Alchemy of Murder

by Rex Baron

  “They all concur that your habitual forays into the television media has brought nothing but skepticism from the scientific community, who you know frown on that kind of sensationalism.”

  “But I'm on the verge of breaking through to something really big,” Elizabeth answered with a passion in her voice that made Ruskin take a step backward. “I'm nearly completed with an experiment where I show how memory is inherited and lives from the past can be accessed and recalled.”

  “It sounds too radical,” he responded without the enthusiasm she had hoped for. “All this reincarnation stuff is too far off the mark.”

  “No, no… you don't understand. It has nothing to do with reincarnation. We are talking about genetic memory and its transfer through the DNA in the blood.”

  Ruskin shook his head.

  “Now, how do you expect me to justify that? You can't say you weren't warned, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth could not comprehend that Ruskin, not only did not admire the far-reaching potential of experiment, but found no value in it whatever.

  “Just give me the time to finish and draw the proper conclusions,” she insisted.

  Ruskin straightened his posture and sniffed with annoyance.

  “If only you had come up with something that is more within the acceptable range of paranormal research, something you could print in a scientific journal, an irrefutable evidence of some phenomenon, or a debunkable photo of some ectoplasmic being, then perhaps I could have got a stay of execution for your department.”

  “But I'm giving you a means of traveling in time, backwards and forwards… don't you understand that?” Elizabeth asked, overcome by frustration. “All the concerns about the improper displacement of matter in another time by a foreign body introduced into that time will be resolved, because the time traveler is not physically intruding and therefore has no need to displace matter. Only the consciousness travels and uses the link of similarities in a shared genetic bloodline to find a host body of someone who was their antecedent in the past.”

  The passion of Elizabeth's explanation was wasted on Ruskin. He returned her fiery rhetoric with a blank and puzzled stare.

  “I'm afraid I don't get the point,” he said with a slight yawn of boredom. “The fact remains that your funds have been cut. I am willing, under the circumstances, to buy a bit of time for you.”

  Elizabeth nodded her head in silent agreement, waiting to hear his terms.

  “You must, however, come up with a real piece of certifiable, scientific information, or at least a proposal of a theory that you can unquestionably prove, within, shall we say, one week… None of this experimenting on yourself nonsense, and nothing to do with reincarnation. Have I made myself clear?”

  Elizabeth nodded.

  He left the room without hearing another word from Elizabeth. After the door had closed between them, shutting him out of her world, she collapsed into a chair and, burying her face in her hands, cried from exhaustion.

  Her whole body ached from carrying the weight of her disappointment. Marc was not there to share it, and she wondered if he was at home. She lifted the telephone and let his number ring again and again, but there was no answer. She waited fifteen minutes then tried again without success.

  She drove back to her apartment and tried two more times within the course of an hour, but Marc did not pick up. It was getting late. She could not imagine what sort of business appointment would keep him out until this hour.

  “It is none of my affair what he does on his own time,” she reminded herself without conviction.

  Her mind conjured the possibilities. Perhaps he had gone for a drink and was in some charming cafe, toasting the success of a signed contract. But the picture of his contentment and happiness only made her feel more alone and burdened. Perhaps he was with that Holly Driscoll, who he never stopped talking about. This thought triggered a violent and unusual passion in Elizabeth. She could not bear to think of him with this other woman, who had so much of what he desired. Suddenly, she was certain that was where he must be. She sensed it, and saw a telepathic picture of them together in her mind.

  Without hesitation, she reached for the telephone directory and scanned the pages until she found the home telephone number of an H. DRISCOLL, listed near the bottom of the page. She dialed the number and held her breath. A man's voice came on the line. It was clearly Marc's voice.

  “Hello,” he said. “Hello. This is Holly Driscoll's residence.”

  Elizabeth did not know why she could not answer, but she did not. She held the phone to her ear and listened, as she heard Marc talking to someone in the background.

  “That's odd,” he said. “There is no one there. It looks like you have a heavy breather on your hands Holly, my dear... although I couldn't say that I blame them.”

  Elizabeth heard a woman laugh on the other end of the wire before the line went dead, and she remained frozen with the receiver in her trembling hands, long moments before she found the strength to put it down.

  She sat transfixed, staring at the offending telephone. And then, as if by the force of her will alone, it suddenly rang. She picked up the receiver, expecting to hear the mocking voices of Marc and Holly Driscoll, but instead she heard the smooth Texas drawl of Tom Crowley on the other end of the line.

  “Sorry to bother you so late,” he said in a voice that, at that moment, sounded comforting and without a trace of derision. “But I heard a rumor that you were leaving the college and closing up shop... and I just wanted to hear it from you personally.”

  “So, the drums up the river have already started announcing the news,” Elizabeth answered with a bitter laugh. “The truth is that I’m not leaving, but rather that the department is being shut down due to lack of funds. Ruskin told me that my days are numbered unless I come up with some research they consider legitimate... and fast.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” she heard Tom ask. “Maybe we can put together something from old footage we shot for TV.”

