Midnight Whispers Read online

  Chapter Five

  The journals recovered from Jay Dean Mitchell’s room, hidden in a box in the back of his closet, proved conclusively that he had been the killer known as the Doodler. Not only did his handwriting match that on the drawings left at the crime scenes, but he had kept samples of hair from his victims and carefully labeled each one. Major newspapers across the country announced the news and applauded the SFPD for solving the two-decades-old case. No mention was made in the media of Blake’s involvement. The official story was that Jay Dean Mitchell was being investigated as another possible victim of the killer, based on his unsolved death at the hands of a hit-and-run driver around the time of the murders. Mrs. Mitchell—broken and humiliated—agreed not to speak to the press about the visit from the famous ghost hunter. And Blake, while happy about helping to solve the case, couldn’t help but feel guilty about tricking Mrs. Mitchell.

  “But he was a murderer,” Brian said, exasperation creeping into his voice, “one of the worst in California history!” He jumped up from the bed and began to dress, not wanting to argue.

  “I know,” Blake replied. “But she wasn’t. And for twenty-odd years she believed her son was a good person who was simply killed by a hit-and-run driver. I helped ruin that memory, possibly speeding up that old woman’s death.”

  “Oh, come on.” Brian turned away from Blake. “You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “She’s old,” Blake replied sadly. “Now I doubt if even her neighbors will speak to her.”

  “That’s not your problem.” Brian pulled on his shirt. “You were just helping us solve a case.”

  Blake nodded, but couldn’t get Mrs. Mitchell’s face out of his head. She made him miss his own parents, now retired to a small town outside Albuquerque after they sold the Danzig Brothers Circus to a larger conglomerate. He said so to Brian, who sighed loudly and stopped putting his clothes on.

  “Maybe you should go visit them,” he said, sitting down on the bed where Blake was lying. He tenderly kissed him on the forehead. “A trip might make you feel better.”

  Blake sighed.

  “I can’t.” He propped himself up on his elbows. “I’m scheduled to film some segments of the show for FX this weekend in Los Angeles.”

  “Oh.” Brian looked crestfallen. “When did you intend to tell me that?”

  “I thought I did.” Seeing the look on Brian’s face, he said, “Jesus. It’s my job.”

  Blake jumped out of bed and walked into the adjoining bathroom. Brian admired his hairy, muscular ass as he crossed the room, and shook his head. Brian put on his tie. He was grabbing his jacket from the back of an armchair when Blake re-emerged from the bathroom and pulled on the pair of boxer shorts he had earlier discarded on the floor.

  “Look,” he said, taking Brian in his arms. “I’m sorry if I forgot to tell you about this weekend. Why don’t you come down with me?”

  “I can’t.” Brian kissed him lightly on the lips. “I have to attend a police seminar in Oakland this weekend.”

  Blake nodded and stooped to pick up a discarded T-shirt. “We’re not working out, are we?” he asked, without making eye contact.

  “No.” The word caught in Brian’s throat.

  “What can I do?” Blake sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Brian sat next to Blake and put a hand on his leg. “We’re just too different,” he said hesitantly. “You travel a lot, which I understand, and then there’s the whole ghost thing.”

  “The ‘ghost thing’ used to freak me out, too, Brian, but it’s who I am. I can’t help it.”

  “It’s just weird, waking up in the middle of the night, hearing you whispering to people who aren’t even there. Sometimes I feel like I’m going crazy.”

  Blake laughed. Not a forced, angry laugh, but a sincere, heartfelt laugh. Midnight, the time between day and night, had always been a difficult time for him because of the number of ghosts active. It wasn’t as bad as Halloween, but close. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, arising from the bed. “I know how creepy that must be. But can we try to work this out? I really like you, Brian.”

  Brian slowly nodded, then rose, embracing Blake. “We’ll talk when you get back from LA.”

  As Brian left the apartment, Blake couldn’t help but wonder if he had just left for good.

