Dreams of Jeannie and Other Stories Part 14

"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 pa.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+p. 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 ma.s.sage 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 Ca.s.sidy Mystery

This story written for an anthology of stories about Marilyn Monroe was Faith Ca.s.sidy'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 seance 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 ma.s.sive 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. Aesthetics 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 seance 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 seance 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 cla.s.sic 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 s.h.a.ggy blond hair and a surfer's tan. He wore a brocade vest over a collarless white s.h.i.+rt 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 m.u.f.fin.

"Hi, I'm glad you're here." Bobby ushered them into a large, spa.r.s.ely 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 a.s.sistant. 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 bra.s.s 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 seance."

"Here we are, darlings." Bobby set a bamboo tray with a bottle of Chardonnay in an ice bucket and three stemmed gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.s. "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 gla.s.s, 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-"