Chapter 16

The following afternoon I was in the living room, snoozing with the newspaper on my lap, when I heard a knock at the door. By the time I got to my feet, someone had inserted a key into the lock, and the deadbolt slid open. Seconds later, Denise burst in and spotted me in the living room.

“You won’t believe it.” With the keys still in her hands, Denise did a little happy dance in the entry. “Guess who’s got a meeting with Hugh Jackman tomorrow afternoon?”

“I thought you were meeting with him yesterday.” I shuffled toward the study and pulled the door shut, lest Denise’s voice alert Wilson to his sister’s presence. One less battle I needed on my hands.

“Oh, yes, that meeting. Well, it didn’t work out. His publicity manager Nina was supposed to get me into a fan meeting. A real exclusive she said. What a waste. I was one of three hundred people. Nothing more than a big cattle call. No way was I going to get any face-to-face time with Hugh. So I walked out, and when I did, guess who I saw?”

“Surprise me,” I said.

“Nina! I mean, how lucky is that? I recognized her from photos I had seen of her in the trades, and there she was, right in the middle of a bunch of Hollywood industry types. All staring at their cell phones and about to get on an elevator. And guess what?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“I followed her. Sidled up to her, all nice and cozy like. I mean she didn’t know who I was or what I looked like since we hadn’t met in person, and I pretended like I knew what I was doing, took out my phone and yada, yada, yada...”

“Yada, yada, yada what?” I asked.

“Well, if you must know the details. Nina was on the phone with an assignment editor from The Hollywood Reporter. Turns out the reporter who was supposed to meet with Hugh tomorrow afternoon has the flu. They were calling to tell her they needed to reschedule and would get back in touch. So...” Denise reached into her bag and produced a business card with The Hollywood Reporter logo on it and shoved it in my face. “I took the liberty of making a few business cards and calling Nina back. I told her finding a substitute was no problem, provided Mr. Jackman might be available slightly earlier than the original agreed upon time, and presto-gusto, I got the appointment.”

I took the card from Denise and stared at it. Denise Thorne, Reporter.

Denise had done a lot of silly things in an attempt to meet Jackman, but this bordered on insanity, not to mention fraud. That is, if impersonating a reporter is a prosecutorial offense these days.

“What if The Hollywood Reporter calls back?” I asked.

“Oh, please. This is Golden Globes week. By the time they get around to finding another reporter, I will have met Hugh, and my mission will be...how do the French say it? A fait accompli.” Denise grabbed the business card from my hand and asked if she could use the powder room beneath the stairs. “You mind?” Denise did a little tap dance. “I have to go.”

“Go.”

No sooner had Denise disappeared inside the powder room, then Wilson poked his head out of the study. “Tell me that’s not my sister.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m afraid so.”

“Get rid of her.”

“Easier said than done,” I said.

Wilson gave me another of his Bronx cheers and was about to retreat back into the study, when the front bell rang. “You expecting someone?”

“No,” I said. “And whoever it is, you’re going to have to make yourself scarce. I can’t be putting up with your sibling rivalry while I’m dealing with your sister and a guest. Now go.”

I opened the front door and found Detective Romero on the porch. He was dressed in jeans, a jacket and T-shirt, and tennis shoes. And around his neck, like a neon sign, hung his gold LAPD detective’s shield.

“You here to arrest me?” After yesterday’s interrogation concerning my whereabouts the night of Lacey’s murder, I had less than warm feelings for the detective.

“I’m here to talk, Misty. You got a minute?”

I glanced back at the doors to the powder room and the study to make certain they were closed then pointed Romero in the direction of the living room. My excuse for getting Denise out of the house had just materialized. I tapped lightly on the door to the study and whispered, “Five minutes, Wilson. Give me five minutes.”

“Excuse me?” The detective stood in the middle of the living room and looked at me, puzzled. Was I in the habit of talking to myself?

“Please,” I said, “take a seat.” I picked the newspaper up off the end of the couch and waited for Romero to sit down, then sat in one of the winged back chairs opposite him. “Is there something I can help you with, Detective?”

“Maybe. Like I told you yesterday, I’m not a believer. No offense.”

“None taken,” I said.

“But I thought I’d stop by and ask your opinion.”

