Chapter 7

Wilson and I didn’t talk on the way home. I needed to digest everything that had happened, and by the time we arrived back at the house, Denise was on the doorstep. Sans the tarot cards, she was carrying the same large, oversized bag, and dressed in heels and a colorful sheath dress. Her Realtor Outfit. Soon as she saw the Jag, she waved her hands above her head and ran to greet me, exactly as she’d done before.

Only this time, it wasn’t because she wanted a reading. She had obviously seen the news.

“Oh my God, Misty! You were at Zoey’s house. Poor girl. How is she?”

Wilson parked in the drive, and I pushed myself from the passenger seat and banged the car’s door shut. For all the Jaguar’s sporty features, comfort wasn’t one of them. “Good as can be expected,” I said.

“But Lacey.” Denise put her hand to her throat. “She was so young, and vibrant...and she was Zoey’s best friend. It’s hard to imagine she’s dead. Zoey must be terribly upset.”

Without answering, I ambled toward the house, doing the best I could to stay ahead of Denise with my arthritic knees. Denise paused halfway up the walk.

I stopped, knowing what was about to come, and turned to see Wilson as he slipped from the driver’s seat and out the window like an Olympic gymnast.

“Were you driving Wilson’s car?” Denise furrowed her brow and looked back at the Jag.

“I thought it would be okay. The key was on the key rack in the kitchen, and you did ask me to keep the place up. I assumed that included the cars. Was I wrong?”

“It’s just—”

I switched the subject, the less said about Wilson and his car the better. “I’m sorry, Denise. I know you want to talk about Zoey, but, I can’t. She’s been a client for a while now, and you know I can’t talk about her. It’s not professional.”

I went up the steps to the porch and put my key in the lock.

“Even a little?” Denise asked.

“Even at all,” I said.

“Then at least tell me about the house. I haven’t been inside in years. What’s it look like?”

“You’re asking me as a realtor then, not as a fan?” I turned the lock on the door.

“If it’ll loosen your tongue...a realtor.” Denise smiled coyly. What did I have to fear?

I pushed the door open and Denise followed me inside while she continued with her comments about the house.

“For your information, realty wise, I think Zoey overpaid for the place. It stood empty for nearly ten years. The last owners were jet setters. Never home. Owned houses all over the world and then priced the property so high realtors refused to show it. I heard Zoey paid six million for the place. Six million. Can you imagine? That house wasn’t worth a dime over five. And then she spent a fortune remodeling. And insisted the place be painted pink. Like it was originally. Who does that today? Pink, of all colors.”

Denise’s interest in the property matched my own. As a realtor, I understood her curiosity about what improvements Zoey might have made on a six thousand square foot mini-mansion that had everything from a wine cellar to an upstairs gym. But it was Denise’s understanding of the history of the property that made me think she might know something that would help me better understand what was going on inside the house.

“Well if all you want to know,” I said, “is what she’s done with the place, I suppose I could share with you a little of what I saw.”

Wilson glared at me from the front porch and swept past me to the study. A not so subtle reminder he didn’t want his sister in the house. Anticipating his intent to slam the door, I grabbed the handle and closed it quietly behind me, then nudged Denise in the direction of the living room.

“There’s a book on the coffee table you should look at. It was your brother’s. Historic Hollywood Homes. I was looking through it yesterday after Zoey left. You might find it interesting.”

Denise settled herself into one of the wingback chairs with the book on her lap.

“You know,” she said, “the entire Fryman area was once owned by Tom Mix, the silent film star. The man made a fortune in real estate. The property Zoey’s house is on, Mix lost in a bet to another actor named Clayton Mann. He was the original owner and built the Pink Mansion for his wife and daughter back in the early forties.”

“Were you ever inside?” I asked.

“Once, years ago for an open house. The listing agent back then had worked up a one-sheet with the house’s history. The Manns didn’t live there long. They sold the house back in 1943, three years after they moved in. Rumor had it the couple had a four-year-old daughter who drowned in the backyard pool during a birthday party. If that happened today, a realtor would have to list it on the property records, but that was so long ago. I doubt there’s ever been any reference to it.”

“A little girl?” My mind flashed on the cache of items hidden beneath the stairs Zoey had shown me. The pink trowel, the pop bead jewelry. Things a child might treasure and maybe hide.

“Yes, and sometime either before or after the Manns moved out, the pool must have been filled in. It wasn’t there when I attended the open house. Then again, the property’s always been a bit of a mystery and changed hands half a dozen times before the last owners finally agreed to sell. Poor Zoey. She must blame herself for putting in a new pool and spa.”

“She’s very upset,” I said. “To lose your best friend like that. It can’t be easy.”

“I tell you, it’s the family curse. She’s just lucky it wasn’t her.”

