THE HOUSE THAT VANITY BUILT Read online

  Praise for Nancy Cole Silverman’s Mysteries

  “With an addictive plot featuring a clever psychic, a young actress from a legendary Hollywood family, and a couple of mischievous ghosts, it doesn’t take a crystal ball to predict Silverman’s new Misty Dawn Mystery series will be a hit with readers.”

  — Ellen Byron,

  Award-Winning Author of the Cajun Country Mysteries

  “A high-speed chase of a mystery, filled with very likable characters, a timely plot, and writing so compelling that readers will be unable to turn away from the page.”

  – Kings River Life Magazine

  “The author gives us a terrific story building up to a climax that will please the reader. The old saying regarding ‘people are not always what they seem’ fits perfectly in this case.”

  – Suspense Magazine

  “Will keep you turning pages late into the night and make you think twice about the dark side of the Hollywood Dream.”

  – Paul D. Marks,

  Shamus Award-Winning Author of Vortex

  “Radio host Carol Childs meets her match in this page-turner. Her opponent is everyone’s good guy but she knows the truth about the man behind the mask. Now Carol must reveal a supremely clever enemy before he gets the chance to silence her for good.”

  – Laurie Stevens,

  Award-Winning Author of the Gabriel McRay Series

  “Crackles with memorable characters, Hollywood legends, and as much action behind the mic as investigative reporter Carol Childs finds in the field.”

  – Mar Preston,

  Author of A Very Private High School

  “Fast paced and cleverly plotted, an edgy cozy with undertones of noir.”

  – Sue McGinty,

  Author of the Bella Kowalski Central Coast Mysteries

  “Carol is a smart, savvy heroine that will appeal to readers. This is a cozy with a bite.”

  – Books for Avid Readers

  “A thoroughly satisfying crime novel with fascinating, authentic glimpses into the world of talk radio and some of its nastier stars…The writing is compelling and the settings ring true thanks to the author’s background as a newscaster herself.”

  – Jill Amadio,

  Author of Digging Too Deep

  “Silverman provides us with inside look into the world of talk radio as Carol Childs, an investigative reporter, finds herself in the middle of a Hollywood murder mystery…A hunky FBI Agent and a wacky psychic will keep readers guessing from beginning to end.”

  – Annette Dashofy,

  USA Today Bestselling Author of Lost Legacy

  “Silverman creates a trip through Hollywood filled with aging hippies, greedy agents, and a deadly case of product tampering. Forget the shower scene in Psycho; Shadow of Doubt will make you scared to take a bath!”

  – Diane Vallere,

  National Bestselling Author of Pillow Stalk

  “I loved the tone, the pace, and the drama which pulled me in immediately…All the while I suspected something was amiss, and when it came to fruition, I knew the author was going to pull a fast one, and yes, she did, and bravo because now I must read the next book to see how it all plays out.”

  – Dru’s Book Musings

  Mysteries by Nancy Cole Silverman

  The Misty Dawn Mystery Series

  THE HOUSE ON HALLOWED GROUND (#1)

  THE HOUSE THAT VANITY BUILT (#2)

  The Carol Childs Mystery Series

  SHADOW OF DOUBT (#1)

  BEYOND A DOUBT (#2)

  WITHOUT A DOUBT (#3)

  ROOM FOR DOUBT (#4)

  REASON TO DOUBT (#5)

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  Copyright

  THE HOUSE THAT VANITY BUILT

  A Misty Dawn Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | May 2020

  Henery Press

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2020 by Nancy Cole Silverman

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-595-6

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-596-3

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-597-0

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-598-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  To my better half

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It takes inspiration to write a book, and for that, I thank Misty Dawn, who jumped off from the pages of my Carol Childs books and insisted on her own story, as well as the very special group of fans and friends who helped me bring her to life.

  To better understand Misty, I interviewed a number of psychics—not for readings of myself, but to get an idea about the types of people they saw, the questions they were asked, and their experiences with spirit guides. They were, as I expected, varied and intriguing. But this book would not have been as divinely inspired were it not for Patti Negri, a Hollywood psychic, who in the course of my interviews stopped me and told me just to trust myself; that I had this.

  I also want to thank my good friend and Sister in Crime author, Rochelle Staab, who worked with me through numerous transitions and believed in Misty and Wilson as much as I did. My Tuesday walking partner, Ellen Byron, who is a wonderful author and who I ran ideas by. Rhona Robbie, who continues to read everything I write and offers me moral support when I need it most. Special thanks to my keen-eyed proofreaders, George Marlowe and Lynn Akers. They caught errors that my less than keen eyes missed. And of course, my husband, Bruce, who has cheered me on throughout the process.

  And to the entire staff at Henery Press, my editor Maria Edwards; Christina Rogers, who funneled numerous emails back and forth between myself and Henery’s staff, and worked hard to develop the cover for this new series; and most especially, my publisher Kendel Lynn—you make dreams happen. I am forever thankful for your belief in me.