“About?” Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Wilson. Curiosity had gotten the best of him. He had walked through the study door–as ghosts and shades can–and was now standing directly behind the detective. I shook my head slowly, side to side. No funny business, Wilson, not now. I’m warning you.

“This morning,” Romero said, “I hiked up the trail behind Zoey’s house. Thought I might have a look around. I wanted to see if I could find anything that might help with the investigation.”

“Did you?”

Wilson moved from behind the couch and took a seat next to Romero. Crossing his arms and legs, he leaned into the detective in what I could only imagine a man like Romero would consider uncomfortably close.

Ahem. I cleared my throat.

Romero ran the fingers of his left hand beneath the collar of his t-shirt. “Is it hot in here?”

“Hot and cold,” I said. “The house is drafty. I could turn the thermostat down if you like.”

“No. It’s not necessary.” The detective shook his head. “I’m here because I found something on the trail, and I thought you should see it. It looks like someone dropped it in the bushes. May be nothing, but since I wanted to stop by anyway to ask a few more questions, I thought I’d have you take a look at it.” The detective reached into his pocket and took out a small, round, plastic, cylinder-shaped item that emitted a crude tinny sound, like that of a feral cat or baby’s cry. “I had forensics dust it for prints, but they came up empty. Nobody knows what to make of it, so I thought I’d bring it by for you to look at.”

Romero put the small box on the coffee table between us. I leaned forward and looked at it.

“You want me to read it? Is that why you’re here? Because if you do, Detective, it’s plastic. For me to really get anything off it, it’d have to be metal, like a ring or a necklace.”

“No, I’m not going to ask you to read it. I just wanted you to have a look at it. See if you thought it might be relevant.”

“To the case?”

Romero nodded.

“Most of what I do deals with the paranormal, and I know you’re not here because you believe in such things. That is unless you had a sudden change of heart?”

“Of course not,” Romero scoffed. “I told you, I don’t believe in ghosts. But it seems to me this squawk box could be something the killer used to attract attention. Zoey did say she and Lacey heard what sounded like a cat outside the house the night Lacey died. From the sounds of this thing, it could be what the murderer used to get Lacey’s attention. I wondered if maybe it might suggest something to you.”

Before I could answer, the door to the powder room opened and the mood in the room changed. Ahh, the magic of chemistry. Like the birth of a new star, colorful fragments of light, unseeable to anyone else but myself and Wilson, filled the room.

Romero glanced up and, seeing Denise in the entry, stood and knocked Wilson to the floor.

The instant Denise’s eyes met Romero’s, I knew the detective was a marked man.

With the early morning light streaming in behind her, Denise looked almost angelic. She rubbed her hands together. The scent of vanilla hand cream permeated the air. She scanned the detective like a prized bull at the state fair.

“Misty, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you had a consult.” Denise took a step into the living room.

I made hurried introductions. Anxious to move Denise along. “Detective, this is my landlady, Denise Thorne. Denise, this is Detective Romero. Denise was just on her way—” I was about to say “out” when Denise brushed past me and extended her hand.

“Romero? Like in Romeo, but with an ‘r’?” Denise winked. The detective took her hand and held it longer than I thought necessary. “And such a handsome detective, too. Are you here to talk with Misty about Lacey’s murder? Do you know who did it?”

Romero cleared his throat, glanced at me then back at Denise, “Not yet, ma’am. But we will.”

“Well, I can tell you this, it’s not Zoey’s ghost, that’s for certain. But then, I’m sure Misty’s already shared that with you.” Denise fluffed the back of her hair and smiled.

Wilson slipped back into the study. From inside the room I could hear him slamming books to the floor.

Denise jumped, and the detective looked in the direction of the study door, his hand automatically to the gun at his hip.

“Not to worry,” I said. “I left a window open upstairs. Must be the wind. You know how it is with old houses. Besides, Denise, the detective doesn’t believe in ghosts.”

Romero sat back down, and Denise took a seat next to him on the edge of the couch where Wilson had been sitting. She paused momentarily and looked on either side of her as though she might have thought or felt something odd, then shrugged. “So, Detective, if you don’t believe in ghosts, what do you believe in?”

