The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out

by The Ghost Had an Early Check-Out (retail) (epub)

  “What is it?” Horace asked, watching him.

  Perry tried to decide how to answer. His “case” was pretty circumstantial. He wanted to talk to Nick before he said anything that might destroy a decades-old friendship. Besides, he might be wrong about the postmark thing. The stamp could have fallen off, and there might be other reasons why there wasn’t a postmark.

  While he was making his mind up, someone thumped on the door to Horace’s suite, and he was saved from having to respond.

  Horace went to answer the door.

  With a knock that forceful, Perry had been expecting the police, but it was Enzo in the hall, looking wild-eyed. He pushed into the room. “The cops are poking around everywhere! They’re going to find Wally!”

  Horace began to fume. “How dare they? They have no right! The bastard didn’t die in the swimming pool. Why are they poking into what doesn’t concern them?”

  Perry listened to this exchange uneasily. If the police were searching the hotel grounds, they must suspect the prowler’s death was not an accident. Where the hell was Nick in all this? Why didn’t he at least text Perry to let him know what was happening?

  Enzo looked at Perry, but it was obvious he didn’t see him. He said to Horace, “Goddamned busybodies. If they find Wally, they’ll sure as hell contact Animal Control. You have to do something!”

  “Oh, I shall! Believe me, I shall. By God, they’ll rue the day!” Horace was puffed up with outrage, but then he seemed to deflate. He stared at Enzo. “It’s just… I don’t know what I can do,” he said helplessly.

  “Get your lawyer. File a restraining order. File a cease and desist. I don’t know what it’s called, but you have to get them to stop. Now.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” Perry said. “If they think they have probable cause—”

  Enzo threw him a baleful look and spoke to Horace. “Tell them you’ll sue.”

  Horace looked guilty and apologetic. “But I can’t afford to sue anyone. And no one ever wins suing the government.”

  “You don’t pay unless you lose,” Enzo, who clearly had not attended law school, assured him. “Anyway, it’s not the government; it’s Animal Control. They can’t just come and take a man’s pet. There has to be just cause.”

  And Animal Control had it. Starting with the illegality of keeping an alligator as a pet. But Perry kept quiet. He had not missed the hostility in Enzo’s eyes. Enzo thought Perry and Nick were trespassing on his turf.

  “Maybe they won’t find Wally,” Horace said.

  “Hell yes, they’ll find him. They’re poking their noses into everything. Asking people questions about things that don’t concern them. Duke’s still mad about that goddamned cat. He’d just love to tell them about Wally.”

  Perry’s phone dinged with a text from Nick.

  Okay?

  Not one to waste words, Nick. Perry rolled his eyes and texted back: Yes. Still w/Horace. Where r u?

  Police

  Well, that was cryptic. If Nick was able to text him, he wasn’t under arrest or anything, so what did it mean?

  He was distracted by the sudden and unexpected escalation of the argument between Horace and Enzo.

  “I’ve done everything for you, Horace. I gave up my career, my life because you needed me. You owe me this!”

  Whoa. Wait. What?

  Was Enzo gay?

  Horace was getting angry too. “And you were paid for it.”

  “Not for the last twenty years I wasn’t.”

  “You’ve lived here rent free.”

  “If you can call it living!” Enzo cried.

  Perry could practically see sparks shooting from Horace’s red-rimmed eyes. “You didn’t use to be so fussy. You could have left anytime you liked. I never asked you to give up your career. What career? You’re too old to be a stunt man. You were too old twenty years ago. You didn’t give it up for me.”

  All at once Enzo was ice-cold. “If Wally goes, I go,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Then go,” Horace shouted.

  Enzo went through the door, and Horace leaped after him to slam it shut with such force, the bloodied, guillotined wax head of a French noblewoman bounced off the top of the TV and fell face-first on the floor.

  Chapter Twelve

  Detectives Camarillo and Marin took Nick’s recommendation and began their interviews with Sissy and Jonah Nevin. Nick had no idea how reliable the information from Sissy and Jonah might be, he just knew there would be a lot of it. And he was right.

