“Relax, Daddy Dragon.” Lisa stepped up and put an arm around Sparkling’s shoulder. “She’s come a long way since that warehouse in Anaheim. Our girl Sparkle can take care of herself.”
Despite her vote of confidence, Lisa felt a little twinge of concern as they watch the psychedelic minivan depart the front gate.
“At least she gets to take Aphrodite out for a drive,” she said. “And yes, I’m going to miss her and fret over her until she gets back, but I’m sure she’ll be OK—or she’ll call for help if she’s not.”
They’d gotten a call from Martelli the previous afternoon. Paranormal Activities had a high-dollar contract that was giving them trouble. A very wealthy couple had recently acquired an old estate up in the hills, only to find the place was haunted. The property sprawled over 40 acres and consisted of 12 buildings, including a main house that had 37 rooms on four floors.
Among other things, the new owners kept horses—the estate featured stables more luxurious than the average Beverly Hills house. But apparently the ghost had no love for anything equestrian. Trashing the stables and scaring the hell out of the million-dollar thoroughbreds was one its favorite activities, and so far two horses had suffered injuries trying to escape during the incidents.
It was a strange situation. The place had been built more than a century earlier and had seen a half-dozen owners since then. It was listed in California’s Registry of Historic Places, which protected it from the bulldozers of property developers who regarded any building more than 10 years old as horribly outdated and in need of demolition.
None of the previous owners had reported any problem with ghosts. When the issue first came to the attention of LEI, investigators had speculated that the ghost was that of a recent owner. But evidence seemed to indicate that the troublesome spirit was actually the original owner—a wealthy widow who had built the place over a hundred years ago.
SAD had people who could deal with ghosts—persuade them to move on to that other plane of existence where most spirits went after death. Worst case, they could convince the ghost to take up residence somewhere else. That was the best outcome for LEI, since they might then get another contract to deal with the same ghost in its new abode.
But the ghost hunters couldn’t find the ghost. With the sprawling grounds and many-roomed buildings, the target was never in the place where the response team was looking but would appear and cause mayhem as soon as they left. They had been relying on limited ghost-detection equipment and quickly realized they needed something better. They needed Sparkling Waters.
SAD had contracted for a full week of her services on-site, with an option for a second week if necessary. In addition to a flat fee for services, she would get a share of the commission if they succeeded. They assumed it would take some time to locate the ghost in the first place. They were wrong.
“Ah, there you are…Mary Searle I presume?”
You can see me? That’s odd…none of the others can.
Sparkling had come through the door into the third-floor bedroom in the building shown on the map to be the Guest House. It was bigger and more luxurious than most regular homes, even in the upscale suburbs of Los Angeles, but had obviously not been used in some time. Furniture was covered—including furniture from other buildings that the owners didn’t want. The place was obviously being used for storage. Dust and cobwebs were everywhere. Plumbing and electric had been shut off, most windows were shuttered, and even though it was mid-afternoon, she’d had to make her way up the stairs with a flashlight.
Arriving on the estate, she’d gotten a briefing from Martelli and had convinced him to let her explore the grounds on her own. But exploring was not her intention—because she already knew where to find the ghost. She’d gone straight to the Guest House and up to the third floor.
“Yes,” she said, “I can see you. They tell me I have a special talent for things like that.”
Well, I guess you do. You’re not using any of that silly ‘ghost meter’ stuff they’ve been trying. Those things give off some kind of waves, and I can feel them long before they can sense me. I didn’t know you were coming until you opened the door.
The ghost—clearly visible to Sparkling as a shimmering, ethereal image—was sitting on a window seat. The window’s shutters were open, giving a view of the gardens below. To her surprise, the image was that of a woman about her own age, with long dark hair, dressed in a blue, Victorian-era formal gown.
Doesn’t mean you’ve caught me, though…I can be gone from here in an instant, then you’ll have to find me again. The ghost eyed her cautiously but didn’t move from the window seat.
“I don’t want to catch you. I just want to talk. Can we do that?”
I suppose. Haven’t talked to anyone in a while. There was a little girl who lived here—maybe 30 years ago, I’ve lost track of time—who used to talk to me. She tried to tell her parents, but they didn’t believe her, so she just didn’t mention it again. Still came to talk to me, though.
“What happened to her?”
Family moved away when she was about 12. Never saw her again.
“Must be lonely…”
Not really. I don’t talk to people, but there’s always somebody living here. I watch them, listen to them—it’s like watching a play from right on the stage. You can’t imagine some of the crazy stuff I’ve seen. And some of the best acts take place in the bedrooms.
Sparkling chuckled, hearing the touch of humor in the ghost’s voice.
“Have to ask,” she said. “They told me you died at age 75, but you look more like 25. You’re very pretty, and that’s a really nice dress.”
Yes, I died at 75…and if you count the years since then, I’d be about 175 now. Advantage of being a ghost—I can look any age I want. Still me, but me about 50 years before I died.
As for the dress, it was one of my favorites. In fact, it’s the one they buried me in, but the cheap bastard undertaker didn’t bother with underwear.
