"Elizabeth!" Michael dropped to his knees, to search for her at her own level.
"Hey, guys, anybody seen the cat?" Phil asked.
The murmurs from the crew were all negative.
"Could she have jumped overboard?" The question came from a short, dark-haired woman in a muumuu draped with a fading lei that matched the one Boots's father was wearing.
"Absolutely not!" Michael snapped. Still, he crawled to the edge of the deck and checked the ocean. The gentle, blue waves were unbroken. "Elizabeth!"
His stomach churned, and he began gasping for breath.
"All right! That's enough!" Faith was standing on Elizabeth's mark. The lights had been turned off, but the reflectors focused enough sunlight to create a glow around her shins. Her arms were raised, palms out, like an evangelist. Everyone quieted down and stared. She was glad she hadn't worn a muumuu. The way the long sleeves of her white overblouse fell back past her elbows made a more dramatic effect. "I have to ask one question. You!" Her right hand swooped down, index finger pointing to Boots's father. "Are you driving a rental car?"
"Why, yes." His face became even more florid.
"Thank you." Both palms out again, Faith looked at each silent face in front of her. "I know who took Elizabeth. And I know who sprayed the ant poison on the Pretty Kitty." She waited for the gasps to subside. "We will all turn toward the railing, eyes shut, while I count to thirty. During that time, I expect Elizabeth to reappear on her mark. Otherwise, the person responsible will be looking at both civil and criminal charges. Which will not be good for that person's livelihood. Now! Toward the railing. One! Two!"
Faith had reached twenty-seven by the time she heard the soft Mrowr and felt Elizabeth rub against her leg.
"Elizabeth!" Michael cried.
"Thank you all," Faith said, bowing, as the crew applauded.
"Let's get ready for the next take!" Phil shouted. "New can of cat food. Clean up the mess from the old one!"
"I'd like to fix the dish," Faith said.
"Down the stairs to the galley." Phil pointed toward the low cabin.
Michael hugged Elizabeth. He even sobbed a little into her fur, which she didn't like at all.
Faith returned a moment later with the crystal dish, piled high. She set it down on the mark.
Michael released Elizabeth in the general area of the other mark. The cat swiftly groomed the spot where Michael's tears had dampened her fur and then settled precisely in the center of the taped cross, tail flaring gracefully.
"Roll the tape!" Phil called. "Let's do it again!"
Take two went without a hitch. Elizabeth approached the food daintily, then attacked it with gusto.
When she was finished, she sat back and cleaned her face, first with her tongue, then with her paw. The camera captured her entire performance.
"Perfect!" Phil said. "Now the high five!"
Michael prepared for the signature shot that gave Elizabeth her value. He would kneel, with his right arm raised, and snap his fingers. Elizabeth would leap up and slap his palm with her right paw.
This, too, she did perfectly.
"That's a wrap for the cat," Phil said. "Thanks, Michael. Good job."
"You're welcome." Michael had Elizabeth in his arms as soon as he heard the word wrap.
Faith retrieved the carrier from the top of the low cabin, where she had placed it for safekeeping.
"The car's about two blocks away. You want me to get it?" Eddie Inouye materialized next to her.
"I think we can walk back to the hotel," she said. "We want to see a little of Lahaina, and we can do that this afternoon. But tomorrow morning at ten we'd like to leave for some sightseeing, especially the Sacred Pools of Hana. Do you think you could pick us up then?"
"I'll be there." Eddie grinned at her and took off again.
Michael snapped the carrier shut. Jennifer grabbed his arm before he could pick it up.
"I'm so glad Elizabeth is all right," she said. "Really."
Faith had already started down the ladder by the time Michael caught up. He handed her the carrier, then followed her down.
"All right," he said, as they picked their way between cables toward the street. "Which of them was it? Eddie or Jennifer?"
"Both. Eddie sprayed the ant poison, Jennifer grabbed the cat."
"How did you figure it out?"
