A Ghost at Stallion's Gate (5 page)

Keeping my thoughts to myself, I knew I had a way of knowing. It would take a lot of patience on my part and earning Rory’s trust.

“I’ve had enough of this.” Josh was anxious to move on to a different topic and to get out of the room. “Let’s go. I’ve some work to do.”

“Wait,” I interrupted him. “Francisco, before we leave, does the phrase, a horse of a different color mean anything to you?”

“It’s a popular idiom. Simply stated it means that something is of a different manner than what it appears to be or of a separate use altogether.” He studied me and asked, “What does it mean to you?”

“I’m not sure. But I intend to find out.”

Out of view from Francisco, Josh gave me an “I told you so” look before he locked up the room.

In front of the mansion I said goodbye to Josh and Francisco. Josh still had an afternoon of work ahead of him. Francisco wanted to stroll about the mansion, saying it was the opportunity of a lifetime to have it all to himself for snooping about.

I drove away with the promise to call both of them if I came up with additional information. But for now, I really wanted to get back to my cottage to study the materials I was using to write the publicity brochure. And I desperately wanted to go over the copies of photos and newspaper accounts about Reggie Coover that Gracie had given to me. Previously I had put them aside, not knowing what to do with them. Now, I knew exactly what to do with them. And to myself, I promised that after being in that stuffy room, I would open the cottage windows wide and breathe in the sweet fragrance of roses.

I felt tired, wilted and a little annoyed with Josh.

Chapter 8

Sitting at the small desk in the living room of my cottage I sipped iced tea, and inhaled the delicious scent of roses wafting in from all the windows. I was in the apex of the fragrances floating in on the breeze. Two hours had passed and dutifully I did my work first. Studying the brochure materials and writing a draft that, at least at first attempt, would do for now. I tucked my draft and notes into a file folder marked Stallion’s Gate and pulled out the newspaper copies Gracie had given to me.

First, I sorted the copies into two piles. One stack that mentioned Marla Devereux by name and the other stack of clippings that were more exclusive to the Coover family. Then I started reading the newspaper accounts. After an hour of reading about the lavish lifestyle of Reggie Coover, I organized my ideas into a list:

Stanley Coover was not involved and may not have been aware of Reggie Coover’s extravagant lifestyle and potentially illicit business dealings. Question: Did Reggie’s daring escapades include his personal relationships and romances? During the time he spent in California, he was linked to at least ten young women, most from the entertainment industry. The time frame was from 1923 to late 1928.

What was Marla Devereux’s relationship to Reggie? How did they meet? No mention of an engagement is in the newspaper accounts. In fact, Except for Reggie providing the horse and cab for her to ride in the Rose Parade of 1926, there isn’t a direct reference to her. From three of the photos of that era, she is listed as one of the guests, but in each event that took place at Stallion’s Gate, the guest list numbered over fifty. And in each of the three photos, the woman identified as Marla Devereux is not standing near Reggie. She is alone and off to the side of the crowd.

From the black and white photos, it appears that Marla could be of a mixed racial ethnicity, or of a Mediterranean background. It appears she has an olive complexion. Her hair does not appear to be very dark and one account refers to her as having lovely henna locks. Another account called her the Ebony Belle. Very curious?

Seems to me I must follow up on two separate paths of research: The illegal racing that may have gone on in California during Prohibition and Marla Devereux’s mysterious disappearance.

And what about Rory? Dear God, what am I to do about him and the other horses?

It was this last question that kept me puzzled. So much so, that I said a prayer to Saint Francis of Assisi, the kind and watchful patron saint of the animal kingdom.

I looked up to find it dark and my stomach growling. After eating a quick sandwich and then a jump in the shower, I decided to call it quits for the day and I snuggled up in bed with the TV on. Flipping the channels I chose an old movie from the heyday of the silent film era of early Hollywood. It was a Rudolph Valentino film where he plays an Arabian prince. I fell asleep with the TV on.