  *

  For most of their southbound flight, Blake sat lost in silent contemplation. Melody, who was seated next to him reading a magazine, finally nudged him and asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I was just thinking about Brian.”

  “Listen, Brian’s a good guy and everything, but if it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.”

  Blake looked at her with what felt like a hangdog expression.

  “I’m just saying, you haven’t known each other that long and at least you haven’t moved in together yet.”

  “This from a lesbian.” Blake felt better—good enough to tease her. “How does it go? Rent a U-Haul after the second date?”

  Melody playfully slapped his arm with the rolled-up magazine. “Well, this lesbian hasn’t seen any action in months,” she groaned, “so I wouldn’t know.”

  *

  Blake had never had a great opinion of Los Angeles, considering the city too reliant on cars and plastic surgeons, although he viewed Hollywood with an almost childlike nostalgia. Hollywood Boulevard, however, reminded him what he was attracted to wasn’t real, like it was produced for him like a movie flickering on a big screen, doing its best with a song and a dance to hide the decay of the neglected buildings, the parade of lost souls, living and dead, which wandered its length and breadth. For decades, so many people had come here searching for a dream that was never fulfilled, had worked here and died here, and the evidence was all around him. The teenaged runaways, sitting in doorways and begging for money; the faded actor, who nobody would hire because of his drinking; the screenwriter, who hadn’t had a fresh idea in five years—they, too, were the living dead, passing time until they were ghosts like Montgomery Clift and Marilyn.

  The studio car picked them up at the airport and drove them directly to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. Not only were they staying there, but they’d be filming their latest paranormal investigation there. Situated on Hollywood Boulevard, across the street from Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the Hollywood Roosevelt had opened in 1927 and was the site of the first Academy Awards banquet in 1929. A plethora of stars of the golden age stayed there over the years, and some refused to leave even after their death. Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift, Clark Gable, and a dozen other spirits were said to haunt the venerable old hotel. The Haunted California team was there to film a segment to be aired for Halloween. Because of the number of supposed spirits concentrated there, the producers decided to focus solely on the Roosevelt and ignore other nearby haunted hotels and theaters. This was fine with Blake, since it made his job easier. Besides, he reasoned, they could always come back to the other locales later, for future episodes of the show.

  After checking in at the front desk, Blake turned to Melody. “I’m going to call Brian and let him know we got here okay.”

  He walked across to a grouping of overstuffed chairs in a corner of the lobby and pulled out his cell phone, dialing the now-familiar number. His call went directly into Brian’s voice mail. Though Blake was slightly miffed, he tried not to convey his annoyance in his message.

  “Hi, Brian,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know we arrived safely. Give me a call later, okay?” He snapped his cell phone shut and returned to Melody, who was waiting for him beside the front counter.

  “I got his voice mail,” he said, answering the expectant expression on Melody’s face. “Probably still at that conference.”

  Melody merely nodded, gazing across the garish Spanish-style lobby. The floors were covered by large tiles and, looking down upon them like sentries, ornate balconies peeked from beneath the painted, bea
med ceilings. A fountain gurgled in the middle of the room, barely audible over the echoing footsteps of the other guests.

  “This place is wild,” she said, pointing at the ornately painted ceiling. Blake appreciated that Melody was trying to change the subject, but didn’t say anything.

  “Well,” he replied, “I’ve already seen a couple of apparitions walk through here in period clothing. Then again,” he said, “this is Hollywood, so it could have been someone in costume.”

  “So, what’s the deal with this hotel?”

  “Supposedly, Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift haunt this place. We’re staying on the ninth floor, which Monty is said to haunt.”

  “I want to run into Marilyn.” Melody licked her lips suggestively.

  “Why do you think I wanted to stay on the ninth floor? I wouldn’t mind running into Montgomery Clift, ghost or not.”

