The House of the Setting Son: The Misty Dawn Mysteries, #3

Chapter 1

Good news, like good manners, tends to wait for the light of day. So I knew when the phone rang at 12:20 in the morning it would be bad news. Despite my foggy state, I reached for the phone and as I put it to my ear, recognized the caller’s voice. It was Dorine Witherspoon, British dame and award-winning actress who no doubt thought because she was awake, I should be too.

Cassie’s disappeared! Kidnapped, we think. Dorine sounded desperate.

Dorine? Still groggy, I pushed the hair from my face. I barely remembered the last time I’d spoken with my friend. It had to have been at least five years ago, and I had no idea who Cassie was.

I’m sorry to call so late, Misty, but we’re in a bit of jam. We’re going to need your help. Our producer, Phil Petree, you may remember him, he and I—

Never mind, Phil, Dori, what’s going on? I flipped on my bedside light.

Our Eliza Doolittle, Cassie Marx, is missing. Phil called the police, but you know how it is with missing persons here in this country, the police won’t begin to look for her for at least forty-eight hours. Dorine paused and gulped for breath. We’re panicked. We’re all standing around, not knowing what to do next. Something terrible’s happened, we’re sure of it. Stars don’t just disappear. Not opening night, they don’t.

Dorine was right to call. My name is Misty Dawn. I’m a psychic, and over the years I have counseled a lot of stars and worked with the FBI and LAPD on missing persons and homicides. Even half-awake, upon hearing Cassie’s name I felt a sense of dread and worried the young actress was in trouble. Ingenues, particularly those cast in leading roles, don’t just vanish. Not voluntarily, they don’t.

Where are you now?

I’m at the theater with the rest of the cast. We did the show. What else could we do? The show must go on, you know. Cassie’s understudy, Lynette, filled in, but between you and me, the girl’s no Cassie Marx, and without Cassie, the show’s doomed.

A lucky break for Lynette, I thought. 

The thing is, Misty, the show’s been plagued with troubles ever since we left Pittsburg. Alexa Marx, Cassie’s older sister, got sick in Chicago and had to leave the show. Lucky for us, Cassie was able to fill in. In my opinion, a much better choice but—

But what?

On the way here from Chicago, the truck broke down and we were a day late in opening. What a disaster. I can’t begin to tell you how upsetting that was. Props and scenery have disappeared, and now, Cassie. We’re all wondering what’s next? Nobody wants to go back to their hotel room. We’re too worried.

I recalled a story in yesterday’s L.A. Times about the new production of My Fair Lady opening at the Crowne Theater. The show was on tour, and Dorine was back in town, type-cast no doubt, as Mrs. Pearce, Professor Higgins’ forever fastidious housekeeper. The story explained that due to illness, Alexa Marx, who played Eliza Doolittle, had been replaced by her younger half-sister Cassie Marx. The critics had raved and predicted her to be a rising star.

I sat up in bed and pulled the blanket around my shoulders disturbing Bossypants, my calico cat, who liked to sleep at my feet. Bossy lolled her head and went promptly back to sleep, while I continued to wonder what might have happened to Cassie Marx. Whatever the cause of her disappearance, my chest began to tighten. In the past, such a feeling had been a reliable indicator something was amiss. Beyond that, I had no sense of the girl. However, at the same time, I didn’t feel Dorine or any other member of the cast was in peril. I needed to concentrate. Until I had developed a read on the situation, there was little I could do.

It’s the middle of the night, Dori. Go back to your hotel and try to get some sleep. I’ll come by the theater in the morning. Say about eleven? I should have a better idea about things by then, and we can talk.

One o’clock, Dori said. I may not sleep a wink, but you really should talk to the rest of the cast as well. And I doubt any of them will be up and around much before noon. Actors and gypsies, you know, rarely see the sunrise.

I wished Dori goodnight and turned off my bedside light. I would have liked to have gone back to sleep, but at my age the least disturbance and sleep eludes me. I lay there with my eyes shut while my mind refused to cooperate. Every time I thought I was about to fall back asleep, I woke with thoughts of Cassie Marx, and why the young actress might have disappeared opening night. 

Finally, along about five o’clock, I gave up on the idea of sleep, slipped my robe from the foot of the bed, and headed downstairs. I wanted to grab yesterday’s paper off the coffee table in the living room before Wilson, my resident shade and spirit guide, had a chance to dispose of it. Before his untimely death, Wilson had been a successful stage and screen set designer and had filled every room in the old Craftsman with mementos and furnishings from his productions. Wilson disliked clutter or anything left on a tabletop that might detract from the living room’s pristine stage setting, which had once been used for a production of Sunset Boulevard. Wilson could be very particular about the house and everything in it. Including me.