  Chapter 1

  Sunday mornings around the old Craftsman were slow. I luxuriated on the couch, reading the paper, with my cat in my lap and my tea on the table. But this morning, Wilson, my resident spirit guide, had chosen to tune to a classical music station and was blasting “Flight of the Bumblebee.” The sound of manic strings pulsated like a hive of angry honeybees throughout the house. So high pitched and frenzied were the notes that I failed to hear the doorbell. Nor did I think when my cat scurried from my lap, alerting me to the bell’s ringing, that there might be a connection between the song and my caller.

  Unfortunately, psychics have never been good at reading themselves.

  My name is Misty Dawn. I’ve often been referred to as the Hollywood Psychic to the Stars. Over the years, I’d counseled some of the greats. Liz Taylor. The Gabor sisters. A former president’s wife—who had kept my number on speed dial—and hundreds
of other celebrities whose names I’ve sworn to secrecy. I had also worked as a frequent consultant to the FBI and LAPD. Mostly on cases concerning missing persons and various homicides. I was a clairvoyant with a sixth sense about the world. People came from all over to seek my advice.

  Standing on my porch that morning were two young women, both twenty-something—one blonde and slightly taller than the other, a curly-haired brunette with a curious smile.

  The brunette spoke first.

  “Sorry to bother you, I realize it’s early, but we were driving by and saw your sign, and—” The girl pointed over her shoulder at the shingle I’d hung out in front of the house advertising my services. “—we need your help. Or she does anyway.” The brunette elbowed her friend in the ribs, and the blonde nodded her head, shaking like a bobblehead doll.

  I stepped away from the door and, with my hand behind my back, signaled Wilson to dowse the music while I nodded in the direction of the living room. Within a hair’s breadth, the music faded, and Wilson returned and peered over my shoulder like a nosy old lady. My guests, oblivious to his presence, entered as far as the foyer and stopped.

  “Is that a fainting couch?” The blonde stepped ahead of her friend into the living room and ran her long fingers across the sofa’s delicately carved wood trim.

  “It might be. However, I tend to think of it as more of a sofa or a lounging chair. It belonged to the former owner.” I gestured to the furnishings in the room, the couch, two wingback chairs, and an old Victrola. “It all did. Everything you see here. This room was once part of a stage setting from Sunset Boulevard. Wilson was a set designer. He had a flair for design and rather eclectic taste. Women adored him, although I doubt the feeling was ever mutual.” I winked and moved on. “He died suddenly in his sleep last year. His sister inherited the house and all that’s in it. I’m merely the caretaker until she decides what to do with the property.”

  In truth, both Wilson and I were temporary residents. Wilson was what we in the psychic world called a “shade” or a person that hasn’t fully passed over and was, for lack of a better word, stuck. Kind of floating between two worlds. I’d worked with several shades in the past. They served as my spirit guides, offering communication between our world and the next. Wilson’s limbo-state was entirely dependent on what good he chose to do—or not do—while under my guidance. The choice was up to him. But it was all a temporary gig. At some point, based upon our work together, the universe would decide his fate, and he’d move on. Simply put, Wilson would either earn his wings or not.

  “Sunset Boulevard?” In an overly dramatic fashion, with the back of her hand to her forehead, the blonde looked up to the ceiling. “I’m ready for my close up, Mr. DeMille.” Then with a giggle, she slid down on the divan and stretched her long pale legs out in front of her. “I played Norma Desmond in high school. I’m an actress. Or I want to be anyway.”

  She needn’t have told me. I got a lot of wannabes on my doorstep, but for this one, I didn’t see any flashing marquee lights in her future.

  “You’ll have to excuse Amy. She’s majorly stressed.” The brunette stuffed her purse under her arm and joined her blonde friend on the couch. “My name is Carlene Muller, and this is Amy Hendersen. And the reason we’re here is that—”

  “I’ve lost my ring,” Amy whined and held up her left hand, wiggling empty fingers in front of me.

  Based upon the urgent look on their faces, I sensed this was no ordinary ring, nor insignificant loss.

  “Your engagement ring?” I asked.

  Carlene lowered Amy’s hand to her lap. “It’s a five-carat, platinum marquis. Worth thousands. A family heirloom.”

  “I see.” I took a seat in one of the wingback chairs opposite the fainting couch and smoothed my long paisley skirt over my knees. “I assume you’ve told your fiancé?”

  “Told him?” Amy’s voice cracked. “I haven’t had the nerve. The ring was his mother’s. She’s passed on, and far as I know, it’s the only thing he had left of hers. I can’t imagine what he’ll do when he learns I lost it.”