The ghost stood up and lifted her long, full skirt, showing she was nude to the waist. Sparkling suppressed a giggle.
“Not a big fan of underwear myself,” she said, lifting her flowered top to display the absence of a bra. That brought a real chuckle from the ghost.
OK…I think I might enjoy talking to you. Pull the dust cover off that chair and sit…
“Wonder how Spark’s doing.” Mark and Lisa were having their usual lunch in the Ferry’s cafeteria.
“She’s fine,” Lisa assured him. “I can feel it—I’ve had this connection to her since the night she called for help. Nothing specific, just a general sense of where she is and how she’s feeling. Right now, I’m getting a confident I’ve-got-this vibe.”
“Hmmm…yeah, I can sense where she is if I think about it, but I don’t get much beyond that. Guess she’s closer to you than to me.”
“I’ve spent more time with her.” Lisa shrugged. “Training her for the job here, plus a lot of just plain girl talk. I miss her…connected or not, I wish she were here.”
“Me, too. It’s going to be a long week…but we’ve got business to attend to. I’ve got the Ramsey woman coming in this afternoon for her prospect interview. She’s got money, so this could be a big one.”
“Ramsey…oh, right. The Angel of Death,” Lisa said with a grin.
Angela Ramsey’s application said she needed to die—needed, not wanted—because she felt responsible for a number of deaths and was certain that if she kept living many more people would die.
“Did we get a Northstar report on her?”
“Yes, we did,” Mark replied, “and she has been involved in a lot of deaths—11 people, to be exact. But Northstar says except for two suicides, all of them have been freak accidents.
“Most recently, her car broke down on the freeway, and she got out to try to get help. An oncoming truck swerved, went over the guard rail, and hit a school bus head-on. Both drivers and four kids were killed.
“But her car w
as safely off on the shoulder, and she was already out and in front of it when the accident happened. Nobody knows why the truck driver did what he did. Police report didn’t say anything about her being involved. As far as they were concerned, she was just a witness.
“As for the suicides, one was a married guy who was having an affair with her. They took a little jaunt to Las Vegas, and he ended up jumping off the ninth-floor balcony of their hotel room. No question about what happened—somebody in a room across the courtyard got the whole thing on phone video, him climbing up over the guard rail while she stood in the doorway 10 feet away yelling at him. Nobody heard what she said, but she told the police she was begging him not to do it.
“The guy was rich, and under the anti-suicide law, his wife lost everything. She threatened to sue Ramsey, but on the day of the first court hearing, she blew her brains out with a .38 special in her car in the courthouse parking lot. Again, Ramsey blames herself for that one.
“All of the others were accidents—sometimes freak accidents, and always involving someone she knew or was close to—but verified accidents. The only thing Northstar noted as strange was that all of the accidents resulted from some action taken by the deceased.
“In other words, the victim did something that caused his or her own death, though it doesn’t look like they intended to kill themselves. At Lake Tahoe last year, for example, a guy jumped out of a boat to save her from drowning. He drowned, she managed to make it to shore. Again, there were witnesses.
“Wow!” Lisa said. “Not sure I want this woman in the building. It’s like she’s got a storm cloud over her head, but lightning only strikes people near her.”
“I think we can handle it,” he said, “but I’m certainly going to watch myself while she’s here. And I’m beginning to see why she wants to check out.”
“So you’ve been here all this time, just watching the show.” Sparkling gave the ghost a curious look. “Any reason why you haven’t gone anywhere else? You know…travel, see the world?”
Can’t. Well, I could, but I’d have to walk—or find some other transportation. I may be a ghost, but I can’t just fly through the air. Modern transportation’s not my style—remember, back in my day, nothing moved faster than 20 miles an hour except trains, and there aren’t many trains around anymore—except freight trains, and I’m not a hobo. I have very little desire to travel.
The only other thing I could do is leave…forever. I could move on to wherever all those other people who die usually go. Don’t know what’s there, and I often wonder why so many just go there without thinking about it as soon as they’re dead.
Besides, I love this place. I built it all those years ago—not actually built with my own hands, but I watched over every detail and made sure they built it the way I wanted it. And they built it well. I keep telling myself I’m just staying here to see how long it will last, but the truth is I don’t want to be anywhere else.
“So…you’ve been here all these years, watching people come and go. You talked to a few people—or at least one—but mostly you just stayed quiet and watched the show. Am I wrong?”
Well maybe I did play a little joke or two now and then—did something just to see how they would react. Sometimes I did things to push them to go the way I wanted, mostly to do what was best for them. You know, convince some young lady that she was falling for the right guy…or maybe the wrong guy, and she should get rid of him.
It’s fun to do stuff like that. Imagine you’re watching a play, and you know things the characters don’t because you’ve watched scenes they weren’t in. So you know when the guy is lying to the girl, and you get frustrated because she’s believing the lies. Only in this play, I can whisper in her ear—like maybe when she’s falling asleep—and tell her the truth.
“Oh, yeah!” Sparkling exclaimed. “I totally understand. I’ve watched TV shows—er…like plays, but…
I know what TV shows are. I’ve been watching them here for over 50 years.
