“Is that why you were up in Pasadena, for a crafts fair?”
“The Mission West Arts Fair. I go every year, but this was the first time I stayed at the Winfield. I booked it on Priceline for seventy bucks.”
With the mention of money I handed her the cash, pulled out a notebook, then began my questioning. She explained she was in bed reading when she got a chill and felt a pair of large hands shove her out of bed.
“But really hard,” she said.
“So you think it was a he, this ghost?”
“Because of the strength.” She went on to tell me what I already knew, her neck and back trauma plus the bump on her head. I've made a career out of reading people and my impression was that she wasn't lying, and not necessarily crazy, at least not on the surface.
“Do you have any idea why?” I asked.
“A woman I know, Terry, she's gifted. She's got heightened awareness. Terry suspects I'm probably a vessel,” she said. “Entities are drawn to me, for some reason.”
“And why is that?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You said there have been other times.”
She pulled back her collar to show me a bruise on her neck, “Terry thinks that certain entities choose to manifest their anger through me.”
“And you're always alone?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“No,” she said, then added in a whisper, “I feel their presence.”
“Interesting.” I scribbled in my notebook, having no idea what to ask next. I reminded myself that I needed dirt, something Oscar could use against Michael Niles.
“Have you ever been treated for depression or anxiety, or are you currently taking any medication?”
“No.”
How about over-the-counter medicines, do you take anything for allergies, or pain relievers?”
“Midol when I have a headache.”
“How often do you have headaches?”
“I don't know. Maybe four or five times a year.”
“Migraines?”
“Just headaches, when I'm sick with the flu or something.”
“Are you a recreational. . .”
“Drug user?” she said, finishing my sentence, clearly not liking this cross-examination. “No. I hardly even drink. Wine and beer once in a while, weekends. I'm a vegan, if that matters.”
“Have you experienced any previous emotional trauma?”
She shook her head and studied me. There was an awkward silence and I looked away embarrassed for having asked.
“You're wounded, aren't you?” she asked, reaching out and touching my hand.
“What do you mean?”
“I sense there's something hanging over you,” she said. “Unfinished business.”
How did she know? I was supposed to be reading her. She was reading me. “What makes you think that?” I said with bravado.
“I just feel it,” she said, and returned her hand to under the table.
“Let's stay on track, please,” I said trying to steer the conversation away from myself. “How long, do you estimate, have you been a vessel?” I asked.
“It started when I was a teenager.” She went on to tell me the various injuries she had suffered over the years, scrapes and bruises mostly, cuts, and how the incidents were becoming increasingly more destructive. “If I had known that hotel was haunted I would have never stayed there,” she said. “And since I don't have health insurance . . .”
I was at a loss. She seemed entirely sane, other than believing in ghosts. I had nothing for Oscar, no dirt to report back to him.
“Can you help me?” she asked me, her dark eyes pleading.
I stammered.
“Can you get them to stop?”
Again I didn't know what to say so I pretended to take notes.
It wasn't until after we wrapped up our interview and she left that I came up with the theory. It was the weight-lifting bench on the side of her house and the realization that selling ceramics on weekends could not possibly generate enough revenue to cover rent, even in her neighborhood. There had to be a boyfriend. And maybe this boyfriend is physically abusive. Blaming her injuries on ghosts is her scapegoat.
I drove back to her neighborhood and spied her house from afar. She wasn't back yet. I got out and peeked in the windows for signs of a man living there. I checked out the weight bench and scanned the backyard. There were a few beer cans, but those could have been hers. The next-door neighbor's dog barked at me, rousing suspicion, so I returned to my car.
About an hour or so later the Volkswagen pulled into the driveway. She carried Trader Joe's bags into the house, groceries purchased with the cash I gave her, no doubt. I called Sandoval at the Hotel Winfield and asked if he could review the hotel lobby security tape to see if Paula checked in with someone, a man. He said they had already done that and the tape shows very clearly that she checked in alone.
“Is there any way to determine if someone joined her?” I asked.
“Unless we know what that person looks like, I wouldn't know where to start. Hundreds of guests come and go every day.”
I thanked him, hung up, and waited. Darkness fell and nobody joined her. After another hour or so I decided to e-mail Oscar with a status report. I pulled out my BlackBerry and gave him a brief rundown plus filled him in with my new boyfriend theory. Oscar e-mailed back.
“Halt work on Deluca case.” Oscar responded. “Client has agreed to settle.”
I cursed out loud. All I needed was the violent boyfriend, the smoking gun, and the mystery would be solved. Then it occurred to me that this is San Diego. He could be in the Navy, a sailor out at sea. I drove past the house once more. The lights were on and I could see her in the window watching television alone.
I called Oscar. He said Michael Niles had “done it again,” gotten the insurance company to settle.
“Can they wait a couple more days?” I asked. “I bet I can produce this bastard who's been hurting her.”
“The Hotel Winfield doesn't want the negative publicity. Just send me an invoice for your hours and expenses beyond the retainer.”