  Chapter Six

  The producers of Haunted California rented out the entire ninth floor in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the ghost of Montgomery Clift. Blake decided to sleep in room number 928, said to be where Clift stayed back in 1953 while preparing for his role in the movie From Here to Eternity. The countless reports of activity in the room ranged from a shadowy specter sitting in a chair in the corner to loud bugle blasts in the hall, reminiscent of Clift’s stay there when, in preparation for his role, he practiced playing the bugle. Many of the hotel’s staff flatly refused to work on the ninth floor, citing a “weird energy.” That was the official story, anyway.

  Blake opened the door to the room slowly because he didn’t want to displace any energy by barging in. Melody, whose room was directly across the hall, stood behind him watching.

  Blake looked at the nondescript room, almost disappointed. It was hard to believe that this room, now updated to look like any other hotel room in any other city in the world, had ever been used by a great actor like Montgomery Clift. The new floral bedspread, the upholstered chair, the whole thing shouted to Blake that it was anything but 1953. The furnishings—flat, sterile, plain—were almost an insult to the room where the great actor had slept. Even the white walls seemed to say to Blake, “Who cares?”

  “See anything?” Melody whispered, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “No, at least not right now.”

  He tossed his bag onto the bed and beckoned for Melody to enter. “Do you sense anything?”

  Melody stepped hesitantly into the room and peered from side to side. She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. “No. It feels a little creepy in here, though. I don’t know.” She plopped down on the bed next to Blake. “Maybe we’ll get something later, when it gets dark.”

  “I hope so. I’d really love to talk to Monty. What a handsome guy.”

  “Really?” Melody had a smile on her face. “Didn’t he have a funny eye or something?”

  “He was in a car accident! But, yeah, I think he was very handsome.”

  The star of movies like From Here to Eternity, The Young Lions, and The Misfits, Montgomery Clift had been involved in a car accident in 1956 during the filming of Raintree County. As a result of his injuries, including a broken nose, broken jaw, and lacerations, he began to drink heavily, which adversely affected his career.

  “Well, I’m on the lookout for Marilyn.” Melody rose from the bed. “And I think I’ll go change into something a little more presentable in case we bump into her.”

  “I wouldn’t mind bumping into Marilyn, either,” Blake replied, “although for entirely different reasons from your own.”

  “You gay boys love your Hollywood starlets. Meet me in the lobby in fifteen minutes?”

  Blake quickly changed shirts and checked his cell phone for a missed call from Brian. He sighed and put his bag into the closet.

  Perhaps Melody was right. At least they hadn’t invested too much time in their relationship. Still, if it was over, Blake wanted to hear it from Brian.

  Blake closed and locked his door. The network had hired security guards to cordon off the ninth floor from the public, but, he figured, it was better safe than sorry. Downstairs in the lobby, he strode across the tiled floor to the gurgling fountain in the middle of the room. As he looked at the people around him, some with suitcases, most with cameras, he wondered which of them might really be a ghost. Sometimes it was impossible to tell the difference. He was just about to turn and walk to a staircase leading to the basement when the voice of a child stopped him. He turned, and standing before him was a little girl in a pink sweater and blue jeans. She appeared to be no more than five or six years old and had her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked as if she had been crying.

  “Hello,” Blake said, crouching down in front of her. “Where’s your mommy?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t find her.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find her.”

  He stood up and held out his hand but, instead of taking it, the little girl vanished in midair.

  *

  That afternoon, while Blake, Melody, and the show’s producer, Marty, met with the hotel manager, Blake mentioned the little girl.

  “That was Caroline,” the manager replied. “She’s one of our regular spirits and has been seen around the hotel for years now.”

  Blake laughed and shook his head. “No matter how many times I encounter ghosts, I still have trouble identifying them right away.”

  The manager, a handsome, well-dressed man in his early forties named Donald, smiled. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to see ghosts here.”

  He explained that in addition to Caroline, Marilyn, and Montgomery, ghostly encounters had been reported in the boiler room, the Academy Room, and the Blossom Room, site of the first Academy Awards banquet, among others.

