A Ghost at Stallion's Gate (18 page)

“It’s not raining, not for real, Rory, it was only in that movie.” Of course the second I uttered my logical answer, it dawned on me that a ghost horse probably cannot determine what is, or is not, real.

“I like singin’ in the rain,” he said.

Hmm, he seemed to be stuck on rain, I thought to myself, so I tried another strategy. “Rory, do you like running in the rain?”

He shivered from his head to his tail. Uh oh, I spooked him with my question. “It’s okay, it’s not raining, not for real.”

“High water not good, too much rain,” Rory said. “Go now. Go now.”

“I dashed out of bed and approached him, and in laying my right hand near is left ear, I tried to comfort him. “Shhh, Rory it’s okay now. This is sunny Southern California, and it’s summer. It will not rain again for many months. You are safe, it is not raining.” I stood on my tiptoes and continued to pet him, running my hand from the top of his ears down his mane. I could feel him relax.

“Okay now. Take brella,” he advised.

“Sure, I promise. Rory if it looks like rain, I’ll grab an umbrella.”

“Okay now,” he repeated.

“Yes, it is okay now,” I said, hoping I could get him to relax enough to trust me. “Rory, are you all alone?”

“Yep. Not okay. Giddy up. Faster, faster. Remember, opening it is a key.”

“Opening what?” I asked.

“I like carrots and bunnies.”

Hmm, I was getting nowhere fast and I had the nagging sense that Rory would vanish into thin air at any moment. “I like bunnies too, and Rory, bunnies like carrots. Are bunnies with you?”

He whinnied and said, “Alone. Cold. No grave.” Then he bent his head and said, “Find me. Plant carrots. Bunnies will come.”

“Oh, Rory, I promise you I will. I promise.”

He began to fade, but he did not disappear entirely before I heard him say again, “Opening it is a key.”

I tried to go back to sleep and I did snatch intermittent episodes of deep sleep in between stark images of Rory standing alone, in a dark and cold place.

I woke to the alarm; it was eight in the morning. Rory’s visit gave me an idea that occurred as I was pouring my first cup of coffee. Why hadn’t I thought to find the graves of Marla, Gertrude and Rory? And the funny thing was, I knew that Rosario had excellent Internet sources for conducting this kind of research. I reached for my phone to call her, and it rang as I picked it up. “Hello.”

“Shannon, I apologize for calling you so early,” Rosario said. “An old friend of mine needs to get in touch with you. I believe you met his son, yesterday in Palm Springs, that would be Seamus O’Kelley?”

“Yes. I did. This is weird, Rosario, I was about to call you, and when I picked up my phone to do so, it rang, and it’s you. What can I do for you?” I asked.

“Evidently, Seamus’s father, Connor, came upon old unclaimed property at a place in Los Angeles. He called Seamus and, well, Seamus wasn’t sure how to get a hold of you. Would you mind calling him, dear?”

“Not at all. Does this have to do with the Stallion’s Gate mystery?” I asked.

“Yes, but Connor was not clear. I believe it is best sorted out between you and Seamus, so please call him right away?”

“Or sure, my curiosity is killing me, I’ll call him as soon as we finish. But Rosario, I need your help, you know the Internet site you use to locate old graves, can you give me it’s address?”

“I’ll send it to you in an email, as soon as we hang up. Now, write down Seamus’s phone number and dear, please call him first. Connor made it seem mightily important.”

“Okay, I promise, what’s his number?” I wrote down the number, repeated it back to her to ease her mind I had it correctly and then said goodbye. I knew that as soon as I got off the phone she would send me the information I needed in an email.

I telephoned Seamus.

“Good morning, Shannon, so glad you called. It seems that, according to my father, yesterday when he was inspecting an old warehouse in downtown Los Angeles, he came across some storage property that has been there for decades. He believes that what he found has to do with Marla Devereux. To make a long story short, I’m leaving in fifteen minutes, and I’ll be in Los Angeles within a few hours. Could you meet me at the warehouse, say about two this afternoon?”