On the drive home that night I caught a glimpse of a woman wandering the shoulder on Interstate 5, just north of Oceanside. It looked like Mona. I slowed and craned my neck, searching. Whoever it was disappeared. Was my mind playing tricks on me?
About a month later Oscar e-mailed me Paula's obituary from the San Diego Tribune. I was floored. The write-up didn't mention her cause of death, so I dug out my black suit and drove down for the funeral, all the time wondering if the abusive boyfriend would be there. I got to the service late and slipped in unnoticed. I scanned the folks assembled and saw no one who seemed like her boyfriend. From the pastor's eulogy I concluded that she had committed suicide. I wondered if it was a cover-up for something much more sinister.
Afterward I hung around for the reception. Near the punch bowl I made conversation with a tall, bespectacled woman I guessed to be in her late fifties. She introduced herself as Dr. Roan and asked me how I knew her.
“I was a friend,” I lied.
“That's nice. She didn't have many friends.”
“She was so creative,” I said, mentioning what little I knew about her to keep the conversation going.
“It's really nice they brought some of her work,” she said pointing to a few ceramic masks on a nearby table beside an assortment of remembrance photos. “Her art meant so much to her.”
I checked it out. Hardened glaze represented skin on the mask faces. There was something disturbing about them. Not the kind of thing I'd put on my wall.
“She had a unique sensibility,” Dr. Roan continued.
“I can't believe she killed herself,” I said.
“It came as a surprise. She once confided—” she started to say, then cut herself short.
“What?”
“She once said to me that when she bled, the warmth of her blood reminded he
r she was alive.”
I didn't quite understand what she meant. “Why would she say that?” I asked.
“She confided a great deal. I was helping her through a number of issues.”
“Oh,” I said.
“I, uh . . .” she paused and in a hushed tone said, “treated Paula.”
“For what?”
“Self-inflicted injury. She tried to keep that, and her eating disorder, a secret.”
I stood dumbfounded.
She must have picked up on my reaction and took my elbow to comfort me. “Cutting and burning herself,” she said, “or purging as she did, served as a way of relieving negative emotions, a release.” She sighed and added, “I'm afraid it went too far.”
Could Paula have slammed her head against the wall that evening and then, because she was bleeding and needed help, claimed it was a ghost? Something did not set right with me.
“In your sessions,” I asked, “did she mention her boyfriend?”
“On occasion.”
“Would you know him by sight?”
“I met him once.”
“Do you see him here?”
“No.”
“Did you ever get a sense he may have been violent?”
“It is not uncommon for women who have low self-esteem to engage in abusive relationships,” she said sounding cold and clinical.
“Could these self-inflicted injuries have come from him?” I asked.
She didn't answer and I could see she was getting uncomfortable. I continued. “What was the method Paula used to kill herself?” I asked.
“You don't know? She hung herself,” she said, saddened.
I remembered Paula showing me the bruise on her neck. Another mourner approached Dr. Roan and she excused herself. They moved off and spoke aside.
A young girl as attractive as Paula would have a boyfriend. But why is he not here? Maybe he strangled her. Then he covered it up by staging suicide by hanging. I considered going to the police and telling them my theory, but I thought I'd go by the house first to see if he was there.
It was dark by the time I reached her neighborhood. There were no lights on in the house, but the Volkswagen was still in the driveway. Trash cans were out, and it looked like they hadn't been emptied. I thought their contents might be able to tell me if a man lived in the house. I got out and examined them. I was opening a white plastic kitchen bag when I saw the flickering light coming from the backyard.
The kiln was on.
I made my way up the driveway. The next door neighbor's dog was absent, not barking at me like before: It was incredibly quiet. I could see the kiln more clearly now, its door slightly open. There was a fire burning within, the only source of light. A warm wind kicked up and it smelled like it was going to rain.
Then I saw the many faces. Her ceramic masks were hung around the backyard fence, characters staring at me with dead expressions, eyes black. Each mask was entirely different. At that moment the thought came to me—maybe these masks represent the souls who tried to manifest themselves through Paula. Even though I was sweating, I felt a chill.
I stepped closer to the kiln.
I was close enough to feel the heat from the furnace but couldn't see what was inside. I swung the heavy door open.
Mona's face stared back at me cast as a ceramic mask.
My heart clinched and I couldn't breathe.
Then someone, or something, pushed me. I fell to my knees and raised my arms defensively, but there was nobody. I remember yelling, getting up, and scrambling to the car. Seconds later, completely out of breath, I sped away.
I haven't been to San Diego since.
If it was her boyfriend who pushed me in the darkness, or some kind of malicious phantom, I'll never truly know.
But my skeptic days are over.
I looked it up on an online dictionary. “Gross Negligence” is defined as “the conscious and voluntary disregard of the need to use reasonable care, which is likely to cause foreseeable grave injury or harm to persons, property, or both.”
Grave injury.
Exactly.
That frames it. I've led the negligent life. I'm the haunted one—ghost negligence. Consider this is my full disclosure.
I am stigmatized property.