  “We’ll set up cameras in all those rooms,” Marty, the show’s producer, suggested.

  Already famous for the scores of shows he had produced in the past, Marty was pure Hollywood. A corpulent man of only five-eight, Marty wore flashy suits with Italian labels and drove a shiny sports car. He was most often recognized for his hair, however, a curly mass of thick gray pushed back to conceal an obvious bald spot. He seemed to take everything in good humor and always be relaxed, no matter the situation.

  “That’s fine,” Donald said. “I’ve instructed my staff to do everything necessary to accommodate your needs.”

  Blake expressed his appreciation, then said, “Would it be possible to have a tour of the hotel before we begin taping?”

  “Of course. I’ll have my assistant, Kyle, show you around.”

  Kyle met Blake and Melody in the lobby ten minutes later. He was tall, around six-one, with a head full of dark, curly hair and penetrating blue eyes. His skin was unblemished and pale as alabaster. He grasped Blake’s hand enthusiastically as he introduced himself to them.

  “Mr. Danzig,” he said warmly, “I’m a huge fan of your show…a huge fan.”

  “Thanks. But, please, call me Blake.”

  He led them to the elevator and pressed a button. “I’m taking you to the penthouse first, where Clark Gable and Carole Lombard stayed when they were here.”

  As the elevator carried them to the top of the hotel, Kyle addressed Blake. “So, I hear you’re staying in Monty’s room.”

  “That’s correct. I hear there have been a lot of odd occurrences in that room.”

  “You name it. Telephones left off of the hook when the room was empty, calls to the front desk when nobody was staying in that room, apparitions, and even one guest who claimed something lay on top of him while he was in the bed.”

  “Have you ever seen Monty’s ghost?”

  “No. I wish.”

  Melody sighed loudly and Blake playfully nudged her.

  The penthouse suite was an opulent affair, with high beamed ceilings and its own kitchenette. The living room alone was bigger than Blake’s entire apartment, and the room’s decorations were decidedly masculine, befitting Clark Gable. Kyle pointed to a door and explained it l
ed to a neighboring room where Ms. Lombard “officially” stayed, since she was having an affair with the very married Mr. Gable. “At that time,” he said, “this room ran for about five dollars per night.”

  From the penthouse, they rode the elevator back to the lobby, where Kyle pointed out the tiled stairs where Shirley Temple learned to tap dance. He then took them into the Blossom Room where the first Academy Awards banquet was held. As they entered, a gust of cold air escaped and goose bumps covered Blake’s whole body. Although the room wasn’t without its surviving Art Deco touches, it still had the overall appearance of almost any hotel conference room, complete with standard folding tables and uncomfortable chairs. But the air in the room buzzed with paranormal energy.

  Kyle said, “The first awards ceremony—”

  “Wait.” Blake lifted a hand to silence him. “Sorry,” he explained. “This room is full of spirits.”

  Unseen to all but him was a ghostly long table in the middle of the room, surrounded by fifteen spirits, all dressed in 1920s fashion. The spirits looked up at them as if they had just interrupted a very important meeting.

  “Excuse us,” Blake said, and turned back to his companions, excitement building in him. “We definitely have to record in this room tonight.”

  As Kyle led them out to the poolside suites, Blake explained what he had seen.

  “I sensed great anxiety in the room,” Melody said, “maybe even anger.”

  “I wonder if I was seeing the spirits relive the first Academy Awards banquet?”

  “Could be. Maybe I was picking up on the anxiety of one of the actors awaiting the envelope?”

  Blake and Kyle both laughed at Melody’s unintentional joke, then they suddenly stopped in front of one of the poolside bungalows. “The painting on the bottom of the pool was done by Hockney,” Kyle said, gesturing to the swimming pool.

  Blake and Melody admired the underwater mural, made up of hundreds of blue crescents that created a dazzling effect under the blue water. Although the artwork wasn’t exactly to Blake’s taste, he nodded appreciatively.