When I got to the bottom of the stairs, I reached for the thermostat to adjust the temperature. The house was cold. Lately, Wilson and I had been having an ongoing argument about the proper temperature for the old Craftsman. Wilson thought I was burning money needlessly and liked to keep the temperature at a cool sixty-eight. He thought the colder air was better for his collection of old stage memorabilia, while I preferred it warm, believing it better for my aging arthritic bones. Judging from the chill in the air, Wilson had won.

Wilson put his hand on top of mine.

Don’t you dare. Wilson cocked his head.

It’s freezing. You may not feel it, but I do. I pulled my hand from beneath his and wrapped my arms around myself. As a shade, Wilson was oblivious to the colder winter temperatures, but I certainly wasn’t.

The sun will be up soon. If you want, I’ll light the fire. It’ll take the chill off. No need to waste gas.

Lately, I wondered if all Wilson’s fussiness was as much of a concern for his property as it was for me. Maintenance of the old Craftsman—now nearly sixty-five-years-old—was a constant concern, and the bills had begun to pile up. My income, such as it was from my readings, was modest, and the house I leased from Wilson’s sister, Denise, in exchange for upkeep needed a new roof and copper piping. None of which came cheap. While I appreciated Wilson’s supervision, I found it as much of a nuisance as helpful. The two of us coexisted, with Wilson residing downstairs in the study and me anywhere else I liked. That is, as long as I didn’t mind his constant puttering and the rearrangement of my things.

So, what is it that has you up so early, old gal?

I ignored Wilson’s question and shuffled into the living room. I wanted my paper, and I needed my peace. I got as far as the coffee table. The newspaper was missing.

Wilson, have you seen–

Wilson knew before I asked what I wanted. Some shades, particularly those with advanced skill sets, like ghosts, can read a mortal’s mind. And Wilson had become very good at reading mine.

It’s in the trash. Wilson slipped into the living room and peered out the window at the front walk. You know how I like to tidy things up at night.

I took a seat in the wingback chair in front of the fireplace. Would you get it for me? There’s a story I saw yesterday that I’d like to read again. It might help me to understand a case I’m thinking about looking into.

Wilson spun around. A new case?

Perhaps, I said.

Tell me, does it involve that call I heard you take earlier this morning?

Tsk. I looked up at the ceiling. You are a nosy one. Can’t a woman take a call without you eavesdropping?

She might if she didn’t rock the house every time she got out of bed. I heard you shuffling around upstairs. What’s happening?

I explained the purpose of Dorine’s call and got as far as missing actress when Wilson began to pace the room.

The Crowne Theater, right?

I nodded. You know it?

I read the trades.

Of course, Wilson read the trades. Despite his passing, Wilson had insisted I continue his subscription to Backstage and all things theater. There wasn’t a curtain that went up anywhere in the world that Wilson didn’t follow or a stick of furniture inside the old Craftsman cottage we shared that hadn’t appeared on set from some production he had worked. 

I’m in, he said.

At that moment, I should have realized things were too easy. How unusual it was for Wilson to be so enthusiastic about a new investigation. When we first started working together, Wilson had resisted helping me at all. It wasn’t until I explained to him that as a shade, a temporary being at best, that helping me might also help improve his chances with the universe. In short, his assistance might enable him to earn his wings—or not. But a shade’s going to do what a shade’s going to do. They have free will, and Wilson felt many of my cases were beneath him. But, when it came to an investigation concerning the theatre, Wilson was more than ready to revisit the world of which he was so familiar. What I didn’t know was how dangerous that visit might be for both of us.

Chapter 2

Wilson and I arrived at the Crowne Theater fifteen minutes early and found a metered parking space in front, along Sunset Boulevard. The old theater stood in a section of buildings along the famed strip that had once been the heart of L.A.’s 80’s counter-culture, now designated to be demolished and replaced with modern high rises and mixed-use development. The area looked like it had lost its soul. Some of the buildings had already been boarded up and were pockmarked with posters and broken windows. The minute we parked, Wilson left me alone in the Jag and disappeared into the theater.

I couldn’t blame Wilson. The Crowne, whose glory days were well behind her, was on her last legs. The impending loss of the theater was a tragedy, especially for a man whose entire identity had been defined by theater and going inside was like paying his last respects to a dying friend. Dorine’s touring show was the Crowne’s final hurrah before the theater’s brass doors would be forever closed when the show ended its run in mid-January.