  “That’s part of the problem,” Elizabeth replied. “They think I’ve been too much in the media, too flashy and not scientific enough to merit money from a grant.”

  “Well, let me know....”

  Tom stopped himself in mid-sentence and redirected the conversation.

  “Look, I know this must be a real bummer for you. But there’s no sense in sitting at home brooding about it. What do you say we go out for a cocktail at the Roosevelt Hotel?”

  Elizabeth sat frozen for a moment before she answered. She did not want the intimacy that agreeing to have a drink with Tom might imply. And yet, just moments before, she had heard Marc’s voice on the telephone, when she had called Holly Driscoll. She could not deny that the sound of his flattering comment to the influential gallery owner sounded intimate and implied much more. She was angry and hurt, and her mind went off in a hundred directions, imagining what infidelities must be going on.

  Marc had lied to her, at least in his omissions of the truth about where he was going and why. In the last few days, whenever she asked him what his plans were for the evening, he always implied that he would spend a quiet evening at home, catching up on errands or putting finishing touches on one of his paintings. He had never actually stated that in so many words, but she had been foolish enough to assume, and read between the lines that if he was not spending time with her, he had some private and personal matters to attend to. She had been a fool to assume anything, when it came to her all-too-glamorous protégé with ambitious charm that oozed from every pore. Elizabeth was suddenly aware that Tom was waiting on the line for an answer.

  “Why not?” she answered with feigned brightness. “After all this business with Ruskin and his band of bloodless zombies, I think I could use a good stiff drink.”

  “Great, I’ll pick you up.”

  “No, why don’t I just meet you there. Why should you come out of your way? I can be there in twenty minutes,” Elizabeth replied.

  As she drove to
ward Hollywood Boulevard and the hotel, Elizabeth was glad that she had somewhere to go and someone to meet. She realized that she would have to be careful not to give Tom the wrong impression, but it was a blessed relief that she would not have to spend the evening brooding about Marc and wondering how he and Holly were spending their time. It was not entirely fair that she would use her friend Tom as a distraction, but nonetheless, his company would be a saving grace, and for that she was grateful.

  When she arrived at the Cine Grille, the cocktail lounge at the Roosevelt, Tom was already sitting at the bar. He waved her over and asked her what she wanted to drink.

  “Gin and Tonic,” she answered, as Tom signaled for the barman and repeated her request.

  “Now that I’ve got you here, I have to admit that I called you out under false pretenses. I have an ulterior motive,” Tom said with a wry half grin.

  Elizabeth’s body suddenly went rigid, and she braced herself for what was to come.

  “I’ve been dying to get you out for a drink or out to dinner in months... and that’s still true. But the station got a call earlier today from this hotel saying that one of the guests has been seeing a ghost in one of the rooms. They thought it would make a good feature story... and I’m sure they knew it wouldn’t do the hotel any harm to have a mention on primetime TV as well. I really need you to help me check it out. I wouldn’t want to waste the film, or follow up on something that wasn’t legit and didn’t have the ring of authenticity to it that an investigation from spook expert Elizabeth Winslow can provide. I apologize in advance for my underhanded tactic in getting you here, but, if I’m honest, I’m glad to get to just chill with you for a while.”

  Elizabeth took a sip of her drink and started to laugh, a loud, freeing laugh of relief. Tom’s brows raised in an expression of bewilderment.

  “Oh Tom, I think this is going to turn out to be a lovely evening. I can honestly say that there is nothing I’d rather be doing than a little ghost busting in the astral world to take my mind off the real one. Thanks for asking me.”

  After they had finished their first drink and ordered another, Tom explained what the manager of the hotel had told him.

  “Apparently, there is a young woman up on the fourth floor of the hotel, who claims that since she checked in last week, she sees a man appearing at the foot of her bed at night.”

  “So, what’s the problem with that?” Elizabeth quipped, startling Tom a bit with an unfamiliar brazenness.

  Tom reacted with a nervous laugh and continued.

  “This gal is convinced that the man is a silent movie star, from the days of when the hotel was first built.”

  “Is he threatening her in some way?”

  “No, he doesn’t seem to do much of anything... just stands there making what she called… and I quote... ‘making silent movie eyes at her.’”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Elizabeth asked, as she almost choked on her cocktail. “Is the girl in now? It’s after ten o’clock.”

  “The hotel manager said that she would be waiting for me... and thank god, now I can say, waiting for us. The last thing I want to do is get stuck in a hotel room alone with some female wacko, who is looking for a little silent movie passion of her own. Thanks again for having my back on this one.”

  Elizabeth smiled and patted his hand, secretly grateful that at the moment, she was not the subject of his fantasies of passion.

  When they had finished in the Grille, the manager rang the room on the fourth floor and they proceeded to the elevator, making their way up to room 417, one of the smaller rooms that faced the parking lot at the back of the hotel.

  They were met at the door by a young woman, who Elizabeth judged to be somewhere in her early twenties, overweight by a sizeable margin, and with her face made up in the style of the 1920s or 30s. Her eyebrows had been thinned to the narrowest arched curve, set above a generous swash of teal-colored eye shadow that had been darkened to a smoky richness at the corners of her eyes and continued, just under the iris, along the lower lash line, creating an impression that was very much in keeping with the image of a sultry screen vamp from the time of Theda Bara or Clara Bow.

