Chapter Three
A woman kitted out in khaki jodhpurs and a black riding jacket met them as they hiked up the drive to Angel’s Rest on Saturday morning.
The barrier at the bottom of the road meant Nick had to park along the busy highway, which he was not happy about. He didn’t say he was unhappy, but it was obvious to Perry.
Clearly Nick felt this entire mission—mission being Nick’s word, not his—was a waste of time and energy. Nick wanted, and deserved, a nice, relaxing weekend together. Perry wanted that too. Maybe even more than Nick, given that Perry was the one left home and alone much of the time. He’d never say that to Nick, because he knew Nick already worried about him.
Anyway, it was soon clear why the drive had been blocked off. At some point a landslide had occurred, sending boulders and debris tumbling down the dry hillside to land in the road. There were a couple of “potholes” large enough to lose a car the size of Perry’s. One of the largest boulders had not continued on its path of destruction. It had touched down mid-center on the driveway, effectively blocking vehicles from both sides.
“Why the hell would Daly not have that rock hauled out of there?” Nick said as the piece of displaced mountain came into view.
“Maybe he can’t afford to. I don’t think he’s got much money.” Or maybe Horace liked his privacy. Or both.
It was right about then the lady in riding clothes appeared, casually strolling along the moonscape of driveway.
Spotting Perry and Nick, she raised her riding crop—yep, that was a riding crop—and called, “Is my taxi waiting?”
Perry and Nick glanced at each other.
“No taxi that I saw, ma’am,” Nick answered.
She frowned. “Damn. If this keeps up, I’m going to start using another company.”
As they drew even with her, Perry could see that she was not nearly as young as he’d assumed given her jet-black hair and trim figure. She could have been anywhere from late sixties to early eighties.
She nodded politely and strode briskly past, the heels of her riding boots crunching on the sandy pavement.
“Maybe her horse threw her,” Perry replied to what he knew Nick was thinking.
“Out of the movie?” Nick muttered.
Perry chuckled. “I’m sure she lives at the hotel. There’s no place else around here.”
“Great. You’re doing nothing to relieve my concerns.”
Perry chuckled again.
They rounded the boulder—which was about the size of a small garden shed—and continued up the tree-lined drive.
“She’s not one of the ones I met yesterday.” Perry was thinking. “There was a guy about your age called Ned Duke. I think he’s a screenwriter. Or wants to be a screenwriter. And then there was a lady with purple-and-green hair named Gilda Storm. She’s a psychic.” He watched Nick as he said it because he knew Nick had zero patience with the idea of psychics. Sure enough, Nick made a pained sound.
“There’s Ami. Horace said she works for the studio, but he didn’t say doing what and he didn’t say which studio. And there was Enzo Juri. He used to be Horace’s driver and bodyguard.”
“Judging by the state of this road, it doesn’t look like Daly has a lot of use for a driver.”
“True.”
“Where was Juri when the skeleton crew jumped his boss?”
“Well, I don’t think he’s still working as a bodyguard,” Perry said. “I think he’s just another tenant now.”
“How many tenants altogether did you say?”
“Seven.”
Nick made no comment, maybe because the hotel was now in view. All eight stories. Angel’s Rest was a 1920s architectural gem of tall windows and fancy cornices, finials and gargoyles, steep slanting roofs and round stone towers.
It looked even grander from the front than it had from the back, and Perry wondered if he could maybe squeeze a little sketching time into the afternoon.
Nick came to a stop, hands on hips, studying the building as though considering how best to rig it to detonate.
“Asbestos shingles, I’ll guaran-damn-tee it.”
Perry snorted.
“It’s no joke.”
“No, I know. It’s just…you have to admit it’s kind of amazing.”
“It’s amazing all right,” Nick said in a tone that equated amazing with death trap. He gave Perry a sideways look, and meeting Perry’s gaze, shook his head. “You’ll be lucky if the hot water works.”
“The hot water works. I washed up in Horace’s bathroom yesterday.”
Nick sighed.
“It’s another adventure.” Perry patted Nick’s back in encouragement.
It was Nick’s turn to laugh.
A portly man in baggy red corduroy pants and a black and white checked flannel shirt greeted them at the front entrance, opening the tall carved door before they could ring the bell.