Copyright © 2012 John Shepphird
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Department: BOOKED & PRINTED
by Robert C. Hahn
For years, consolidation among book publishers was a cause for alarm among authors, agents, booksellers, and readers: as the number of big publishers dwindled, the concern ran, the fewer would be the opportunities for midlist authors to be published, and the narrower would be the range of works offered to readers.
But nature abhors a vacuum, and in the mystery field especially, smaller, more agile, and more focused alternatives have sprung up to meet the demands that the few remaining big houses no longer satisfy. Moreover, advances in printing and information technology have lowered the barriers to entry for aspiring new publishers who know the mystery market well enough to identify a niche that they can fill.
Within recent years, for example, Hard Case Crime and Akashic Books have brought a hardboiled sensibility to the mix, joining such established indy publishers as Crippen & Landru (which specializes in short story collections) and Poisoned Pen (traditional whodunits). Melville House has introduced a line of international crime fiction, adding a depth to the bookstore shelves that complements the offerings of Soho Crime. And Oceanview Publishing has joined Five Star in bringing out terrific books by overlooked authors.
This month we look at recent books from three of the newer indy publishers and imprints. These books also share common thematic elements as each incorporates filmmaking as an essential component of their mystery.
* * * *
Arundel Publishing is a brand-new independent publisher of non-fiction, mystery, and young adult fiction headquartered in Warwick, N.Y. Their initial mystery title, These Violent Delights ($14.95) by Sharon Linnéa, is also the debut of a new series set in the movie industry.
As the twentieth anniversary of the film classic Tristan and Isolde approaches, studio Paramount prepares its first ever DVD release, but a planned reunion of cast and crew faces certain challenges. For director Pierce Hall, who also played King Mark, the film was both his greatest achievement and his final one: He died just before the film's initial release. The movie's male lead, Peter Dalton (Tristan), had other major roles, but then he disappeared completely a decade later, his fate unknown. And though the film made a star of newcomer Anastasia Day (Isolde), she subsequently appeared in only a play and a couple of movies before marrying the elderly Sir Neville Huntington and becoming the Duchess of Esmonde; since his death, she has lived as a virtual recluse in their stately home.
* * * *
* * * *
When Anastasia receives a call from Leah Hall, the daughter of Peter Dalton and now a director, she realizes just how many of the cast and crew of Tristan and Isolde are already dead. Three died violent deaths and a number of others could be considered suspicious. As the date for the reunion draws closer, there are more deaths and both threats and attempts on the lives of other cast members.
Linnéa delivers a romantic suspense novel in which the fatal triangle that ensnared Tristan, Isolde, and King Mark is reflected in that which ensnared the three movie stars, making the two tragedies seem equally inevitable.
* * * *
Créme de la Crime has been around since 2004, but in 2011 it became an imprint of Severn House, where it publishes new works by some of Britain's most well-established crime writers, such as Simon Brett and Paul Doherty, as well as some less well known to American audiences, such as Paul Johnston. Johnston writes three series, including the Quint Dalrymple procedurals set in near-future Edinburgh, and the Matt Wells mysteries, which feature a crime novelist.
Johnston's half-Greek, half-Scots P.I. Alex Mavros is the focus of the t
hird, a delightfully offbeat detective whose specialty is locating missing persons. The Silver Stain ($28.95) is his fourth outing.
* * * *
* * * *
Mavros is visited by American film director Luke Jannet and his assistant Alice Quincy, who offer him an exorbitant fee to go to the site where they are filming “Freedom or Death,” a movie about the Battle of Crete in 1941. The personal assistant to the film's star, Cara Parks, is missing, and Cara is refusing to perform until she is found.
Memories of the war are still bitter on Crete, and the enmity is personified by two foreigners who have made Crete their home and are acting as consultants on the film. Rudolf Kersten was among the Nazi paratroopers who invaded Crete and began the bloody struggle. Acquiring great wealth after the war, Kersten returned to Crete and attempted to make reparations by building the Heavenly Blue Resort, a first-class hotel that provided employment for many Cretans during its reconstruction and afterwards as well. Englishman David Waggoner was a Special Operations Executive who fought with the resistance against the Nazis; he now lives in a remote village and doesn't believe that Kersten was innocent of participation in German atrocities.
Mavros handles a coin theft for Rudolf Kersten, then makes quick work of finding the star's assistant, Maria Kondos, helping to rescue her from the village where she had been taken. Unfortunately things heat up once more when one of the consultants is found dead, and Maria, not yet recovered from her first ordeal, is kidnapped again.
A vivid background is supplied with snippets of memoirs from both Waggoner and Kersten, and as Mavros probes the antagonism between the men he discovers an unexpected personal connection to the events on Crete.
Johnston's resumption of the Mavros series after an eight-year hiatus is welcome indeed and should encourage readers to seek out the earlier novels.
* * * *
Camel Press, a new imprint of Seattle-based publisher Coffeetown Press, bills itself as “a feisty little publisher with a mission” publishing “romance, mystery/suspense, science fiction, horror or any combination of the above.” One of their new publications is the debut novel by James L. Conway Dead and Not So Buried ($15.95).
AHMM, July/August 2012 Page 18