“Yes, of course.” I jotted down the address, said thank you and hung up.

Next, I opened up my computer, went directly to my email cache and there was Rosario’s message. I opened it and type in the Internet address she had sent for Find a Grave. In a few minutes I had found Marla’s grave. Bingo! Why in the world had I wasted so much valuable time when I could have gone here and found it so quickly? I chastised myself for not thinking clearly at the onset of this mystery and then proceeded to hunt for and find Gertrude’s grave and Stanley Coover’s grave. But I had no luck whatsoever locating a grave for Rory, or even a mentioning of him has Marla’s horse.

I saved all research to my flash drive. Rats! I wished I had a printer to print up my findings. Now, I knew for certain where they were, but what caused Marla and Gertrude to die so young was not forthcoming. So, I set about to do more Online research, this time relying on my old stand by of the newspaper archive that Alex allowed me to use on his subscription. After two hours, my stomach was complaining to my backbone. A glance at the kitchen clock told me I had time to eat before meeting Seamus. My research was successful. I now knew the details regarding where and how Marla, Gertrude and Reggie Coover died. I was still without a clue regarding Rory. All things considered, I was ready for tonight’s meeting at Gracie’s.

Chapter 32

Seamus’s directions were easy and I found the brick warehouse building without getting lost in the narrow streets that dominated this part of old Los Angeles. I parked in front and got out. The old sign above the entrance to the multiple level building said it was the Arctic Ice and Cold Storage Company. A set of exterior stairs led up to the second floor. Seamus had mentioned that the offices were on the second story and that I should ring the bell at the door and then he or one of his staff would let me in. It was Seamus who answered the door.

“Shannon, you are right on time. Please come in.”

I entered a wide foyer of brick walls and an open loft ceiling. The ceiling was a matrix of heavy wood beams and copper tiles and the windows that flanked the entrance were frosted glass block. Judging by the appearance, I guessed that the building was early 1900s, the transition era between Art Nouveau and Art Deco. “This is a lovely old building. Has it always been used for an ice house and cold storage?” I asked.

Seamus stood close to me, but not imposingly. His voice was quite and yet the unmistakable cadence of an Irish brogue came through. “Yes. As the sign out front says, this was the Arctic Ice House and Cold Storage Company and remained so right up until a few weeks ago, when my father and I bought it. It was built in 1908. Escrow closed this past week. It is no longer an active ice house and cold storage. Though we insisted that the electricity remain running until we took possession, and of course we have kept it running. Not knowing what might be in cold storage, we did not care to find out after it had spoiled or molted. Shannon, my office is a few steps away, let’s go there and I’ll relate the entire story.”

His office had been refurbished. The only way to describe it is that it was part vintage, of the early 1900s and part modern industrial, a quirky combination that worked. Seating was over stuffed leather chairs that reminded me of a Victorian gentleman’s club library. Three black marble top oak tables were stationed between the four chairs in a half circle facing his desk, which was tailored oak topped with black marble. White glass shade banker style brass lamps provided ample light without the garish glare that traditional office lighting gave. Seamus did not sit at his desk, instead he directed me to one of the comfy leather chairs and he sat next to me. The table between us had a leather portfolio on it. He picked up the portfolio and read from it.

“The Arctic Ice and Cold Storage Company was built in 1908 and it was the premier supplier of ice to industry, commercial businesses and homes. The cold storage section serviced not only has a summer storage for women’s furs but also as a storage for household items that were likely to molt or decay from warm weather insects in the summer heat. Much like the climate controlled personal storage units that can be rented today, people would put their winter apparel, such as fur coats, muffs and hats, as well as household items such as oriental rugs, velvet drapes, heavy tapestry and such, into cold storage for the summer. As with all other types of storage, unclaimed property was often auctioned off. In the 1930s, the building was used more so for cold storage than for ice. This was in direct response to the declining demand for ice by residents, simply because by the 1930s, most homes had an electrical refrigerator with an ice box freezer, the prototype to what we have today. However, for industrial markets, ice was still being made and sold to satisfy larger orders. Hollywood film directors often required large supplies of ice to chip the ice for winter snow scenes in movies. And of course, the Hollywood celebrities ordered large quantities of ice for parties.” He paused and looked at me.

