210 Madison Avenue looked the same as it did the last time I saw it. Quiet and unoccupied. The red brick burned adobe red beneath the hot sun, and even with the rain, the yard was succumbing to the heat, showing more brown patches. The For Sale sign had a “Sold” placard pasted across it.
I stood across the street, watching the house, waiting for any signs of life, such as realtors or inspectors. No cars were parked in front, but I knew from experience that someone could still be inside. I stared at the notes I held, specifically the ones with Cal’s research about the house. The last owner was R. F. Gray, Edna Mills’ father, who was also, apparently, known as Frank Gray. Who was Henri’s client.
Before coming over, I had researched R. F. Gray on the Internet. I wanted to know more about this collector that Henri knew. Gray was a well-known name in the Hollywood memorabilia community because of his extensive collection of pre-World War II items. Known to have lived modestly, Gray spent most of his resources on his family and his collection. He had amassed numerous rare posters and props from the movies, and had hundreds of signed pieces – pictures, stills, letters, postcards, and other things. After the death of his wife in 1994, Gray quit purchasing any more collectibles, and a year later sold off what he had. His collected works garnered millions at a New York auction. He died peacefully in his sleep, right here in Denver.
“What’re you doing there?”
I whirled around to see the old, gardening neighbor shamble around from the side of his house. He wheeled a cart piled with tools, peat moss, and a case of flowers in front of him.
“I’m interested in that house,” I said, gesturing at 210 Madison Avenue.
He pushed the cart up to a beautiful rose bush and unloaded the bag of dirt as if it were feathers, showing strength that seemed impossible for a man of his fragile appearance. His face was wrinkled with a texture like old parchment. I would’ve sworn he was born at the beginning of the century – the last century.
“It’s sold,” he said, matter-of-factly, tipping a tattered straw hat at me.
“I know, but I like it.” I shaded my eyes against the glare of the sun.
“Huh,” he said, his lips protruding out. His faded denim overalls were at least three sizes too big, and his scrawny arms protruded from a threadbare cotton shirt he wore with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “It’s just a house.”
“Did you know the owner?”
“Frank?” The gums worked, moving his jaws forward and back. “Sure. What a character he was. We used to go fishing together, back in the day. Never did cotton to the movies like he did. Waste of time, if you ask me. I don’t even have a television.”
“Did you ever see Frank’s memorabilia collection?”
“Had the stuff all over the house. But he sold it all.”
“I see,” I said.
The old man picked up a hand shovel, knelt down, and dug into the peat moss, throwing some of it around the base of the rose bush.
“Thanks for your time,” I said, starting back to my car parked around the corner.
“That place is haunted,” he said, catching me by surprise. It came out “hanted”, like he was from the South. I hadn’t detected an accent before, but the longer he talked, the more I distinguished one.
“You don’t say,” I murmured back at him.
“Ay.” He dropped the shovel down and grabbed a pair of pruning shears, and set to work on the bushes. After a moment, when he was sure he had an audience, he scrutinized me with beady eyes. “Yep. Been all kinds of noises there.” I took a couple of steps down the front walk. “Mostly at night,” he continued with a knowing nod of his head.
“What ghost ever traipsed around in the daytime?” I thought, but only smiled at him.
“And lights,” he said. “Lights going on and off.”
Great, now we were heading into the UFO arena.
“You best watch for the screams, son.”
Now that stopped me. Don’t get me wrong, I like a good scary movie, but this was going a little far.
“Screams?”
“One night, I heard ’em.” The wrinkles on his face moved as he spoke. “I let Penelope out to do her business.” I hoped Penelope was a four-legged critter. “I waited for her on the porch, watching the stars while she ran about the yard. And I heard it.” It came out as “heared”.
“A scream?”
He nodded.
“Just one?”
“No, wasn’t just one. More like two or three. Last one sounded funny. Like the person started to scream, but then it seemed like it got cut in half.”
Now he was really giving me the creeps.
“This happened just once?”
“Screaming only happened once.” He stopped pruning, set the sheers down, and pulled a blue handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the sweat off his face as he talked. “The lights I’ve seen a lot.”
I pondered what he was telling me. “You wouldn’t happen to remember when this was?”
“Why dontcha just ask me, son? ‘Course I remember. Been happening for a month now. Couple of times a week.”
He bobbed his head up and down thoughtfully.
