He released a sigh. “As far as I’ve been able to tell, she doesn’t have one. She lived alone. Everyone in the industry spoke well of her, but no one seemed to know much about her. We’ll have to figure out something soon, though, because the coroner isn’t going to hang on to her body indefinitely.”
Audrey couldn’t help wincing at that comment. It was only the truth, and yet she hated the thought that no one had come to claim Susan, that no one even seemed to notice she was gone. As terrible as it had been when her own parents were murdered, at least they’d had Audrey and her aunt waiting for their bodies to be sent home from Hawaii. And what a horrible time that had been, with Deb having to pay for the whole thing out of her pocket because there wasn’t anyone else to help. GoFundMes hadn’t even existed back then.
“But,” Michael went on, his tone turning brisk, “I figured I’d pay Susan’s funeral costs if necessary. That seems the least I can do.”
That was just like Michael, except Audrey wasn’t sure he should bear that burden alone. “Shouldn’t Colin pitch in?”
“He’s leveraged to the hilt, between his house and the car he’s driving and that fancy camera he bought to film the series.” He shook his head, as if troubled by his producer’s extravagance. “He likes to put on a big show, but he doesn’t have any extra money to throw around.”
“At least the cable network is paying half your salary,” she ventured, and he nodded.
“That will help, I have to admit.”
She was relieved as well. While it would have been nice to get the whole hundred thousand she’d been promised, fifty grand would still go a long way toward covering her expenses, even if she hadn’t yet tackled the problem of getting her house cleaned up after the demons had trashed it. Sooner rather than later, she’d need to start the whole process, but she was dreading the necessary first step of getting estimates for all the repairs. Without Colin’s production insurance to help her out, she was probably going to have to spend a large chunk of the fifty thousand she’d earned for filming half the season.
Maybe it was far too early in their relationship to be asking about money, but the question slipped out anyway. “And you — are you leveraged, too?”
Michael turned his head toward her, gave her a quick smile before he looked back at the crowded freeway before them. “No. I bought my house for cash, and I have a chunk of passive income from my books and videos and YouTube channel. Most of what I was going to earn from Project Demon Hunters would have gone straight into the bank.”
His reply made her feel a lot better. At the same time, she couldn’t help but be a little shocked that he earned enough to have paid cash for his house. How much had that been out of pocket? Three quarters of a million? More? She supposed a lot depended on when he’d bought it, but from the way he talked, she thought he hadn’t been living there for more than two or three years at the most.
Another brief touch on her hand, and he said, “We’re going to be fine, Audrey. I promise.”
She smiled, warmed by the way he had said “we.” Already he seemed to be thinking of them as a couple, of the two of them facing the future together. It was hard to admit the truth to herself, but she knew the way she’d dragged her feet on getting estimates for the work on the house was only partly because of the cost. No, it was also because she liked living with him, liked waking up in his bed, making coffee in his kitchen, even cooking breakfast there because she’d told him it was silly to keep going out when she could make some mean scrambled eggs.
“I know,” she said. “And I know I’ll get past this eventually. It’s just…rough.”
He gave her a sympathetic nod but was quiet, probably because they’d come to the place where the 210 Freeway ran into the 134, and the traffic was crazy. She took her cue and was silent while he maneuvered past the clot of cars and got over to the right so they could exit the freeway.
Funny how getting off at Lake Avenue now felt like coming home, even though she’d only been staying at Michael’s house for ten days. Or was it longer than that? The days had begun to blend together, what with everything that had gone on over the past few weeks. At any rate, she was starting to get to know the grocery stores in the area, the restaurants. But still, she had unfinished business back in Glendora, although at least her friend Rosemary swung by Audrey’s house there every few days, checking to make sure it was all right and that the demons hadn’t burned it down or anything.
They’d be doing me a favor if they did, Audrey thought ruefully as Michael turned down his street and pulled into the carport behind his house. At least that way I’d get the insurance money for it.
She knew she should have been ashamed of herself for harboring such a thought. It was the only home she’d ever known, the place her parents had worked so hard to fix up and keep in good repair. Was it the house’s fault that the demons surging out of the Whitcomb mansion had decided to use it as a weapon against her?
The thought of the mansion made her remember that their business with the demon who’d taken on Jeffrey Whitcomb’s form wasn’t exactly concluded, either. They’d had plenty to distract them this past week, but sooner or later, they’d need to circle back to that particular problem as well.
Still, it felt good to go inside the house and know that they wouldn’t have to leave again today, that they could go into Michael’s comfortable TV room and put their feet up and zone out for the rest of the afternoon. And maybe get takeout, although the weather was warm and they’d bought steaks to barbecue the day before.
By unspoken agreement, they headed into the kitchen and got some water. A glass of wine might have gone down better, but it was probably smart to do some hydrating first.
As they were about to sit down at the kitchen table, Michael’s phone rang. He grimaced. “I should probably take this. It could be Colin, needing his hand held.”
“It’s fine,” Audrey said, although her feelings on the topic of Colin Turner were mixed at best. She still couldn’t quite forgive him for how cavalier he’d been about Susan’s death.