“I like carrots,” I heard a strange voice say. I woke up. I sat up to discover that the TV was still on. A glance at the clock on the bedside table showed exactly one in the morning. The movie was about Francis the Talking Mule. He was adamant about preferring carrots. He was refusing to help the Army soldier, played by Donald O’Connor, with his romance problems until he had a bushel of carrots.

I couldn’t help but urge the mule on, “You hang in there Francis. Helping the love-struck soldier is worth a bushel of carrots.” I switched off the TV and fell back into bed.

“I like carrots.”

Did I not hit the off button? I peeked out from the covers. The TV was off. The room was dark save for some moonlight streaming in the window.

“Carrots were my favorite treats.”

I shot up in bed. That was no mule voice from an old movie. I clicked on the bedside lamp. It was just enough light to illuminate a familiar looking horse standing near the foot of my bed.

“Rory, what are you doing here?” I whispered loudly.

“I like old movies.”

“Shhh, keep your voice down.”

“Only you can hear me.”

“Maybe so, but I wouldn’t want people to think I carry on conversations with myself, or some imaginary creature.”

Rory turned his head looking around. “You’re in a house by yourself. Who’s to hear us?”

Rory’s statement gave me pause. It wasn’t just horse sense; Rory’s thinking was logical. “Okay, that makes good sense. But it doesn’t answer my question. Rory, what are you doing here?”

“Josephine,” He replied as if I knew what that meant.

“Josephine? Josephine who?”

“Not who. It’s a clue.”

“Oh?”

“Black Venus. Black Pearl. Creole Goddess. Clues,” Rory said in a string of cryptic phrases.

Odd thing is, something about those phrases struck a chord of memory. I pondered and Rory whinnied. He was getting impatient.

“Rory, by Josephine, do you mean Josephine Baker?”

He nodded his head up and down twice, his signal for yes.

“Black Venus. Ebony Belle,” Rory said.

“Do you mean that Marla Devereux and Josephine Baker knew each other?”

Again he nodded yes.

“Is it because they were both entertainers?” I asked.

“Yes.”

And before I could ask another question, Rory switched his topic.

“I like carrots,” he said.

What happened next was a surprise. I looked up at Rory and was about to question him further on the topic of carrots, when, right before my eyes, he evaporated into the moonlight. He was gone. I was left alone in a moonlit bedroom, wondering what to do next. I decided to sleep on it. Snuggling down in my bed, I pulled up the covers, way over my head and went back to sleep.

The next thing I knew I was reaching for my cell phone on the bedside table.

Chapter 9

“Wake up Shannon. You’re late for our breakfast date.”

“Josh?”

“Yes, who else were you planning on meeting for breakfast this morning?” He sounded a little annoyed. Good, I thought, let him taste the bitterness of annoyance.

“Listen, I overslept, that’s all. The ringing of my cell phone is what woke me up. I forgot to set my alarm. I was up late, really late, and I may have some clues.”

I heard him exhale, he was calming down. “Okay, I’m sorry. How about you get dressed and I’ll bring breakfast to you? Deal?”

“I love it. Thanks Josh.”

Rushing around my bedroom, I slipped into a pair of jeans and a favorite old T-shirt. And then dashed into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, pinched my cheeks into a blush and hastily pulled my hair back into a ponytail. A glance in the vanity mirror told me I looked like a coed who had stayed up too late and was late for her first class. I slathered my toothbrush with minty paste and made a quick attempt to rinse. That was when the doorbell rang. I opened the door and there stood Josh.

“Good morning, sleepyhead, even without cosmetics you’re pretty.” Josh handed me a bakery bag and I opened it up.

“Mmm. Fresh bagels, how wonderful. Right this way.” I led him to the kitchen, set down the bag and got plates and flatware out. “Did you bring coffee or juice?”

He held up another bag, “Both.” Josh sat down and we dug in.