"Well, I guessed a lot of it. I knew when Eddie said he wouldn't give you away on the cat food that someone else had been talking in his car. It wasn't Marlene's family, because they had a rental. Most members of the crew rode in the trucks with the equipment." She paused until they passed the trucks in question. "And Jennifer pointedly told us that Phil wanted this job to lead to more—not realizing that the best outcome for Phil would be a great commercial, which he wouldn't get if he cast a bad actress in the lead, just to do a favor for the big boss. Favors get more work only at Jennifer's level. Not only that, but from the look on her face when she asked where Eddie was, it occurred to me that he might be a little less available than he was yesterday."
"She enlisted him in the plot?"
"Such as it was. Mostly improvised, I think." They were back on the narrow sidewalk. Faith surveyed the small shops across the street, with their window displays of muumuus. "How about lunch?"
"Tell me the rest first."
"Eddie didn't think we'd suspect ant poison, after you told him that Elizabeth didn't normally eat Pretty Kitty. He thought you'd suspect simple cat perversity."
Michael raised his eyebrows innocently.
"Mrowr," Elizabeth said.
"I know, dear," Faith said to the carrier. "You're a professional. That's the point."
"But when sabotaging the food didn't work, someone had to grab her, someone who knew her, hence Jennifer."
"Good work," Faith said dryly, patting Michael's shoulder.
"How did you know it was ant poison?"
"I didn't. I just thought ants are a problem in tropical climates, so wherever there was food, there had to be ant poison. I checked the galley when I refilled the dish, and I was right."
"I'm awfully glad you're here," Michael said. "I may not always tell you that, but I am grateful for your friendship. I'll buy lunch."
"Here today, dead to Maui," Faith said. "Lunch will do for a start. And did you say you had an appointment for a massage this afternoon?"
"It's yours." Michael sighed.
"Take Elizabeth, run on ahead, and order salmon for three from room service. I'll be there as soon as I've made a quick purchase. Vacation starts now."
"Maui." The word came clearly from the carrier.
"Indeed."
The Fountain Street Ghost
A Faith Cassidy Mystery
This story written for an anthology of stories about Marilyn Monroe was Faith Cassidy's first foray into solving a mystery without a cat.
"If anybody would dream about a visitation from Marilyn Monroe, Bobby would. But I still think holding a séance is a little silly." Faith had to pause for breath. The angle of the Kings Road slope was too steep to climb while talking. "I should have had you drop me off."
"It's only three blocks. That isn't worth taking the car out of the garage for, when I'd just have to put it back in and then walk by myself. You know there's no place to park around here on Friday nights. The overflow from the House of Blues lot takes up everything for miles," Michael responded. "Besides, only this block is uphill. The two blocks along Fountain are flat."
"And then we reach the stairs."
Michael glared and kept walking. Faith hurried to catch up. They had almost reached the end of the block, and Fountain was level, as promised.
Turning the corner didn't change the scenery. Both West Hollywood streets were overbuilt with beige, gray, and white condominiums partially covered with massive shrubbery. The California bungalows that had once graced the area had been deemed an inefficient use of expensive real estate a couple of decades before. Aesthe
tics loses out to economics every time, Faith thought. She didn't say it because she was conserving her breath for the stairs.
"Bobby thought the apartment was haunted even before the dream about Marilyn Monroe's ghost," Michael said. "And he denies he was asleep. He hired Frankie Fallon to conduct a séance only because he's hoping for confirmation. I don't think that's the least little bit silly. Marilyn did live in the building, after all, which may be the only reason it's still standing. So many people willing to pay premium rent to follow in her footsteps."
"Or whatever," Faith sniffed.
"Is that a polite way of saying that you don't understand the MM mystique?"
"I do understand. Marilyn was a tragic figure, and some disturbed persons find that romantic. I just don't happen to be one of them."
"I hope you're not going to tell Bobby you think he's disturbed."
"Bobby knows very well what I think of him, and my opinion doesn't bother him in the least. I'm sure he also knows that inviting me to a séance confirms it. Why—even if there are ghosts, and I don't believe in them for a minute—why would ghosts talk to Frankie Fallon? Especially the spirits of the stars." Faith stopped at the foot of the stairs leading from the street to Bobby's apartment building. "I'm glad they saved it, for whatever reason. It ought to be a historical monument, if it isn't already."
