Star Walk Read online

  Lacey pulled her notebook over so she could page through the information. She mentioned her timetable of property owners and then went into detail on Estelle.

  “It all lines up with what you got. A young woman married to an older, authoritative man with a mustache, his affairs, the fights, the lies and finally the suicide. It’s a perfect match.”

  “Wow,” Sam said quietly. “That’s about the best match ever. You really outdid yourself.”

  Lacey beamed, but reined in her delight. “I couldn’t have done it without your impressions.”

  “Mutual appreciation society?” he joked.

  Lacey nodded, savoring a taste of juicy steak. “So now what?” she asked. “Obviously I’ll keep working on the other ghosts, but what do we do with the information on Estelle? How do we get her to move on?”

  Sam chewed thoughtfully, staring out the back window.

  “Suicides are tough,” he said finally. “Very often they’re consumed with guilt for what they’ve done, and they may fear letting go here because they’re afraid they’re going to hell. Did you find anything about her religious beliefs?”

  “No. At least not so far. I can dig deeper. I might find a mention in an obituary or an announcement of a memorial service.”

  “That could work,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll make an appointment with Deidre to go back this Saturday. I’ll do what I can to reassure Estelle that she’s safe, that she can move on without fear. We’ll use whatever you find about her religious beliefs to reinforce that. I think that will help a lot.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” she said. She had a sudden thought. “If we do convince her to go on, will that take care of the slippery spot on the tile, too? Obviously it’s not really blood that’s making it slippery, it’s… I don’t know.” She turned questioning eyes on Sam.

  “Psychic blood? Yeah, something like that. And, yes, I think that will take care of it. If not, at least Deidre still has her area rug.”