“That’s all of what I would have expected. How does Marla Devereux fit in?” I asked.

“When my father and I first inspected this building, about eight weeks ago, we were told, as part of the legal requirement of real estate disclosure, that a few of the cold storage lockers were unusual in that they were under lock and key from the private parties who had rented them. It would be our responsibility to try and locate those parties to notify them of the change in ownership and to allow them a reasonable grace period to claim their property. That law is in effect with property that is under current ownership, in other words, if the private party is alive and can be contacted via the information that is on file. We have had not a single problem in locating three of the four locker renters, and they have already moved their property out of cold storage. The last cold storage locker is listed under the name of Marla Devereux.”

My surprise had to of been obvious, I felt my jaw drop open and immediately shut it. “No way. How could no person at this company have not noticed, after all these years?”

Seamus smiled, he was every bit as suspicious of these circumstances as I was. “We will never know, in all likelihood. We purchased this property in a short sale and what is common in a short sale is to agree to accept the property in an
as is
condition. We have not had contact with the previous owners because the bank foreclosed on the mortgage, and we purchased the building through the bank.”

“May I ask, why would you do that? It seems risky,” I said.

“Well, first and foremost, we do not intend to use the building as an ice house or storage, of any kind. You see, just down the street is The Edison, what once was the first electrical power plant in Los Angeles and a few years ago the building was turned into a vintage styled bar and dinner club. We would like to do a similar project here, except that this place will be a magic theater and dinner club, open to the public. The natural brick exterior and interior is ideal for an early 1900s theme dinner theater. Of course, we must bring the building up to code, so, we had an architect check it out before we bought and doing so will not be a problem. The building is sound. But we absolutely cannot go forward with our plans until all the locker rental files are resolved.”

“At that brings us up to yesterday, when your father discovered the cold storage locker in Marla’s name?” I asked.

“Correct. And now that you are here, we will open the locker.” Seamus stood up and I followed him out to the hall and down two flights of stairs to a partially underground room.

I looked around and noticed that a large dock door was at one side of the building. Pointing to it, I asked, “Where does that lead?”

“That is the loading dock and it is accessed via an alley off the main street. This part of the building is partially underground. I think the phrase to describe it is a walkout basement. Over there, where the cold storage rooms are, is underground. We are going over there.”

We walked over to another huge door and Seamus pushed a large button on the wall to the side of the door. The door slowly lifted, exposing yet another brick room. We stepped inside, turned right and walked a few feet into a corridor. Three men were waiting for us. Seamus introduced me to his staff. Next, we turned a corner and to my surprise, we faced a bank of four rooms, all were open except one. By all appearances, they looked very muck like contemporary storage lockers. Every step closer we got to the storage locker that was deemed as Marla’s, the temperature plummeted. On the wall near the locker, an old mercury stick thermometer read sixty degrees. A huge padlock had to be cut. The crew stepped back as Seamus leaned down to lift the door. He had it partly opened when it begun to shut and the man named Steve reached in to help Seamus continue opening the door. Once it was fully opened, Seamus asked one of the other men to get a steel ladder to put underneath it as a prop, that would make sure the door could not close on its own. Stepping inside Seamus turned to me and said, “I had the temperature raised to seventy degrees so we wouldn’t freeze while in here.”

His words went in one ear and out the other. I was totally taken back by the size of the crate. There must be an automobile inside. I looked at him and said, “An automobile?”