  The Nevins were receiving in their bathrobes—Sissy, completely made up despite the early hour, wore a silver number that would have looked perfect on the set of Lost in Space (the original series), and Jonah wore a purple-and-blue smoking jacket. He was not a smoking-jacket kind of fellow, so the effect was more the-washing-machine-ate-my-bathrobe.

  Sissy professed astonishment that the police were in the house—despite the view from her giant picture window of uniformed officers leaning over the fence surrounding the pool yard and pointing at the giant alligator swimming through the murky green water. The officers were shouting to each other and using their radios. Kind of hard to miss.

  Jonah offered them orange juice, waffles, and a sickly smile. “Terrible thing. Terrible thing. We try not to associate with these people more than we have to. Horace is family, of course.”

  Camarillo graciously declined the offer of breakfast on behalf of himself and Marin, and took a seat on the green love seat—which immediately half swallowed him, though never had a man looked so dignified sinking into the furniture. Marin had shrewdly opted for the wooden chair by the antique sewing table, where Nick had sat the first time he met the Nevins. Nick chose to stand off to the side, where he had a perfect view of the Nevins but was not in their direct line of sight.

  “I can’t say I’m surprised,” Sissy said in that breathy, girlish voice, once Camarillo had explained the situation. “Not that I’m blaming anyone, but people have been encouraging these fantasies of Horace’s, and that just gets him more excited and worked up.” She threw Nick a sorrowful look.

  “Sadly, Bennie Regan, our victim, is as real as you are,” Camarillo said.

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it!”

  “Had you ever met Mr. Regan?”

  “Not to our knowledge,” Jonah said promptly. A little dog hoping for a big cookie.

  Sissy, however, was not in quite such a hurry to end the visit. She bit her lip, looking reflective. “Regan is such a common name. Perhaps if you could describe him?”

  “We can do better than that,” Marin said in an unexpectedly melodious voice. She rose and showed the photo on her phone to Sissy and Jonah.

  “Is that—? Is he—?” Jonah seemed to lose color.

  “Yes,” Marin said. “This is Mr. Regan, deceased.”

  Sissy was still studying the photo. She began thoughtfully, “You know, Father…” She stopped, flicked Camarillo an apologetic smile. “No. I’m sorry. I think he just has one of those faces. You’ll ask Horace about him, of course.”

  “Of course,” Camarillo said as Marin returned to her place by the window.

  “Horace has a great fondness for young men.” Sissy threw Nick a rueful look. “Mr. Reno’s friend is currently a favorite of Horace’s. It never lasts long, of course, and at least Mr. Foster seems like a kindhearted boy.”

  Nick raised his brows but did not bite.

  “Walk me through last night,” Camarillo invited.

  Sissy and Jonah were eager to comply. They told Camarillo all about the strange dinner where Horace had announced he was hiring a private investigator, although he had no money to do anything so ridiculous. They critiqued the food, speculated on Ami Savitri’s relationship with Ned Duke, castigated Gilda Storm as a sham and charlatan who encouraged Horace’s delusions and paranoia, dismissed Wynne Winthrop as a washed-up has-been shamelessly pining for a man with unnatural desires for other men young enough to be his grandchildren, shook their heads over
Enzo Juri, who was to be commended for his loyalty to Horace and the work he did with disadvantaged youths, but who was, after all, a secret drinker and owned an illegal exotic animal that posed a deadly threat to everyone on the property—not to mention all the cats and dogs in Laurel Canyon.

  Marin and Camarillo took notes and exchanged frequent glances.

  Nor did the revelations stop there. If Ned Duke had ever successfully published anything, it was news to them. Ami Savitri worked as a Sous Chef at NBC Universal and made pretty good money for a woman her age, so why was she living in a wreck like Angel’s Rest, hmmmmm? Wynne Winthrop had been married four times, and her last husband had died under mysterious circumstances and left her a bundle—

  “What happened after you got a headache and left the dinner table?” Camarillo interrupted, doggedly pursuing his trail no matter how many times the Nevins jumped in creeks or ran across rocks.