  Lacey threw a grape tomato at Sam and laughed.

  ~~~

  SIX

  Monday morning, Lacey was anxious to dive back into her research. Having such good success with the first one gave her a boost of confidence and energy. She cautioned herself; she still had background checks to do for her other clients, but she could feather those in as her research took its twists and turns.

  The first order of business was finding out where the ghost or ghosts in the south apartment began to manifest. The original owner, Lance Tynen, didn’t seem to fit the bill, so she had to look further down the list of property owners.

  The third owner, David Horowitz, turned out to also have a Hollywood connection as a producer. When Lacey looked at a list of movies he’d been involved with, none of them rang a bell, so he was obviously not a heavy-hitter. She discovered that he and his wife had both died years after leaving the Laurel Canyon home, and she could find no evidence of tragedy during their years of ownership.

  Next on the list was Sonia Ralston. Lacey found out the woman was an artist, and pulled up a webpage entirely devoted to her work. She thought most of it quite lovely, its mystical qualities reminding her of Georgia O’Keeffe or Meinrad Craighead. She navigated through the webpage and finally found a contact interface. She left a brief, benign message alluding to the investigation of the house and asked for return contact. She had no idea if her message would go to the artist, or an agent or webmaster.

  Figures, she thought. After her home run yesterday, the two quick strikeouts were no big surprise. So much of investigative work was detouring down dead-end alleyways and then returning to the main avenue of clues. Since she never knew what path would lead to success, she had to try them all.

  It was time to switch gears. She had a penchant for getting immersed in cases, diving in so deep that she lost her perspective. What had Sam said, that she was like a dog with a bone? Yes, she could get obsessive about some things. Rather than bang her head against a brick wall, she switched to background checks. These were more generic, less emotional, and she could knock out a few before lunch.

  The added benefit was that keeping her conscious mind busy with the tasks she could do easily left her unconscious free to mull over the larger case. If she’d learned nothing else, she’d learned that often her best hunches rose up from somewhere deep inside, places her conscious mind couldn’t access.

  She could use some of those hunches.

  After lunch, she switched back to Estelle. The good news was that Estelle had been a celebrity of some note, so there was quite a bit written about her stormy life. Lacey found several accounts of her obituary, most of them regurgitated from some unnamed original. The bad news was that she found no mention of a church affiliation or suggestions for donations to any organization that might point up a religious preference. Perhaps, Lacey thought, the stigma of suicide precluded any religious support. Even mention of a small private service in Idaho failed to include a church location. It seemed there was no celebration of the life cut tragically short.

  There was, however, one slim lead. At the end of the obituaries was a list of those who survived the star. A list of two.

  She is survived by her husband, Geoffrey Johns, and her sister, actress Celeste Gardner.

  “Okay, Celeste,” Lacey said out loud, “what have you got for me?”

  Celeste Gardner (nee Baumgartner) was born in 1927, five years after Estelle. Apparently the Baumgartners had a thing for the heavens, as both Estelle and Celeste kept their first names when the studios insisted they needed more appealing last names. Celeste followed in her older sister’s footsteps, migrating to Hollywood only to be cast in one mediocre movie after another. She never became the star her sister was, but instead gained a small measure of fame only for being Estelle’s sister. The Kardashians of the 50s, Lacey thought.

  Like her sister, her foray into marriage was disappointing, but unlike her sister, she kept trying. She was married and divorced three times; two children, both daughters. She remained in the Los Angeles area even after her unlit star faded, throwing her energy and B-list name behind no-kill animal shelters and wild animal rehabilitation organizations.

  According to iMDb, she was still alive.

  Lacey calculated quickly. She’d be ninety. If she was still in the area, would she be able to shed any light on Estelle’s religious beliefs? And would she want to? Lacey guessed being asked about her more famous sister would have gotten very old very quickly.

  Still… It was worth a try.

  Lacey went back to the animal organizations. There were several Celeste was associated with, and Lacey pored over the webpage, looking for any recent activity. The Wild Animal Foundation of Hollywood took in aging and unwanted movie animals and gave them a home for their last years, horses mostly, but also mules, giraffes and elephants. Lacey navigated through their gallery of photos: before and after pictures of horses in their movie roles, then happy and healthy in tree-shaded paddocks; the same for a grizzly bear and an African lion, each in a roomy pen with rocks to climb and a pool of water to swim in. Admirable, but it wasn’t helping Lacey.

  Then she saw it. A photo of Celeste in a wheelchair, surrounded by a dozen children and many smiling adults, as she cut the ceremonial ribbon opening a new wing in the foundation’s campus.

  The date of the event was September 15, 2016. Just over six months ago.

  Lacey felt her heart rate kick up a notch. This could be the break she needed. She leaned toward the computer and began searching for contact information for the foundation.

  An email alert dinged softly. Not now, she thought. At best, it would be a new job; at worst just spam. She finally found the phone number for the foundation, but before dialing it, she checked her email inbox just to get that out of the way.

  Sonia Ralston.

  Lacey blinked at the screen. Her brain, at full tilt and ready to find Celeste, threatened to seize up as it backtracked to Sonia. Where was she going with that? Oh, yeah; past owners of the
house. Ghostly things.

  She opened the email.

  Ms. Fitzpatrick,

  I’m not sure I understand the nature of your investigation. Can you explain a bit more about what you’re hoping to find? I do not give out my phone number, but if you will give me yours, I will call you.