Michael pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket, glanced down at the screen, and then gave a small shake of his head, as if signaling to her that he didn’t recognize the number. However, that didn’t prevent him from swiping his finger across the screen. He lifted the phone to his ear. “Michael Covenant. Yes, I — I know her.” A long pause. Then he said, “Unfortunately, yes. We didn’t know who to contact.”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but appeared to be listening intently to whoever was on the other end of the line. Then he mimicked writing something, using the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and Audrey understood. He needed her to get him a piece of paper to write something down on.
The closest thing that came to hand was one of the take-out menus he kept in a drawer there in the kitchen. She gave it to him, and he drew out a pen from his inside jacket pocket and began scribbling.
“Yes, I got it,” he said at last. “We can be there in around forty-five minutes, maybe less, depending on traffic. Okay. We’ll see you then.”
He ended the call, and Audrey gave him an expectant look.
“What was that about?”
“A woman named Jill Armentrout. She’s Susan’s landlady.”
That explanation didn’t seem to clear up much of anything. “And…?”
“The first of March was three days ago. Ms. Armentrout became concerned when Susan didn’t pay the rent, since she’s never been late with it before.”
Right. Audrey supposed she should have thought of that, should have stopped to realize that the first of March had come and gone, but she’d never had to worry about rent in her life — her parents’ life insurance had paid off the house, and so her only real living expenses had been food, utilities, and property tax, which she only had to pay once a year. “Okay, that makes sense, but why did her landlady call you and not Colin, since he’s the one who hired Susan?”
His shoulders lifted. “The lan
dlady let herself into Susan’s apartment today. Apparently, she was worried that maybe Susan had fallen and hurt herself, or worse. Anyway, Ms. Armentrout found my business card attached to the fridge with a magnet. Since she couldn’t find contact information for anyone else in the apartment, she figured she should call me.”
That made some sense, although it seemed strange that Susan hadn’t left behind even an address book. They might be old-fashioned, but at least they endured when phones and hard drives might not. Audrey had missed part of his conversation with Ms. Armentrout, since she could only hear Michael’s side, but it seemed as though he’d already hinted at the worst, even if he hadn’t come right out and said Susan was dead.
“So the landlady wants us to come over?” Audrey asked. “Why?”
Michael shook his head. “She said she didn’t want to go into any details, but she thought it would be better for me to — and I quote — ‘see it in person.’ Whatever ‘it’ is.”
That remark sounded vaguely ominous. The last thing Audrey wanted to do right then was go haring off somewhere in the greater Los Angeles area — especially this close to rush hour, when getting around would be a real nightmare — but she realized that they needed to go see what Susan’s landlady was talking about.
“Where’s Susan’s apartment?” she asked, knowing how unenthusiastic she sounded.
“In Highland Park,” he replied. “Not so bad.”
No, it wasn’t. They’d only have to fight a little traffic in Pasadena, and then they could drop south on the 110 Freeway to Highland Park. At this time of day, everyone would be heading away from downtown, not going toward it, so the situation would have been a lot worse if Susan had lived in Hollywood or out somewhere on the Westside.
And then Audrey wanted to shake her head at herself, because after all the wallowing she’d been doing this week, one would think she’d be anxious to go to Susan’s place, to see if they could find any clue as to who her family and friends had been. Certainly she deserved that closure, didn’t she?
“All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 2
Susan’s place was actually one-half of a duplex, in a neighborhood that might have been considered “rough” ten years ago but which now was part of the gentrification that had spread into many of L.A.’s previously overlooked areas. Like Audrey’s own house, this place appeared as if it had been built sometime in the first decade or so of the twentieth century, and was freshly painted in pale green with darker green trim and a small but immaculate lawn out front.
The two of them got out of Michael’s Land Cruiser, which he’d parked at the curb in front of the duplex. A gray-haired woman came down the two porch steps to meet them. Audrey could see the woman’s gaze travel to the beat-up SUV and then back, but she seemed to relax slightly as she took in the dark suit Michael was wearing, Audrey’s skirt and blouse and heels. They’d both dressed up for the meeting at the cable exec’s office, and neither of them had had the time to change once they were done.
“Ms. Armentrout?” Michael asked, hand extended.
“Yes, I’m Jill Armentrout. But please call me Jill,” the woman replied, taking his hand and shaking it briefly, then doing the same with Audrey. Although she had to be in her early sixties, Jill was very trim, chicly casual in her dark green top, jeans, and flats. Turquoise flashed blue at her ears and wrists, and her white-streaked gray hair seemed a deliberate choice, styled into a long bob. “I’m so glad you could come. I’m — I’m not really sure what to do with what I found in there.”
“And what was that?” Michael still wore a pleasant expression, but Audrey noticed how his brows pulled together in the beginnings of a frown.
Jill glanced away from him, toward the sidewalk, but no one was out and about on this late afternoon in early spring. The worry in her blue eyes was almost painfully obvious. “Come inside. I think it’s better if you see for yourself.”
After delivering that cryptic remark, she turned and went back up the steps and into the duplex, leaving Audrey and Michael no choice but to follow. Once they were inside, Jill shut the door behind them.