He was about sixty, with thinning gray hair and whiskery jowls. Though Perry had not met him the day before, the man seemed to be expecting them. Or at least, expecting Perry. He seemed taken aback by Nick’s presence but recovered quickly.
“Hi,” Perry began. “I’m—”
“Oh, I know who you are,” the man interrupted in a nervous, hushed voice. “And right on time, aren’t you?”
Well, yes, they were, so there wasn’t much to say in response, even if they’d been allowed to answer, which they were not.
“I need to talk to you, son,” the man said to Perry. “Before you speak to Horace again.”
Something about him put Perry’s back up. Maybe it was the furtive way he glanced around the hall as though he knew he was doing something he shouldn’t. Maybe it was the way he had instantly dismissed Nick. Or maybe it was the smell of beer on his breath. Not that Perry objected to beer drinking, but beer drinking at ten in the morning?
“And you are?” Nick asked.
The man threw him a harassed look before pinning his watery gaze on Perry again. “Jonah Nevin. I’m Horace’s cousin by marriage. Sissy is his only living relation. I don’t mean to make a mystery of things. You’ll understand once you’ve spoken to Sissy.”
“Okay,” Perry said doubtfully, not liking this at all. He liked it less as Jonah scuttled down the hall ahead of them, as though afraid of being intercepted.
Judging by the austere line of Nick’s profile, he wasn’t crazy about the situation either. Nick always preferred a straightforward approach, and this—without hearing a word from Cousin Sissy—already felt like they were going behind Horace’s back.
Perry had a quick impression of a huge gray marble foyer with tall columns, stylized light fixtures, and a ceiling painted in a vibrant gold, red, and blue art deco design. The lighting was bad, but not so bad that he couldn’t see the moth-eaten state of carpets, drapes, and upholstery on the remaining pieces of furniture. The evening before he’d been too distracted to take much heed of his surroundings—beyond noting the occasional ghostly or cadaverous figure positioned for best effect in the gloom.
“Right this way,” Jonah threw back, still scurrying along.
He led them up a short marble staircase, down a hall, finally coming to a stop at a half-open door. He rapped on the door and pushed it wide.
“Here we are, Mother!” he announced.
A large woman in a blue-print muumuu rose from the sofa. “Oh, goody! Bring him through, Father.”
She was tall—taller than himself or even Nick—and big-boned, but she was also very obese. Her faded golden hair was shoulder-length and styled in a sixties’ flip. Her lipstick was pink, her eye shadow turquoise, but her features seemed blurred and indistinct.
“Oh, my word. There’s two of them!” she exclaimed, looking from Perry to Nick.
“This is Nick Reno,” Perry said. “I’m Perry Foster.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Perry. Nick. I’m Sissy Nevin. Thank you for agreeing to speak to me.” She gave a breathy, girlish laugh. “I guess this seems pretty strange, but it’s a strange situation.”
“No argument here,” Nick said.
Sissy gave another of those breathy laughs. “Now sit down, boys! Would you like something to drink? Father, get our guests something cool to drink. I guess you’ve had a walk. It’s hot out there. Hot for October.”
Jonah disappeared through a tall swinging door into what was probably the kitchen. Sissy kept talking and making little sit-down gestures, so Perry obediently folded onto a squat, green love seat. The plump cushions seemed to compress, and he felt himself sinking.
Nick’s expression was a study, and Perry had to gulp back an inappropriate gurgle of laughter. It was like they’d fallen down a rabbit hole or maybe through the Looking Glass. The whole visit was taking on a Wonderland feel.
Nick bypassed the man-eating love seat and selected a sturdy little hardback chair next to an old-fashioned sewing machine table, which was stationed at the window overlooking the green swamp of the nearly empty swimming pool.
“Now, I hope you won’t take offense if I speak freely,” Sissy was saying. “I’m Horace’s only living relative, and it’s only natural I’d be concerned for him.”
“Sure,” Perry said politely.
“I can see you’re nice boys, and I know you want to help.” She threw back her head and yelled, “Father, there’s pink lemonade already made in the icebox!”
Perry risked another glance at Nick. Nick gave him a level look, and Perry hastily looked away.
Sissy beamed at them. “Horace has always been…well, different. You must have noticed that yourself. But he’s perfectly harmless. That other time wasn’t really his fault. Troy brought that on himself. I’m not judging. It’s a fact.”
“What is it you’re not judging?” Nick asked.