  —Sonia Ralston

  Lacey pulled her chair up closer to the table and tapped out a reply.

  I know this sounds odd, but my partner and I investigate ghostly manifestations at the property owner’s request. The current owner of the Laurel Canyon property has remodeled the house into luxury apartments but doesn’t feel she can rent them with the ghostly apparitions. I am working to pinpoint the start of the manifestations so we can understand the spirits involved and help them to move on. I’d like to find out if you were aware of any paranormal events during the time you owned the house, and if so, what kind? You can call me at…

  Reading it over once, she called it good and sent it out.

  Now, back to Celeste.

  She called the foundation. The phone rang once, twice.

  “Wild Animal Foundation of Hollywood. This is April. How can I help you?” A young voice, fresh and perky.

  “April, my name is Lacey Fitzpatrick and I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case that involved the death of Estelle DeVoe, a movie actress of the 50s. Estelle is the sister of one of your sponsors, Celeste Gardner.”

  The phone line crackled with silence for a heartbeat.

  “Yes?” The one word question was tentative with suspicion.

  “I’m wondering if there is some way I can get a message to Ms. Gardner through your foundation. It’s very important. She could have key information that will help us resolve this case.”

  More silence. Worse than Sam, Lacey thought. She was about to say more when April spoke.

  “Hold on.”

  Lacey heard muffled voices and knew April was conferring with another foundation member. Older and no doubt more knowledgeable.

  The phone was fumbled, then a new voice came on. An older woman, more confident.

  “Hello. This is Helen Gaither. I’m the assistant director of the foundation. What is it you need?”

  Lacey explained again. She really didn’t want to get into the paranormal aspects of the case, so tried to keep her pitch brief and businesslike.

  “I’m not sure I understand…”

  Lacey drew in a breath. “We’re investigating an… anomaly regarding Estelle DeVoe’s death. I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give more specifics. Is there any way you can get a message to Ms. Gardner for me?”

  Assistant Director Gaither hesitated. “She’s very frail. She’s ninety years old—”

  “Yes, I realize that. I saw her picture at the ribbon-cutting ceremony last September. She looks as if she’s still quite sharp.”

  A thoughtful pause. “Yes, she is. I’m just not sure…”

  “I think this might be something that Ms. Gardner would want to know about. It’s her sister, after all. Can’t you please pass this on to her and let her decide? If she chooses not to speak with me, so be it, but I do think she deserves to know that we’re looking into this.”

  Lacey lowered her voice. “Please, Ms. Gaither. It’s her sister. Can’t you let her decide?”

  There was an unhappy silence, then a martyred sigh. “All right. Give me your contact information.”

  Lacey repeated her name and gave her phone number as well as her P.I. license number. She assured Ms. Gaither that Ms. Gardner’s call would be welcome any hour of the day.

  She’d barely ended the call and set the phone down when it rang again. The caller ID was blocked—no name, no number—but she answered anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Fitzpatrick? This is Sonia Ralston.”

  “Oh.” Lacey sat up quickly. “Yes, hi. Thank you for calling me. As I said in my message, we’re trying to pinpoint when the apparitions started—”

  “They were there when I moved in,” she said abruptly.

  “Oh?” That was easy, Lacey thought. “What did you experience?”

  “Howling,” Sonia said. “Sobbing. It wasn’t constant. It seemed to start around eight or nine P.M. It would go on for an hour or more, then stop until the next day.”

  “And what room was this in?” Lacey grabbed her notebook and flipped hastily to her drawings of the mansion’s floors.

  “The third story bedroom on the left,” Sonia said.

  Okay, Lacey thought, that jibed. “Did you notice any other anomalies?”

  “Yes. The bedroom on the right, also on the third floor. I used that room for a short time, but several times I woke to see a man standing over me. It scared me out of my wits, but as soon as I sat up, he would disappear.”

  Lacey noted her drawing. Hit number two. “Anything else?”

  “No. That was enough. I stopped using the third floor for anything but storage of my paintings. I went up as infrequently as possible.”

  “I can understand that,” Lacey said, finishing her notes. “By the way, I was looking at your paintings online and I thought they were wonderful.”

  “Thank you,” Sonia said. “One of the ghosts didn’t think so.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had one of the Black Madonna. I put it in that right hand room, along with some others, and when I went back days later, that one was pulled out of the stack and was lying face down on the floor. I took it out of that room then. I was worried about it being damaged.”

  Lacey nodded. Good thinking. That guy did not go in for religious art. “Did you notice anything about the floor in the entry? Anything unusual there?”

  Sonia thought for a moment. “No. Nothing I can remember.”

  “What kind of flooring did you have in there?”

  “I carpeted it. Never had a problem with it.”

  “Okay,” Lacey said. “This is very helpful, Ms. Ralston. It basically corroborates everything the present owner is experiencing. We’re getting to the bottom of it, and we’re pretty sure we’ll be able to clear it. Thank you so much for your information.”

  “You’re welcome. You’re not… publishing this anywhere? I really don’t want my name associated…”

  “Not a problem. This is a private investigation and totally confidential. No one but my partner and I will know we even spoke.”

  “Good.” She exhaled gratefully. “In that case, I’m glad I could help.”

  “Me, too,” Lacey said. “Thanks again. Have a good day.”

  She ended the call and laid her phone down, looking closely at her drawing. Two for three, she thought. Batting .666.

  666. That was kind of creepy. She shrugged it off and went back to her timeline.

  So the ghosts were already firmly entrenched by 1965 when Ralston bought the place. Lacey hadn’t found any indication of death or tragedy during the Horowitz family’s possession. Estelle and Geoffrey owned it before that. The only candidate left was Lance Tynan.

  Guess she had to dig deeper.