"I thought you were coming with an open mind."
"I'm doing my best," she sighed, grabbing the railing.
Ornamental urns flanked the steps. The patches of lawn on either side were neatly trimmed, and the L-shaped stucco chateau beyond seemed newly painted white. White scrollwork outlined the second-story windows, which had been further adorned with tiny round decks and white iron grills. Ivy geraniums mixed with gloxinia spilled between the bars, the red and pink flowers appearing especially bright in the early evening glow. The summer sun wouldn't set for another half hour.
Faith knew they were small decks rather than large window boxes only because she had squeezed onto one of the two off Bobby's living room. Before the high-rise had been built around the corner on La Cienega, the view must have been classic L.A., all the way to Catalina on a clear day.
Another set of stairs inside the building took them up to Bobby's apartment. Faith paused again at the front door.
"The exercise is good for you," Michael said. "You must have put on ten pounds in the last six months."
"Have not," Faith snapped. "I've allowed myself a slight weight gain, but it's been ten pounds spread over a year and two months."
"Spread is the word for it."
"I'm not an actress anymore, and the worth of a therapist isn't judged by her waistline. Fortunately."
"Just what I was going to say." Michael smiled enough to take the sting out of it.
"Are you supporting the cultural imperative?"
"Not at all. I don't think anyone should be judged by appearance, you know that, whether it's Madonna or Sylvester Stallone. Or Marilyn Monroe's ghost, for that matter. And I wouldn't choose either a therapist or a friend based on buffness. As long as you're comfortable and healthy, weigh what you like."
"Thank you." Faith decided not to give him the satisfaction of admitting that sometimes she still worried about how she looked. "That's why so many actresses have eating disorders, you know. They're under so much pressure to stay unnaturally thin that they react by bingeing. One extreme to the other. No sense of moderation. In anything."
The wooden stairs creaked as they climbed.
"How wonderful that changing professions changed your personality. Too bad MM didn't see the light and get out while there was time."
"You're being flippant, but it's true. Getting out of the business—and dealing with the ego problems that come when the attention is gone—has a remarkable effect on one's mental health. At least it was good for mine."
Michael didn't answer. Faith was momentarily annoyed, until she reminded herself that she didn't need his validation.
He lifted the black iron knocker on the apartment door and let it fall.
The burnished oak door was opened almost at once by a young man with shaggy blond hair and a surfer's tan. He wore a brocade vest over a collarless white shirt and jeans, as if undecided about the nature of the occasion he was dressing for. His face was as smooth and bland as a banana-nut muffin.
"Hi, I'm glad you're here." Bobby ushered them into a large, sparsely furnished living room that seemed even emptier because of the cathedral ceiling.
A Swedish modern conversation group that looked straight from the Ikea showroom, complete with striped area rug, faced a white stone fireplace. Michael and Faith each took one of the low chairs.
"Traci called to say that Frankie is running a little late, but they'll be here. Do you want wine?"
"Yes," Michael said.
"Who's Traci?" Faith asked.
"Traci Sloane. She's Frankie Fallon's assistant. And she drives him everywhere. Don't you watch the show?"
Bobby tossed the question over his shoulder as he headed through the dining alcove to the kitchen. The dining room table had been covered with a white cloth. A brass candelabrum with five white candles waited under the chandelier. The setting sun had glazed the room a soft, rosy pink.
"I don't think I get that channel," Faith called after him.
"It's on channel six," Michael muttered.
"You must tell me the night and time." Faith clasped her hands under her chin and smiled.
"You didn't have to come."
"Yes, I did. I've never been to a séance."
"Here we are, darlings." Bobby set a bamboo tray with a bottle of Chardonnay in an ice bucket and three stemmed glasses on the round coffee table. A plate held a wedge of Brie wreathed with crackers.
"Tell me about your dream," Faith said.