While Wilson could walk through walls and the Crowne’s doors were no obstacle, I had a much more pedestrian problem. The large, brass, art-deco doors beneath a tiered portico of intricately sculpted masonry, were locked. A month from now, a bulldozer would knock them down like child’s play. But for the moment, they were closed, and I had no way inside. I reached for my phone to call Dorine when one of the doors swung open. A young woman looked out from behind it and spotted me.

Misty Dawn? She tilted her head in the direction of the theater behind her. They’re expecting you.

They? While I had agreed that Dorine might wrangle a few concerned members of the cast for our meeting, I hadn’t expected a group of any kind. How many?

The entire cast and crew, she said. They’re all waiting.

The young brunette led me through the lobby, the floor covered with a once bright multi-colored geographic print carpet was now threadbare, and the marbled staircases that led to the balcony had yellowed with age. Inside the theater, I paused to let my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting. The room, elaborately appointed in an art deco motif with gold statues reaching for the ceiling, included a huge crystal chandelier and raked seating for fifteen hundred along with a balcony and several private boxes. In front of the stage was an orchestra pit, and above it, the stage curtain was open. The ghost light, a bare bulb on a pole stand, stood center stage. I scanned the theater. The cast and crew sat scattered in rows in front of the stage. In front of them, looking like he had come directly from central casting, was a familiar face, Detective Cesar Romero of the LAPD. Romero was a dead ringer for the 1950’s movie star with the same name, equally handsome and with an enviable head of gray hair. I smiled, happy to see him.

Misty! You’re here. Dorine’s crisp English accent filled the theater as she rose from one of the seats. Waving a hand above her head, she crawled over the people seated next to her and ambled up the aisle.

Other than a sassy new do that I determined was a wig, she appeared as I remembered her from five years ago. Like me, a full-figured, energetic senior. She greeted me with both arms about me and a kiss on each cheek.

I told everyone you had to be part of this investigation. Turning back to the cast, she announced, Everyone, this is Misty Dawn. I hope you don’t mind, Detective, I called her last night. If anyone can find our Cassie, it’s Misty Dawn. She’s quite the expert when it comes to such things.

Before Romero could answer, Phil Petree, the show’s producer stood up. I hadn’t seen Phil in years, but I recognized him from his picture in the paper—tall, slim, with salt and pepper hair like the color of my own. He acknowledged me with a wave of his hand, as though it were a pain to do so.

Ms. Dawn, if you care to join us, I’m sure the detective won’t mind. As I explained earlier to the cast and crew, the reason Detective Romero is here is that I went to see him last night and told him we needed help. Then with his back to me, Phil addressed Detective Romero. I apologize for the interruption, Detective. Please continue, we’re all anxious to learn what you know.

Not a problem. Romero looked directly at me. Ms. Dawn and I have worked together before. I welcome her input, as I do anyone else here today who may have some idea as to Cassie Marx’s whereabouts.

Dorine grabbed my hand and led me down the aisle to a pair of seats in the front row, directly opposite Phil.

From behind me, where the cast and crew were seated, a all, distinguished-looking gentleman stood up and introduced himself as Ty Roberts, aka, for those of us in the room who didn’t know, Professor Higgins. Like Dorine, Ty appeared to have been typecast, right down to the square half-framed glasses he wore low on his nose.

I may be able to offer some assistance, Detective. You see, Lynette and I, Ms. Marx’s understudy—who, if I might say, did a superb job last night—just happened to have had breakfast with Cassie yesterday. Ty nodded to his pretty young seatmate, and I sensed a disquiet among the cast that suggested Lynette’s performance might have been otherwise. Cassie’s staying at the Tower Hotel, up the street from where a lot of us are. She came into the restaurant, sat with us, and mentioned she was going to Santa Monica that afternoon to see her sister for lunch. I have to admit, I was a bit surprised. We all know Cassie and Alexa didn’t get along that well, but I got the feeling from the way Cassie was talking that they buried the hatchet and Alexa might even show up for one of Cassie’s performances. Cassie mentioned Phil had given Cassie tickets for the Sunday night show.

Uneasy laughter rumbled through the theater.

People, Phil stood with a stern look at those seated. Might I remind you, you’re here because one of our own has disappeared. We all know Alexa and Cassie didn’t get along, and if anyone knows anything at all concerning Cassie’s disappearance, please, talk to Detective Romero or his— Phil turned back to Romero. What do you call your associate?

Detective Smiley. Romero nodded to the plainclothes detective, another familiar face I hadn’t seen until now, who sat silently at the end of the first row. No doubt taking notes as he observed those seated.