Perry asked at the same time, “What’s a fact?”
Sissy answered Nick. “Horace was raised in a good Christian home. His choices are his own. I’m not judging.”
Perry suddenly realized where this was headed—he had briefly wondered about Horace—and he tried to lift out of the smooshy love-seat cushions, but he was sitting at a weird angle and couldn’t quite get leverage.
Jonah shoved out past the kitchen’s swinging door, precariously balancing a tray with a pitcher of pink liquid and four glasses. He said heartily, “Who wants lemonade?”
“We all want lemonade, Father,” Sissy said, and without missing a beat, returned to her previous train of thought. “When Horace stabbed Troy, they were both doing drugs. That was the culture back then, wasn’t it? He’s never been violent since. The hallucinations are something else, and that might be from taking all those pills for so long. I don’t know, and the doctors couldn’t really say.”
Her pink mouth smiled at Perry, and she blinked her blue eyelids a couple of times. He automatically took the glass of lemonade Jonah handed him.
“What happened yesterday wasn’t a hallucination,” Perry said.
All at once the room seemed very quiet.
“Of course, if you say so, I would have to believe you,” Sissy said finally.
Now he could see her eyes were very small and very dark. Like raisins in dough.
“I do say so.”
She gave that gusty little laugh. “So you do! But you know, there was never anyone there those other times. Father looked and looked. Didn’t you, Father?”
“Yes,” Jonah said grimly. “I surely did.”
“And Mr. Juri and Mr. Duke looked as well.”
“There were three of them yesterday,” Perry said. “Three assailants. They wore costumes and carried wooden swords.”
Sissy licked her lips and reached for her lemonade. She drank half the glass in a single gulp. The cold beverage seemed to fortify her. “They could have run away those other times,” she agreed.
“They don’t know the whole story, Mother,” Jonah said.
“Why don’t you tell us the whole story?” Nick asked. “Since that’s the reason you brought us up here.”
Sissy gave him that pink Cheshire Cat smile again. “I like you, Nick. You’re a forthright young man. The truth is, poor cousin Horace has been claiming people are trying to kill him for years. The only one who ever did really try was poor Troy, and that was in self-defense, to my way of thinking. It’s been a long time since Horace saw any ghosts and such, and I thought we were past all that.”
Jonah said flatly, “He had to be locked up the last time. They put him in the loony bin. That’s what we’re afraid of. We don’t want you to encourage him.”
Perry set his glass on the floor. He rocked forward hard, and this time managed to eject himself from the love seat. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Nick had also risen.
“I don’t know anything about Mr. Daly’s past, but he didn’t make up a story about being attacked yesterday,” Perry said. “I saw his attackers. I fought with one of them. He was just as real as either of you.”
“Now please don’t be offended,” Sissy said. She was still smiling up at them. “Sometimes Horace makes friends with young men, but those friendships usually don’t last once they realize he hasn’t any money. Not anymore. It’s all long gone. Mostly spent on booze and drugs, sad to say.”
“I see. Thank you for your honesty,” Perry said. His face felt hot. His heart was beating fast with anger and outrage. What exactly was this awful woman accusing them of? He wasn’t even sure.
“Honesty is the best policy,” Sissy assured them.
Jonah saw them to the door. “You can’t say you weren’t warned,” he remarked. His tone was conversational rather than confrontational, which really just made it all the creepier.
“No, we couldn’t say that,” Perry replied.
Jonah nodded curtly and closed the door in their faces.
“Jesus Christ,” Nick said quietly as they headed back to the marble lobby.
“If anybody’s crazy, it’s them,” Perry said. He was surprised when Nick rested his hand briefly on his shoulder.
Perry’s sympathy was entirely with Horace, but at the same time he was uncomfortably aware that the situation at Angel’s Rest was not what he’d imagined, and he’d dragged Nick right into the middle of it. Maybe he should be comforting Nick.
They retraced their steps to the lobby, where they found Enzo Juri—Horace’s former bodyguard and driver—waiting for them.
Perry had met Enzo the evening before when Horace had invited him to wash up in his rooms, but he hadn’t really formed much of an opinion. There were so many oddballs in the house, it was difficult to judge people as you would if you’d met them in the outside world.