Everyone in Hollywood knew about the Chamberlain family curse. Going all the way back to Zoey’s great-grandfather, the Chamberlains had experienced as much fame and fortune as they had tragedy. None had survived past fifty, and all had died as the result of some freak accident.

Denise’s wrist phone buzzed. “Ugh. I’ve got to go. I have a showing down the street, and since I was in the neighborhood, I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing. Plus, I have a bit of good news.” Denise raised her hand and crossed her fingers.

Denise’s good news could only mean one thing. “You got a meeting with Hugh Jackman?”

“Almost,” she said. “I met his publicist. Hugh’s doing The Ellen Show tomorrow, and she promised to get me in.” Denise shook her hands beside her head. “It’s happening Misty. It’s really happening.”

“It appears so,” I said.

Denise crunched her shoulders to her ears, kissed me goodbye on the cheek, and promised to call back with a report. I showed her to the door, then turned to find Wilson standing outside the study with his arms crossed.

“I assume you heard all that?” I said.

“The part about my sister stalking Hugh Jackman or the history of Zoey’s house?”

“Let’s stick with Zoey’s house for the moment, shall we?” I reminded Wilson while I was talking with Zoey, he had slipped away–something he had promised not to do–and I was anxious to know what he had seen. “Did you find anything unusual?”

“Like what?” Wilson asked.

“Like a ghost,” I said. “It’s what we went there for. I thought that’s why you wandered off. That you considered that to be an excusable offense and had connected with something.”

“Well, you thought wrong. I’ve rethought things.”

“Again?” I wasn’t surprised. Lacey’s unexpected death had changed the purpose of today’s visit, and shades, by their very nature, can be easily upset by the sudden death of others.

“Look, Misty...”

Misty? Was Wilson really calling me Misty again? Was it a slip of the tongue or a change of heart? I wasn’t sure. Only that I’d gotten rather used to him calling me Old Gal. His return to the proper use of my name concerned me.

“I know you asked me not to go snooping around, but if you thought I was going to go ghost hunting and give up the chance to comb through the Pink Mansion, well...I’m sorry. It just wasn’t going to happen. I was much more curious as to what Zoey had done with the place and what collectibles I might find from the Chamberlain estate than to chase after some ghost.”

“You didn’t see anything? No ghosts at all? Lacey or anyone else?”

“I told you, I wasn’t looking.” Wilson walked back into the study and began perusing the bookshelves.

I followed as far as the doorway. “And what happened to your promise to help me? To help Zoey?”

“You mean so I might earn my wings?” I sensed a note of sarcasm in his voice.

“That was the plan,” I said. “Or has that changed now that you’ve been inside the Pink Mansion?” I couldn’t believe we were going back and forth on this again.

“Yes, well, after giving it some thought, I’ve decided differently.” Wilson ran his index finger along the bookshelves, then stopped, and finding a bit of dust, rubbed the first two fingers on his left hand with his thumb and blew the dust in my direction. “You see, Misty, aside from my sister’s occasional visits to my home, I’m not at all certain I object to my current state. I’m in no pain. I’ve no bills to worry about, and other than your intrusion into my life, I’m not all that unhappy.”

I stepped into the study. Shades were known to live in a state of denial and waffle on their commitments. I needed to confront this head on.

“Perhaps, Wilson, if you were not so self-involved you might feel differently. But since you are, let me explain it this way. Nature, my friend, abhors a vacuum. If you don’t do something to attract positive energy in your direction, just like that dust you’ve chosen to blow at me so dismissively, you’ll be swept up with negative energy. When that happens, you’ll be gone. Poof!” I snapped my fingers. “In my experience, shades in your position don’t always end up in such a happy place.” I turned my back and got as far as the door when I heard a loud bang on the desk.

Wilson had taken a book from the shelf and slammed it onto the desktop. “What is it you want from me?”

I counted to three and then smiled obligingly. “I believe our ghost is a little girl, about four years old. Your sister says the original owner of Zoey’s house was an actor named Clayton Mann.”

“Ugh.” Wilson made a sour face. “My sister again. I wish you wouldn’t quote her to me.”

“Regardless, I’m going to need your help. Your sister believes the Manns had a daughter, and that she drowned in a pool accident. I thought somewhere in this grand library of books you have about Hollywood, there might be something about Clayton Mann and his family that may help to identify the girl.”

“It’s a possibility.” Wilson turned back to the bookshelves and ran his finger along the spine of several books, then finding what he wanted, stopped. “In fact, this might be exactly what you’re looking for. It’s an almanac of Hollywood stars from the thirties and forties and their homes.”

Wilson placed the book on the desk and began to thumb through it. He stopped at a large black and white photo of Clayton Mann and his wife Margaret with their daughter Alicia Mae Mann.