"I wasn't dreaming, I swear it," Bobby answered, handing her a glass. "I was lying in bed, awake, when I heard a woman sobbing. The sound seemed to come from inside the room. And then a blonde in a white halter dress floated through. She glanced over her shoulder, and I saw it was Marilyn."
"Sobbing?" Faith asked.
"Well, no. But the sobbing had stopped by then. For that night, at least. I've heard it several times since."
"Have you checked with your neighbors?"
"Really, Faith. What am I going to do? Start knocking on strange doors, asking, 'Excuse me, but do you cry in the middle of the night?' " Bobby punctuated the line with his glass, almost spilling the wine.
"You've lived in this building for five years. How can your neighbors be strangers?"
"He didn't say strangers," Michael said. "He said strange."
"I sit corrected." Faith turned back to Bobby. "Don't you know your neighbors?"
"Only by sight. We nod on the stairs, that's all. But even if the sobbing is a neighbor—and if it is, why is it always at three-fifteen in the morning—that doesn't explain the vision." Bobby neatly skinned the top off the Brie and smeared some on a cracker.
"Well, if the vision only appeared once—"
Faith broke off when she heard the door knocker.
"I wasn't dreaming," Bobby said, as he got up to answer it. "And I saw her twice. Then when Frankie Fallon mentioned speaking to Marilyn's spirit on his television show, I simply had to invite him over."
"Hello, dear souls!"
A short, frail man with a halo of wispy red hair swept into the room, followed by a healthy-looking blonde half his age.
Faith and Michael stood while Bobby made the introductions.
"Faith!" Frankie Fallon exclaimed, kissing her hand. "What a wonderful name! Your parents must have had a beautiful vision for their daughter to have named you Faith."
"Thank you," Faith said politely. "I chose the name myself."
She wasn't sure she wanted her hand kissed, but she let him do it anyway. His skin was so white it was almost translucent, held together by a webbing of blue veins and fine wrinkles. There was so little flesh unde
rneath that Frankie seemed halfway to mummification.
"Even better, dear soul." He looked up at her with large, blue eyes that seemed to be focused on another dimension. "Even better."
As Frankie moved on to inspect Michael, Traci Sloane grasped Faith's hand firmly. Traci's skin seemed especially tanned and solid after Frankie's fragility.
"I'm Frankie's assistant," she said.
Faith wondered if Traci wore all that jewelry on television. The left ear wasn't bad—just a gold half moon with pearl and lapis dangles—but the right ear had a cluster of gold stars hanging from the lobe, plus three small hoops running up the ridge. Three gold chains and a rope of pearls decorated Traci's pink t-shirt. A trendy floral skirt fell almost to her sandals. Faith reminded herself that she wasn't a consultant and kept her mouth shut. She managed a close-lipped smile.
"Would anyone like wine?" Bobby asked.
"No, no, dear soul," Frankie said. "Not until after the séance. Alcohol attracts too many entities, and we may not want them all."
"What does that mean?" Faith asked.
Frankie did his best to focus his blue eyes on them, and Faith found it hard to believe he hadn't consumed the major part of a bottle before he left home.
"Like attracts like," Frankie said. "And spirits attract spirits. That's why so many creative people—actors and writers and artists—become caught by the distilled and fermented kind. They're always surrounded by the ones who have left the flesh, but are still drawn to certain pleasures."
"Are you saying that actors drink because they're surrounded by ghosts who still like the taste?" Faith asked.
"Crudely but wisely put, dear soul." Frankie nodded gently, as if he couldn't remember how to stop. "Creative people are always more sensitive to the presence of the dear departed ones who remain tied to this realm. Many admit that their best ideas come from outside themselves."
Faith sniffed.
Frankie smiled benignly, still nodding. "Although saying these beings remember the taste might be more precise. They can only sense the fumes in their present state. And then there's an amplifier effect, like an echo in reverse. The more one drinks, the more spirits one attracts, and the more spirits one attracts, the more one drinks. Sometimes it becomes hard to remember who is in control. Which is why we will call the spirits before anyone takes another sip of wine."
Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories Page 11