But maybe Enzo wasn’t waiting for them. Maybe he was just there. He held a small parcel wrapped in what appeared to be white butcher’s paper, and he reminded Perry of someone waiting for a bus that had changed routes. He looked surprised when they strolled down the steps leading into the foyer.
“You’re back!” he said to Perry.
“Mr. Daly asked me to come back,” Perry said. He thought Juri had been present when Horace had issued his invitation, but in all honesty, the evening—except for the parts spent with Nick—was starting to run together. Maybe Enzo had left by then.
“Sure. That’s right.” Enzo’s smile was vague. He tossed the white parcel from hand to hand, like an absentminded pitcher. “I didn’t think you would, though.”
Under the scars and weathering, he was probably about Horace’s age. They appeared to have been a rough seventy-plus years, but then according to Horace, Enzo had been a professional boxer and a bouncer as well as a bodyguard. He looked like a former boxer: medium height and solid as a rock, even given his age. He had a blunt-featured, lumpy face with mild, vaguely mournful dark eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I come back?” Perry asked. “I said I would.”
Enzo scratched his head. His hair, what there was of it, was white and buzz-cut very close to his scalp. “It’s just…why would you want to get mixed up in this?”
“In what?” Nick asked.
“Our happy home,” Enzo said with unexpected irony.
Before either of them could respond, he added, “Sissy got to you, I guess?”
“She wanted to talk to us before we saw Mr. Daly,” Perry said.
Enzo laughed. “I bet she did. Well, maybe it’s all true. So what? You ask me, I think the place is haunted.”
Nick’s silence was as loud as thunder.
Perry did not believe in ghosts. Living at the old Alston Estate had given him ample proof that however scary and supernatural events might seem, there was always human agency behind them.
He asked, “Haunted by who?”
A furtive look seemed to flicker in Enzo’s dark eyes. “Take your pick. Plenty of people have died in this wreck.”
Nick said, “Like?”
“You ever heard of Rudolph Dennings?”
“Nope.”
“He was a big name in the twenties. Westerns. You know the kind of thing. Rope tricks and quick draw. He had a trained cowpony named Belle he used to keep out in the stables between pictures. Well, when the talkies came in, it turned out that Dennings had one of those snooty English accents, and every time he opened his mouth on screen, audiences burst out laughing. He couldn’t get work. So one night, he jumped out of his window on the eighth floor. People say they see his ghost falling past their windows.”
Perry opened his mouth, but Enzo wasn’t done. “June Kent was another one. She wasn’t an actress, though. She was a rich socialite in love with Wendell Warren, who you’re also probably too young to have ever heard of. Kent left her husband for Warren, but then Warren changed his mind, and Kent shot herself beside the swimming pool.”
“That’s terrible,” Perry said. He felt the look Nick threw him, but he was thinking more of the desperately unhappy girl who’d killed herself rather than the desperately unhappy ghost possibly haunting the premises. Perry knew how it felt to get your heart broken. Or at least how it felt when you thought your heart was broken.
Enzo said, “It sure is. Once a place gets a reputation for being haunted, you play hell trying to sell it. Even if the real-estate market hadn’t gone kablooey.” He shrugged. “Dennings and Kent. Those were the two who put us out of business. A bunch of dopers and down-and-outers ODed here during the sixties and seventies, but their ghosts would be too addled to find their way out of their coffins.”
Wow. And here Perry had thought the conversation with Cousin Sissy and Uncle Jonah was peculiar?
Nick made a sound too pained for a sigh and too quiet for a groan.
Perry said, “I didn’t see a ghost, though. I saw three people in skeleton costumes and capes. Just as real as the three of us standing here.”
Enzo studied him skeptically. “Tell you the truth, I think it would be better if you claimed you’d seen a ghost.”
“How do you figure that?” Nick asked.
“I’d rather deal with ghosts than one of those LA gangs.”
“A gang?” Perry repeated.
“What else? Early trick-or-treaters?”
Good question. The state of the back gardens indicated people were using the hotel grounds for less than savory pastimes, maybe even illegal activities, but the idea of gangs—let alone gangs in capes—prowling Laurel Canyon seemed pretty far-fetched.
“I don’t know of any gangs that dress up in fancy costumes and carry wooden swords,” Nick said, following Perry’s line of thought. “Usually they go for baggy pants, baseball caps worn backward, and semiautomatic pistols.”
Enzo opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a woman began to scream from down the hall.