  ~~~

  SEVEN

  She plunged into it the next day. Gathering all the bits and pieces that she could find about Lance, nothing jumped out at her. He was a typical horse in a big studio’s stable: name changed, appearance groomed, persona molded, no hint of scandal. Unlike Estelle and Geoffrey, Lance seemed squeaky clean.

  She went back over her notes for that south apartment. What else had Sam said? Not wanting to miss even the smallest clue, she replayed the video and jotted down everything he said.

  Lots of sex. Sex was validation. And damnation. The crucifix that burned. And sleep. Sleep was bliss. He died in his sleep.

  Lacey pondered that. The lots of sex certainly sounded like it could have been scandalous, unless it was just that Lance and his wife had a wild marital life. Yet they only had the one child. Birth control was pretty limited back then—condoms, diaphragms or timely douches, not as easy or as common as what was available today. That didn’t se
em to line up as she would expect. She made a note to herself to look deeper into Mrs. Tynan.

  Died in his sleep. Cardiac arrest. People did have heart attacks at night, although Lacey wasn’t sure she’d classify that as dying in their sleep. Heart attacks were often painful, with crushing pressure on the chest. Not exactly peaceful, even if the end result seemed so. It nagged at her.

  Follow your gut, she reminded herself. She called the L.A. County coroner’s office and made a formal request for the autopsy records and police report. At this late date, almost seventy years after the fact, the records were public and only needed to be pulled from the files. She’d have them within five days.

  Now Lance’s wife, Nora Messenger. She’d died in 1989.

  Suddenly Lacey’s phone rang. She checked the screen: Mead View Comm. Looked like a telemarketer call, but if it was, she could get rid of them quick enough.

  “Hello?”

  The sound of fumbling. Probably a sales person adjusting their headset before they launched into their spiel. Lacey was about ready to hang up.

  “Hello? Miss Fitzpatrick? Hello?” The voice was soft and thin, airy and hesitant. It got Lacey’s attention.

  “Yes, this is she. Who’s calling, please?”

  “Oh, hello. This is Celeste Gardner. I received a message from Helen Gaither that you wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yes, hello. Thank you so much for calling back. Did Mrs. Gaither tell you what it’s concerning?”

  Celeste hesitated. “I’m not sure I understood her completely. She said you’re investigating my sister? Is that correct?”

  Lacey took a breath and plunged. “I’m not investigating her so much as the way she died. The current owner of the home on Laurel Canyon hired my partner and me to help her clear it. Of ghosts. I know this sounds crazy, but believe me, I’m perfectly serious. I believe your sister is one of the ghosts.”

  “I see.” The thin voice trailed away, whether in doubt or disbelief, Lacey couldn’t tell.