Only after I had devoured half my bagel and gulped a cup of coffee was I in shape to mumble a conversation. “Just a minute.” I left Josh in the kitchen and went to get my notes. I handed them to him. “Here. See if this makes any sense to you.” I ate in silence and studied Josh as he read through my ramblings about Stallion’s Gate, Reggie Coover and Marla Devereux.

“So, you think there’s a connection to the disappearance of Marla Devereux, and the horse Rory and Reggie Coover?” Josh asked.

“Oh, definitely. And not only that, but Marla Devereux had some connection, but maybe not a major connection to the famous entertainer, Josephine Baker.”

He glanced down at my notes and looked up, clearly puzzled by my mentioning of Josephine Baker. “There’s no mention of Josephine Baker in your notes. Where did you get that from?”

Josh caught me as I gulped my coffee. I set down my coffee and swallowed hard and then asked,  “I was wondering, do horses like carrots as treats?”

He raised his eyebrows and then answered, “Yes, horses like carrots, and they are healthy treats for them.” He teasingly pointed his finger at me, “Do not attempt to derail me. C’mon Shannon, what’s the connection to Josephine Baker.”

And so I explained about how Rory had visited me and gave me clues pointing to some kind of common bond between Marla Devereux and Josephine Baker. “But, you see, Rory really likes carrots and he told me so. I’m wondering if his emphases on carrots is also some kind of quirky clue.”

“I think not,” Josh answered. “I think he is a horse who misses eating his favorite treat.” He dismissed my carrot clue idea and added his own opinion to the mix. “Maybe the commonality between Marla Devereux and the famous entertainer Josephine Baker is that, technically speaking, in that era both of these women were considered colored entertainers and segregation was still very much the social rule.”

I was dumbfounded by this truth. I had completely forgotten about segregation. “But, can that really be? After all, Josephine Baker was famous,  and she was invited to entertain on stages all over Europe.”

“True, and I do not doubt your information on her. But your point that Josephine Baker was famous is where the commonality between her and Marla Devereux end. Marla was not so fortunate, was she?” Josh asked.

“You’re right about that. She was a starlet and very talented, but she never got her break in show business. By all that I’ve read so far, she was one of a dozen or so beautiful young women who were on the roll call for the guest list to Reggie Coover’s extravagant parties. What makes her different from the other females in the photos I’ve seen is that only Marla Devereux appears to be of blended ethnicity. Do you suppose her ethnic background is the clue, because her ethnic background is similar to Josephine Baker’s?” I asked.

Josh pondered my suggestion and then said, “I think your idea is the best we have to go on. Listen, I don’t want you brooding over this. Why not take the day off and go visit the archives at UCLA and see what they have?”

“I’m going to do just that.”

We finished breakfast and Josh left. It was only after I changed my clothes and was on the way out, that when I picked up my car keys, did I realize that I didn’t have the vaguest idea of how to get to UCLA. Good thing I stopped in at the front desk before driving off.

Darren was on the phone. He held up two fingers, which I took to mean, just two minutes more and he would be finished. I bid my time looking at framed photographs displayed on the wall to the left of the desk. The pictures were of the Rose Victorian home over a period of years. I was mesmerized by one photo, something about it struck me as oddly familiar, but I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around what it could be. I was lost in that thought when Darren hung up the phone.

“Shannon, how may I help you?”

“Would you be able to give me driving directions on how to drive to UCLA?” I asked.

“Certainly, and name the building you want to go to, I’ll write out exact directions. I graduated from there.” He smiled and I knew it was a good thing I had forgotten to ask Josh for directions.

“Well, I’m looking for the building that has archives pertaining to the entertainment industry of Hollywood during the 1920s. I’m particularly interested in researching information about a young entertainer named Marla Devereux.”

“Oh, do you mean the Marla Devereux, known as the Ebony Belle?” Darren asked.