“Couple of times a week,” I repeated, nodding in the same slow manner as the old man. He was rubbing off on me.
“Ay. You best think twice about buying that house.”
“It’s sold,” I said.
“That it is,” he mused. “That it is.”
*****
The moon hung behind clouds and any illumination from streetlights was too far away to make a dent in the dark alley behind Frank Gray’s former residence. The closed garages, trash cans, dumpsters, trees and bushes melded into the framework of the darkness, and the alley seemed alive with spooks.
“Why exactly do you need me?” Cal asked as we got out of Cal's car.
“I can’t do it myself.”
“I could’ve shown you.”
“What else do you have to do on a Friday night?”
Cal rolled his eyes at me.
“Come on.” I eased down the alley, with Cal right behind me, so close his black boots nearly clipped my heels with every footfall.
“Are you going to complain all night?” I retorted in a whisper.
“Maybe.”
We walked in silence for a few moments. Our shoes made a crunching noise on the rocky pavement. A car drove by one block over, but since it was almost midnight, we heard little else but the sound of our breathing and our clothes rustling like leaves in a breeze.
“This is crazy,” Cal whispered.
“Maybe,” I murmured over my shoulder.
“I’m hotter than hell.”
He wore black jeans, a long sleeve black T-shirt, and a dark wool hat, what he called the “Navy Seal” look, inspired by an outfit I’d worn on a previous case.
“Why’d you dress for winter?” I had on black khaki pants and a black short sleeve shirt. Much more comfortable. I was sweating, but I doubt as much as Cal.
“I wanted to blend in.”
That would make a good excuse for the Neighborhood Watch committee. But really, I always wear wool in July.
We passed a high wooden fence.
“ARF. ARF. ARF.” The deep, heavy barking of a big dog split the stillness, accompanied by snarls, low and menacing.
Cal and I emitted curses at the same time. All thoughts of stealth left us, and simultaneously, our legs propelled us quickly down the alley until we halted directly behind 210 Madison Avenue. I peeked through the slits in the wooden fence to make sure I’d found the right house.
“Oh, I’m going to die,” Cal wheezed, holding a hand over his heart. “Please God, just take me now.”
“Shut up,” I gasped, crouching down. “It was just a dog.”
“Man, the police are going to come for sure. What will I tell my mother?”
I reached out and grabbed Cal’s sleeve and yanked for all I was worth. He stumbled and fell to his knees half on top of me.
“Will you be quiet?” I hissed into his ear. “We haven’t broken any laws, you idiot.”
With a querulous jerk of his arm, Cal extracted himself from me, and sat back on his haunches. But he was mute.
Down the alley, the dog continued to bark.
I eased partway to my feet and peered in the direction we’d come. I couldn’t see anything in the gloom.
After five minutes of waiting and watching, the dog finally stopped his barking. I peered into the darkness. The only thing I could see, other than shadows, was Cal frowning at me.
“Are you all right?” I asked in a low voice.
“Do I look all right?”
He crossed his arms over his chest, giving me his best “I’m disgusted” glare.
“You look okay. Like a dog just scared the crap out of you, but okay.”
The line of his lips quivered, and then Cal broke into a smile.
“Why do I let you talk me into this stuff?” he asked softly.
“Admit it, you love it.”
I glanced up and down the alley once more before grabbing the handle on the gate. I pulled it back and the gate swung open with a low creak of the hinges. I darted into the backyard with Cal so close I could smell the pepperoni pizza he’d had for dinner.
We waited a second, and didn’t hear anything.
“Let’s go.”
We made a mad dash through the grass to the back porch of the house. Once there, we checked for signs of life, but the yard and surrounding houses were as still as tombstones.
“You’re on,” I said, holding the back screen door open.
Cal stepped around me and stooped down to examine the lock on the back door.
“This doesn’t look hard.”
He pulled a tiny set of tools from the pocket of his jeans, extracted a couple of thin pieces of metal, and inserted them into the lock mechanism.
“One of these days I need to teach you how to do this,” Cal muttered.
“Fine, but not tonight.”
“I must be crazy to be doing this.”
Cal fiddled with the tools for less than thirty seconds. I kept my eyes peeled on the backyard, but nothing moved.
“There,” he grunted. The back door opened. I braced myself for the screeching of an alarm, but nothing happened.
We both stood in the doorway, unsure of our next move.
“Okay, Sherlock,” Cal finally whispered. “Lead the way.”