  Sissy’s cheeks grew pink. “Father and I came back here and tried to decide what we should do. We’re Horace’s only living family, after all, and if he’s going off the rails again, it’s up to us to see people don’t take advantage of him.” She did not look at Nick that time.

  “If you believe your cousin is making up these threats, how do you explain the gang that attacked him Friday afternoon and Bennie Regan being found dead on the third floor of this hotel?” Camarillo questioned.

  Sissy folded her hands and pressed her lips together. Her expression grew saint-like. Jonah, watching her, said, “I think we should tell them, Mother. For his own sake.”

  “Thinking is not proof,” Sissy said.

  Camarillo said, “We’ll bear that in mind. What is it you believe?”

  “I believe Horace has hired these young thugs. I believe they are extras in his homemade movie.”

  “His homemade movie?”

  “Horace can no longer tell the difference between reality and fantasy. That’s very obvious. At first, I assumed he was making everything up. The threats, the attacks on his life—for heaven’s sake, he once claimed that someone had loosened the headboard of his bed so that it would fall on him! But if he’s not making these latest incidents up, and I must admit that seems to be the case, then Horace himself must have arranged for these attacks. You’ll notice they always occur when someone is there to save him.”

  “What’s on the fourth floor?” Nick cut in.

  Sissy looked momentarily confused. “A lot of old junk, I suppose. I haven’t been up there in years.”

  After finding Regan’s body, Nick had gone all the way up to the top floor to make sure no other intruders were in the building. He had not found anyone else, but on the fourth and fifth levels he had discovered a cache of costumes as well as a small hoard of movie props and set decorations.

  In addition to all the movie memorabilia, there was a lot of antique furniture being stored up there.

  So while Horace might be cash poor, he did have assets that could be readily liquidated for cash. It was more than possible he could raise the dough to hire some punks to pretend to threaten him.

  The problem was, Horace was a collector, and collectors did not like to part with their collections.

  Perhaps anticipating where Nick was going with his line of inquiry, Camarillo asked, “Mr. Daly is an older gentleman. Once he’s gone, who inherits all this?”

  Nick kept his face blank.

  Sissy and Jonah looked at each other.

  “I have no idea,” Sissy said. “Horace is always changing his will.” She glanced at Nick. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this week your wide-eyed young friend is Horace’s so-called heir.” She gave a ladylike snort.

  After interviewing the Nevins, Camarillo and Marin moved on to Gilda Storm, who spent thirty minutes babbling about the dark presence haunting Angel’s Rest, two minutes complaining that the radiator in her apartment didn’t work, and one final minute on the likelihood of Wally the Alligator killing someone if the law didn’t do something.

  “Animal Control has been notified,” Camarillo reassured her.

  Next up was Ami Savitri, who offered them raspberry turnovers and the information that she liked to bake when she was stressed.

  To which Marin replied, “Your cookie jar must never be empty in this place.”

  Amy made a face. “It wasn’t so bad at first. It was even kind of fun. The rent was amazing, and everyone seemed quirky and colorful. I loved Horace’s movies when I was a kid. But lately, yeah, it’s been weird.”

  She was a polite and conscientious witness. She professed to have no knowledge of the dead man and admitted that until the previous evening, she too had believed Horace was making up the threatening letters and mysterious accidents-that-weren’t-accidents.

  “I figured he was bored and lonely,” she said and winced. “I feel terrible now. Imagine something like that going on, and no one believes you.”

  As for her movements on the night in question, after dinner she and Ned had shared a glass of wine in the old library, which was kind of their special hangout—no one else ever went into the east wing—and then they sneaked back to their rooms and said good night.

  Camarillo grinned charmingly, and said, “Did you say good night in your room or Mr. Duke’s?”

  Ami blushed. “Oh, we’re not—that is, we do sometimes, but not last night. Ned wanted to work, and he has to obey the muse when she calls. I guess.”

  Hoo-boy, Nick thought. She really liked Duke if she could swallow that line of guff whole.