I answered. I wasn’t about to give in to Denise’s flirtation. “The detective’s found what looks like a doll’s squawk box on the trail behind the house. His forensics people don’t know what to make of it.” I pointed to the cylinder-shaped speaker on the coffee table. “He’s here to ask me what I think.”

Denise poked at the box. “Well, then, I should think that settles it.”

“Settles it how?” Romero asked.

“The newspaper said Zoey and Lacey heard cat-like sounds coming from the backyard before Zoey went to bed. If you found this in the park, then it can only mean one thing.”

“What’s that?” Romero looked amused, his lined face had a sudden glow about it. A glow I could only attribute to Denise’s close proximity, and the smell of vanilla hand cream she had just applied. An aphrodisiac for some.

“Zoey had a stalker. Some crazed fan who knew where she lived and that her house backed up to the park. It wouldn’t take much to break in through the gate and...Wham! Bam!” Denise punched the air like she was hitting something. “Suddenly Lacey’s dead and our stalker’s out of the gate and disappeared into the park. Never to be heard from again.”

Romero bit back a smile. “It is a possibility. Although, in a case like this, we often find the victim usually knows their killer.”

“Ah-huh,” Denise took a quick breath. I could see she was mentally calculating the list of possible suspects in her mind. She looked at me, then back to Romero. “I assume Misty told you what happened the night of the séance?”

The detective’s eyes slid from me and back to Denise.

“You haven’t told him?” Denise asked.

“I have,” I said, “but—”

“Because if you were there, you would have seen it—or heard it anyway.” Denise was adamant. “Lacey showed up and confessed to Zoey she’d been having an affair with Chad and Chad went off the deep end. Tore the curtains off the wall, and then there was this big argument. Do you think it could be Chad? That maybe he wanted to silence Lacey?”

“I’m afraid I can’t address your concerns,” Romero said. “At least not about the séance, but we’re still checking on Chad’s whereabouts the night of the murder.”

Denise pointed at the newspaper on the coffee table. “Yes, well, it’s probably not Chad. The paper reported he was at some recording studio that night, so I suppose it couldn’t have been him.”

“We don’t get our facts from the newspaper, Ms. Thorne.”

“Denise, Detective. Please, call me Denise.”

“Denise, then. And I appreciate your interest, but—”

Denise put her hand on the detective’s. “Then where do you suppose Chad was? I mean, he’s Zoey’s fiancé. And a rock star. It’s not quite like he could hide.”

Romero looked down at his hand and gently removed it from Denise’s.

“That’s what we’re trying to verify now. The man who runs the studio’s been out of town. Chad assures us he can back his story up, but for the time being, we haven’t been able to pin down the exact time when Chad was at the studio or when he left.”

“Was he alone?” Denise pressed forward, shoulder to shoulder with the detective.

I pulled Denise away from the detective. “You’ll have to excuse Denise, Detective. She’s caught up with news of the murder. Perhaps, Denise, we should give Detective Romero a chance to ask if there’s anything more he needs from me and allow him to go on his way.”

“Actually, Misty, that’s quite alright. Denise asks a good question, and I don’t mind answering. According to Chad, he was at the studio with Zac and Kelsey.”

“And you’re looking at them as suspects as well?” I asked.

“Right now, everyone’s a suspect.”

“Everyone?” There it was again. The subtle hint the detective wasn’t just talking to me because he thought I might be helpful in identifying the squawk box, but because he had his doubts as to whether or not I might be involved.

“I’m following up with everyone who was at the house the morning Lacey’s body was found. Nothing for you to be concerned about.”

“Perhaps not, but all the same, I had assumed—incorrectly evidently—after showing me this squawk box, you were here to ask for my help. That you had reconciled yourself to my talents. However, since that appears not to be the case, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Misty!” Denise snapped her head and looked at me like she couldn’t believe what I had just said. “You’re being rude.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “But while I don’t mind answering a few questions, being the subject of an investigation is an entirely different matter.” I lumbered to my feet, “And for that, Detective, I’m afraid you’ll have to go. You too, Denise. I’ve work to do. My own investigation if you don’t mind. And I don’t need either of you around to do it. Now go. Both of you.”

I walked both Romero and Denise to the door, and once they were both out, gave it a good shove.