makes a good bit of money giving tours, selling books, and offering lectures, but the truth is those tunnels were used for all sorts of things, mainly the transport of goods from the waterfront to the restaurants, hotels, and bars without having to travel the busy streets.”
“What sort of goods? Like opium?”
“More like rice and tea. All perfectly legal.”
“But maybe some opium too?”
“Maybe a little,” I conceded for the sake of a good tale.
We were traveling up Belmont now, a relatively speedy street, even during rush hour. At twentieth, I turned right. Another left and a right and we were at Seleia’s condo, a boxy gray building nestled into a neighborhood of older single-family homes. To its credit, the monolith had been cleverly landscaped with trees and shrubbery that buffered its stark contrast to the vintage houses close by.