  It was obvious to Nick that not only was Savitri not part of any sinister conspiracy—thanks to being the kind of person who minded her own business—she was not going to have a lot of useful observations to share. Say what you would about the Nevins, they had been a fount of information.

  Camarillo and Marin closed their notebooks and rose.

  On impulse, Nick said, “Why do you think that alligator keeps trying to get into your rooms?”

  He didn’t expect her to have an answer, so the look of guilt that flooded her face came as a surprise.

  “He’s hungry,” she said. “Enzo can’t afford to feed him enough anymore. Do you know how much an alligator that size eats? I used to bring him leftovers and scraps from where I work at the studio, but it backfired. Wally started associating me with food. I don’t know how he keeps getting out, but when he’s loose, he comes straight for me.”

  “He won’t be getting loose again,” Camarillo promised. “Animal Control will take care of that.”

  She looked horrified. “They’re not going to kill him, are they?”

  Camarillo and Marin were amused. “No. No, of course not. He’ll go to the LA Zoo most likely.”

  “That’s sad. He may not know he’s an alligator,” Ami said.

  “Trust me,” Nick said. “He knows he’s an alligator.”

  Camarillo was still chuckling about that when they stepped into the hall.

  “An alligator always knows it’s an alligator,” he misquoted. “Is that your philosophy, or did you get it off Animal Planet?”

  “It’s my observation,” Nick said, and Camarillo laughed again.

  Marin stepped aside to make a phone call, and Nick accompanied Camarillo to Ned Duke’s rooms. He felt a little guilty about leaving Perry trapped babysitting Horace for so long, but the opportunity to sit in on these interviews could not be missed.

  And, after all, coming here this weekend had been Perry’s idea.

  Ned Duke was nervous.

  That was obvious from the minute he opened his door. He was pale, he was sweaty, and he was talking too much.

  “What a terrible thing to happen. He probably had a heart condition. Maybe. Maybe the place is haunted. Why would he be up there anyway? Maybe that accident ended up saving Horace’s life. Because he couldn’t have been up to any good.”

  He did not ask them to sit down.

  “I hope this won’t take long. I’m in the middle of a very tricky scene. Once you lose your train of thought, it’s hell
trying to get it back. I don’t mean to be rude; it’s just I don’t know anything and I have this deadline.”

  It couldn’t have been clearer if he’d run up a Jolly Roger. Granted, Duke would make one skittish pirate.

  Nick was pleased to see that Camarillo picked up the same signals. The tone of the interview was different right from the start. Gone was the charming smile and approachable attitude. Camarillo glanced at the laptop sitting on the coffee table in front of the leather sofa. “Is this an article or a book you’re working on, sir?”

  “A b—an article, but I am also working on a book.”

  “I see. What’s the article about?”

  Duke proceeded to lie—badly—about writing an article on the top ten open source productivity tools, while Nick surveyed what he could see of the apartment. It was immediately obvious that Duke’s quarters were more comfortably furnished than anyone else’s they’d interviewed so far.

  In addition to the leather sofa, he had a huge wooden rustic-design entertainment center with a flat-screen TV and a high-end stereo system. He had a large ivory area rug plush enough to sleep on. He had a seven-piece dining set and framed watercolors on the walls. In short, he was not enduring the hand-to-mouth existence of most of his neighbors. Yet supposedly he was eking his living at one of the most precarious professions out there. As Nick well knew from living with a guy eking his living from one of the others.

  That wasn’t the only red flag. A tower of soda crates—some so old they looked hand-painted—leaned against the wall next to the entertainment center. Nick was not an expert in antiques, but Perry cared about such things, and it was because of Perry’s gloating triumph at scoring a beat-up soda crate from the 1940s that Nick knew those boxes went for up to two hundred dollars each.

  Same with that little crowd of dusty mason jars on the dining-room table. Depending on a number of variables, those could go from twenty to one thousand dollars apiece.

  And vintage marbles? Very collectible. A single marble from the 1800s could go for one hundred dollars or more on eBay.

  Camarillo had finished grilling Duke about his writing, and invited him to share his movements on the previous evening.