As far as Audrey could tell, this place looked just like Susan — almost painfully neat, two matching love seats covered in beige linen facing each other across a glass coffee table. Black and white prints of Ansel Adams photographs hung on the walls, and a smallish flat-screen television sat on top of a low entertainment center in pale wood.
“Susan Loomis was always a wonderful tenant,” Jill said. “Maybe she thought she needed to prove herself to me.”
“‘Prove herself’?” Audrey echoed. “What do you mean?”
“When she filled out the application for this place, she didn’t have any personal references she could give me. Said she was leaving an abusive relationship back east and had severed all connections with the people she knew there.”
A sad story, and one Audrey had heard before. It was difficult to start over, and even more so if you didn’t have any way of proving who you were. She nodded, and Jill continued.
“But she had several recent pay stubs from work she’d done here in Los Angeles, and I told her that was good enough.” Jill shook her head. “She seemed so worried that I’d turn her down. She said she loved the house and the neighborhood, and that she’d take very good care of things for me. And she did — she lived here for four years and was a model tenant. Paid her rent early, didn’t make unreasonable repair requests.” A pause, and she added, expression darkening, “That’s why I’m having such a hard time connecting the Susan Loomis I knew to what I found in her spare bedroom.”
“Will you show us?” Michael asked. The frown was back, but he sounded calm, unruffled.
“This way.”
The duplex was small — just the front room, which had a dining area off to one side, a tiny kitchen with an apartment-sized stove and diminutive refrigerator, and a short hallway. Three doors opened off that hallway; one was the bathroom, while another was obviously what had been Susan’s bedroom, with a queen-size bed that took up most of the space, a small table placed next to it, and a narrow highboy in one corner. The third door opened on what had probably been intended as a second bedroom or possibly an office or studio…but that wasn’t how Susan had been using it.
A small gasp escaped Audrey’s lips before she could hold it back, and Michael’s frown deepened as they stared at the room’s contents.
The wooden floor was bare. Carved into it were intricate runes and sigils, not unlike what Audrey had seen in the basement of the Whitcomb mansion, but even more complicated. Off to one side was a rolled-up flat-weave beige rug — probably to cover the floor in case Jill ever came by to inspect the property. The walls were utterly bare, and at the far end of the room was a low table that seemed to function as a shrine of some sort. On that table was a large statue, probably at least three feet tall, of a horned figure with goat legs. Hanging around the statue was a thick silver chain, from which dangled an upside-down pentacle, also made of silver.
What the ever-loving hell?
Something about the air smelled wrong, as if some kind of cloying incense had once been burned the room, although Audrey couldn’t see any evidence of it now — none of the little bowls or flat trays people commonly used when lighting incense. And it felt colder in here than in the rest of the house, but that could have simply been because of the bare walls and bare floors.
“I’m not one to judge people for their beliefs,” Jill said, as Michael went into the room and crouched in the center, bending down so he could more closely examine the symbols on the floor. “But this? I have to tell you, it definitely shook me up. And the floor — how am I supposed to fix that?”
Audrey looked down at the wooden floorboards. They were a medium shade of oak and appeared to be original to the house. The carvings in them were deep enough that she didn’t think they could be sanded out.
“You can’t fix it,” Michael said. He stood up, his expression now very grim
. “You’ll have to tear out the entire floor — and make sure the boards are burned afterward.”
“‘Burned’?” Jill Armentrout echoed, looking startled. “Why?”
“Because these markings are dangerous. They can’t be allowed to remain intact.”
For a second, the older woman didn’t reply. She pulled in a breath, looked down at the floor, then back up at Michael. A flash of suspicion crossed her face, and she said, “How do you know Susan, anyway?”
“We worked together,” Michael replied. His tone was very calm…almost too calm. “But none of us knew this about her. I would never have allowed her near me or anyone I cared about” — his gaze strayed to Audrey, then returned to Jill — “if I’d had any idea what she was hiding here. I do work in the field of the supernatural, Ms. Armentrout. But on the side of light…always on the side of light.”
“He’s a Unitarian minister,” Audrey offered, hoping that particular detail might help to allay some of the landlady’s obvious suspicions. “And I’m a psychologist. I can tell you now, while I didn’t know Susan well, I can say that during the time we worked together, there was absolutely no sign of her, well….” She faltered there, not sure how she should even describe what she was looking at. Had Susan been a closet Satan worshipper, or something even worse? Had the demon Alastor jumped to her because it knew it would find her a willing host?
Jill Armentrout looked somewhat relieved by their credentials, but she was still clearly uneasy, arms now wrapped tightly around herself, as if she’d been overtaken by a sudden chill. “So I tear up the floorboards and burn them. What else?”
“I’d have a priest bless the house after you were done,” Michael said.
This suggestion was met by an uneasy chuckle. “I’m not exactly a religious person. I don’t even know a priest.”
“The local diocese should be able to help you. If not, let me know, and I’ll make a few calls.” He paused, then glanced past the two women in the doorway as though focusing on the rest of the house. “Do you mind if I look around a bit?”
Unholy Ground Page 2