  She eyed Elizabeth coldly, as if she had not expected a woman to accompany the man from the television station that she had asked to come to her room. Grudgingly, she invited them both in, as she gripped the front of her Chinese embroidered dressing gown, closing off the exposed view of her ample powdered cleavage that had been offered up when she first answered the door. After the introductions, the manager went back to his work and Tom pulled out his pocket tape recorder and began his interview.

  “So, Vanessa, how long have you been staying in this room?

  “Five days.”

  “Where are you visiting from?

  “I’m here from Cedar Rapids. I’ve always wanted to come to Hollywood. There is so much history here, and I’m a big movie fan.”

  “Are you interested in silent movies, by any chance?” Elizabeth jumped in with a question.

  The young woman looked her up and down, appraising whether Elizabeth could appreciate her answer before she replied.

  “Yes... I’m especially interested in silent movies. In some ways, I find them more beautifully acted. The actors have only their faces to show their emotions, and I find them so much more empathetic than some of the current types.”

  “And when did you first become aware that there was something unusual about your experience here? What made this stay, at a reputable hotel, different from what you might have expected?”

  The young woman sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, as if divulging a great secret. She unconsciously let the front of her robe fall open and began her story.

  “It started from the first night I got here. I had checked in just before dinnertime. I ate downstairs in the dining room, because I didn’t want to have to change to go out and look for a restaurant. I went to bed early, about ten o’clock. But at about eleven-thirty, I suddenly woke up with the strangest feeling that there was someone else in the room and I was being watched.”

  “Did you see anything or anybody?” Tom asked, continuing the interview.

  “Not at first. I just lay there on the bed looking around.”

  “Was the room totally dark, or was there light from the window, or any other ambient light source?” Elizabeth asked.

  Vanessa thought for a moment, and then answered.

  “There was some light from the street, and I left the small light on, over the sink in the bathroom, in case I had to get up in the middle of the night. When I’m in a strange place, I hate to sleep totally in the dark.” She glanced back and forth between her two interviewers for confirmation of her habit.

  “Then, what happened?”

  “Well, after a while, as I was lying there, wide awake, a kind of glow appeared at the foot of the bed. It was just floating there for a minute, then, it sort of elongated into the shape of a man. I was sure it was a ghost and I was scared to death... then, I recognized who it was, and I wasn’t frightened anymore.”

  Tom and Elizabeth exchanged a puzzled glance.

  “Who was it?” they both asked simultaneously.

  “It was the Latin lover,” Vanessa announced, without the slightest hint of a question in her mind. “Rodolfo Alfonso Raffaello di Valentina, or, as the world knew him, Rudolph Valentino.”

  Elizabeth shot a look to Tom, as a well-understood cue that she would take over the line of questioning.

  “What color do you associate with the apparition you saw?” she asked

  “What? What do you mean, color?”

  “If you imagine what you saw in your mind right now, what color is it?”

  Vanessa’s mind fumbled for an answer.

  “Blue.... well, a kind of silver I guess.”

  “And what was he wearing? A suit… sportswear?”

  “Oh I know exactly. He was wearing a lovely gray suit.”

  “Did it have a vest?”
>
  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “How wide was his necktie?”

  “It was wide and with a print pattern... you know, like a paisley.”

  “What color was his tie?

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Was his complexion pale or dark... you know, tanned?”

  “Oh, pale for sure.”

  Elizabeth sat back in her chair and relaxed the intensity of her questioning.

  “And what makes you think it was Rudolph Valentino that visited you here... and why this place?”

  “I asked myself the same question after the first time that he appeared,” Vanessa explained with all sincerity. “Of course, I’m a big fan of his work. But I never thought in a million years that he would actually come and talk to me night after night. I can only guess that it’s because of the age of the hotel... you know, one of the old places that he used to come and hang out at when he was alive.”

  Elizabeth nodded her head.

  “And in these conversations you’re having with Valentino... what does he say to you?”

  Vanessa’s face suddenly flushed with color as she formulated her reply.

  “He tells me how glamorous I am... and that if I had been around in his day, I would have been a great star.”

  “That’s great. I think we have what we need,” Tom said, as he switched off his tape recorder.

  He looked over and waited for Elizabeth to nod her agreement.

  “Are you going to want me to go on TV and talk more about it?” The young woman asked, as she unconsciously fussed with the split ends of her dyed red hair.

  “We’ll see. I have to run the idea by the story desk first,” Tom answered.

  “When are you leaving town?” Elizabeth asked casually.

  “Oh, I’m not. I plan to stay in Hollywood. You never know what might happen. And now that Valentino has appeared to me... I take it as a sign that I was right in coming, and that I should stay. Like I always say, you never know what might happen.”

  Elizabeth and Tom made their way to the door and a speedy exit. Out in the hotel corridor, Tom repeated the young woman’s words.