  “You’re afraid to tell him?” I didn’t get the sense Amy’s reluctance to tell her fiancé about her loss was due to any fear of physical violence. Rather, her concern was more of a personal loss. “That he might call off the wedding.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all. He’d never do that. He can’t wait to get married. He’s more excited than I am. He even planned the wedding for his birthday. This coming Sunday.” Then sitting forward, with her elbows on her knees, Amy’s hands slipped from her mouth to the side of her head as though she were trying to contain her thoughts. “It’s less than a week away, and I can’t find the ring anywhere. Who loses an engagement ring the week before the wedding?”

  Carlene leaned across the coffee table. “We were hoping you might be able to tell us something. We searched everywhere. Do you have one of those crystal balls, maybe it could tell us where it is? She’s desperate.”

  I sat back, my hands in my lap. Clearly, these two didn’t understand my powers or what a real psychic does.

  “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t use crystal balls or cards or any such gimmicks to assist in my readings. They’re nothing more than window dressing, and not necessary. As for finding missing objects, people are my specialty, not lost objects like engagement rings. I’m really very sorry, but I don’t think I can be of any help to you.”

  I was about to dismiss them, when Wilson, looking very debonair in pleated pants and oxford spats, slipped in from the entry, where he had been standing watch.

  “Oh, she is delicious. So pale and youthful. An ingenue.” Wilson leaned against the window and crossed his arms. “Tell them you’ll work with them. We simply must. She’s so…needy.”

  After our last case, Wilson had grown weary and shown little interest in my consults, which was of mounting concern to me. Content to rest on his laurels, Wilson felt he needed a break. But if he were to earn his wings, sitting back and pretending time didn’t exist for him was a mistake. The universe didn’t suffer fools, and Wilson’s time, whether he was aware of it or not, was ticking away. This lack of action didn’t bode well for him. For that reason alone, I wasn’t about to second guess why he was so insistent I take Amy’s case, only that I felt this was a case I couldn’t turn down, for Wilson’s sake.

  “But perhaps, Amy, if you were to tell me more about your fiancé, I might be better able to advise you. Why don’t you start by telling me his name and how you met.”

  Carlene nudged her. “Go on.”

  Amy started slowly. “His name’s Jared, and he’s smart and handsome, and—” Amy blushed and finished quickly. “And he makes me feel special in a way nobody else ever has.”

  Wilson put his head in his hands. “I don’t believe it. Look at her, would you? The girl’s a virgin! An innocent. Little more than a blushing bride-to-be. I didn’t think LA had any more of those.”

  I shot Wilson a warning glance. Shades were not to interrupt during a reading. My eyes tracked back to Amy.

  “Is Jared your first love?”

  Amy’s cheeks grew red. I didn’t have to be psychic to know the girl wasn’t all that experienced with the physical intimacies of a close relationship, or that she was blinded by passion and more in love with the idea of being in love than actually in love.

  “I’ve never been engaged before if that’s what you mean.” Amy leaned closer to Carlene, as though she were looking for support.

  Carlene spoke up. “He’s a nice guy, okay? And if you must know, he’s worth a fortune—heir to the Conroy Cosmetics’ empire. Everybody knows about the Conroys. You must have seen their billboards. Their “Bee Natural” line is advertised everywhere. It’s the new botox.” Carlene made air quotes around the b-word. “Made from bee venom.”

  “Jared Conroy?” I said.

  “You know his name!” Amy put her hand
to her heart. “You are good.”

  Anyone who had watched TV or read a newspaper would know Jared Conroy. His youthful exploits had been chronicled in supermarket tabloids along with the Lindsay Lohans and Justin Biebers of the world. When Jared wrapped his daddy’s Maserati around a telephone pole on Sunset Boulevard several years ago, his father cut him off and sent him to an expensive rehab clinic in Europe. Rumor had it that until Jared turned thirty-one and proved to his father, the pharmaceutical genius Dr. Elliott Conroy, that he had sobered up and settled down, access to the boy’s trust fund had been denied.

  Wilson moved from behind the sofa and took a seat on the head of the fainting couch. With his elbows on his knees, he stared at Amy like The Thinker.

  “Poor baby. Blinded by her fiancé’s handsome face. Seduced by his charms and the future of wealth beyond her dreams. What’s a girl to do?” Wilson put both hands on his heart, patted his chest, and looked at me pleadingly. “I’m all aflutter.”

  I ignored him and kept my attention on Amy.

  “Aside from Jared’s good fortune and handsome looks, what is it about him that makes you want to spend the rest of your life with him? You’re very young. What are you, maybe twenty-one, twenty-two? You’re certain this isn’t just infatuation?”

  “I’m twenty-four,” Amy said. “I know everybody thinks it’s all about his money. That I’m some gold digger, but I’m not. I love him. And more importantly, he loves me. Jared isn’t like anybody I’ve ever known. He’s kind, and he’s funny.”

  I didn’t for a second believe Amy to be a fortune hunter. She wasn’t at all sophisticated like girls her age who had grown up in the city might be. My sense was that she was more down-home. The type of girl who shopped Target, tithed to the church, and worried when she brushed her teeth every night if she left the water running.