“Oh…well anyway, I’ve watched and been so frustrated. I yell ‘don’t listen to him’ or ‘don’t do that’ at the screen, but of course they don’t listen.”
They don’t always listen to me, either. You can’t fix stupidity.
“Right…but back to what I started to say. Until now, you’ve been very subtle—never making a fuss, never bothering anybody…but now…?”
That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I’ve finally gotten their attention, and they’re upset about it. They want me to leave. Well, the feeling’s mutual. I want them to leave. Don’t know what the next owners will be like, but they can’t be any worse than these.
“Nice!” Lisa nodded at the contract displayed on the screen. “I see you sold her some pre-term as well.”
“Actually, I didn’t do much selling,” Mark insisted. “She came in, demanded the minimum, straightforward termination—quick and painless—so I convinced her hanging was the best way to go. She agreed to the amount without any hassle and gave me the imprint.
“I thought it was all wrapped up, when all of a sudden she started dropping hints about having sex one more time before she checked out. So I offered the service, and she jumped at it.”
“The old Mark Marshall charm still works,” Lisa said with a grin.
“Maybe, but it didn’t feel that way. Felt more like suddenly she was trying to seduce me. It was like she was a totally different person—stone cold one minute, then all hot and hungry the next. The way she was coming on, I thought she wanted to do it right then and there. Offering her the pre-term was almost like putting her off until I could figure out what was going on.”
“Hmmm…wouldn’t have thought you’d hang back.” Lisa looked surprised. “I saw her come in—she’s a looker. Would have expected you to offer the pre-term up front.”
“Yeah…a looker—but more of a Hollywood Boulevard look. Not in the same league with, say, a certain blue-eyed dragon lady I know.”
“Don’t get me wrong—” he held up his hands in response to Lisa’s oh-stop-it reaction, “—she’s attractive, and I’m sure I’ll enjoy it, but under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t cross the street to get her number. And her out-of-the-blue seduction technique needs work.”
“Well, she’s only got three days to work on it,” Lisa observed. “And she really doesn’t need to, since her last lay is already scheduled and paid for.”
“So you found the ghost and you’ve been talking to her for the last few hours?” Martelli wore a look of…not quite disbelief, but certainly surprise.
“Yes. I knew where she was as soon as I drove through the gate.”
“Damn it, Waters!” Wilcox exclaimed. “Why the hell didn’t you call us? We could have zapped the damned thing, closed the contract, and been halfway to happy hour by now.”
“No, you couldn’t,” she told him. “I needed to talk to her and figure out what was going on. The last thing I needed was some half-wit Shooter charging through the door with his brain disengaged and a ghost blaster in his hands.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Burch snarled, getting up from his chair and leaning across the table to tower over her. “Who the hell do you think you are? You’re not calling the shots here.”
“Neither are the two of you,” Martelli told him, “so sit down, shut the fuck up, and listen to somebody who might know what she’s talking about. The last time Waters listened to you two, she almost got killed…or have you forgotten that little episode?” Burch and Wilcox sat back down, still grumbling, while Sparkling looked at them with smug satisfaction.
“Now—” Martelli turned to her, “—you’ve been talking to the ghost. What did you find out?”
“The investigators were right—it’s Mary Searle, the original owner, the woman who built this place. She’s been here for the better part of a century and hasn’t caused any problems until now. So I figured we might start by finding out why she’s doing it.”
“And…?”
; “It’s complicated. Let’s start with the stables. She doesn’t have any problems with the horses. In fact, she loves horses, even though it was a fall from a horse at age 75 that killed her. She doesn’t blame the horse, says she was just showing off, trying to prove that she still had it, and she made a stupid mistake—a fatal one, as it turned out.
“Anyway, she wasn’t trying to hurt the horses, she just didn’t think they would panic the way they did. Her real target was—and still is—the stable manager. Seems he spends most of his working hours snorting Angel Dust, which he also sells to others on the premises. That in itself wouldn’t bother her so much, except that he’s also skimming the account our clients have provided for maintenance of the stables and care of the horses. The stalls are filthy, those million-dollar horses are eating the cheapest feed he can find, and the farrier hasn’t been around for a long time. Neither has the vet, though the account’s been charged for about $10,000 in veterinary bills over the past six months.
“So the client could just fire the guy and the ghost problems would go away? Is that what you’re saying.?”
“No. That would be a start—though Mary said if LifeEnders had been around in her day, she would have a guy like that whacked. You might make a note to see if you can sell the clients on that idea.
“Unfortunately, she has issues with them as well. In fact, they’re the real problem as far as she’s concerned.”
“See what I mean?” Sparkling led the team through the foyer and into the living room of the Guest House.
“Yeah…looks like a furniture warehouse,” Martelli said. “An abandoned furniture warehouse. Looks like nobody’s been in here in months.”
“There’s probably a few million dollars in antique furniture here, gathering dust and mold. But the point is, our clients are seriously in violation of the covenants they agreed to when they bought the place.”
The Dragons of Styx Page 18