Detective Smiley then. They’re here to help us, people. Hopefully, someone knows something, and we can find Cassie before this show sinks. No offense, Lynette.

Lynette glanced nervously from Ty to Phil then answered softly, None taken, sir.

Ben Silver, the director, whose photo had also appeared in the paper, stood up. Look, I don’t know why this is such a problem. If Ty thinks Cassie went to see her sister for lunch yesterday, then why, Detective, don’t you just go talk to Alexa? Santa Monica’s not that far away. For all we know, she’s got Cassie tied up in the trunk of her car or has dropped her body off the pier.

Was the relationship that volatile? Romero asked.

Alexa’s known to have a temper, Ben said.

And if we don’t get Cassie back, an anonymous voice from somewhere in the back spoke up, Alexa may try to return.

A choral response moaned. Nooooooooo.

Chapter 3

I left Wilson at the theater and asked Detective Romero if I could join him on the ride over to Alexa’s home in Santa Monica. Romero’s one of those on-the-cusp types of cops. He doesn’t believe in psychics. He prefers evidence he can touch and see and drag into court. But we’ve worked enough cases together that he knew I could be helpful, and he wasn’t about to dismiss me. Particularly, since a member of the cast had recommended me to assist with the investigation. I knew Romero was curious about Dorine, and what, if anything, she had told me about Cassie and the inner workings of the production.

On the drive over, I answered Romero’s questions as best I could. While I had counseled numerous Hollywood stars, I had no firsthand knowledge of the stage. Contrary to what some may think, I’m no actress. My understanding of the theater is limited to what I’ve learned from my clients and, of course, Wilson. I explained I had first met Dorine nearly forty years ago when she had come to L.A. to perform in the King and I as Anna. Back then, Dori was young and beautiful, and I was in my heyday, consulting blue-ribbon clients like Liz Taylor and Zsa Zsa Gabor, not to mention a certain president’s wife who liked to call me from time to time and had my number on her speed dial. When Dori’s show came to a close, she had a difficult decision to make. Dori was up for two different roles, and a handsome, young producer was trying to influence her decision. 

Phil Petree? Romero glanced at me from behind the wheel of his unmarked LAPD issue, beige sedan. You’re more intuitive than you give yourself credit for, Detective.

Romero grimaced. I got the sense when I spoke with Mr. Petree that in addition to being a power broker, his concern for his star might be more than just professional.

You think Cassie may have run away to escape him? She certainly wouldn’t be the first young actress to flee an uncomfortable situation. Hollywood was full of women who were finally standing up to powerful, aggressive men.

I’ve no evidence, and I’m thinking out loud, but if Cassie has disappeared, and she’s not dead, Romero said, then until we find her, I’m not ruling anything out.

I debated whether or not I should share with Romero some of the stories Dorine had told me about her on-again-off-again relationship with Petree, the handsy producer, but it was years ago and felt wrong. Like I might be breaking my code of silence. When it came to my clients, I consider what they tell me to be privileged information like an attorney/client type of thing. Since Romero appeared to have already determined that Phil was a man capable of mixing business with pleasure, I decided to leave it at that. As for Cassie, my sense was that whatever happened to the young actress wasn’t a result of opening night jitters or anything to do with the show. Considering Cassie was relatively new to the cast, I doubted they had any idea about who she was or what had gone down, but I suspected Alexa might.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Romero and I got to Santa Monica. Alexa’s house was a small, two-bedroom, forties-era, whitewashed stucco with a red-tiled Mexican roof. The entire property was surrounded by a white picket fence with a healthy hedge of blue and white hydrangeas and was located on a quiet tree-lined street several blocks from the beach. Other than a brightly painted navy blue front door with matching Adirondack chairs on the front porch, and a small single detached garage with a private alley entrance, the home wasn’t too dissimilar to the other houses around it.

The minute Romero opened the small gate that led up the front walk, I sensed something wrong. The front door was ajar and from somewhere, either from above us or from within the house, I heard a bird cry. Then silence. A stillness so quiet it blocked all but the throbbing sound of white noise in my eardrums. It was as though the usual sounds of a beach city, the seagulls hawking, children laughing, and the distant sound of waves breaking on the beach had suddenly stopped.

Be careful, Detective, something’s not right.

The detective waved his hand behind his back and told me to wait on the sidewalk.

As I took a step back, a loud screeching came from within the house.

Romero reached for his gun and called inside, LAPD, anyone home?

No answer.

Romero glanced back at me. I shrugged. I had no idea who or what was inside, but I knew it was trouble.

I’m coming in. Romero crouched to make himself a lower target. "I’m armed. If