A Ghost at Stallion's Gate (4 page)

He smiled and it wasn’t an ordinary smile. It was a smile that spoke of whispered secrets. “We?” he asked.

I nodded yes. “You, me and Francisco.”

“Oh, so, now you think Grandpa should get involved?”

“I certainly do and he’ll love it. No better person to get involved in a ghost mystery than him. We might need a police connection and what with his retired detective status and his ability to cut to the chase of any police matter, we need him.”

“Ghost mystery?” Now he was serious, and cautious. “No way Shannon. You know that the Zavalas don’t like it when you get involved in the paranormal stuff. I promised I’d look out after you. And remember I told you that all the ghost stuff about this place is just local rumors. Teenage haunted house stories.”

My stomach growled, the hunger pains gave me the segue I needed. “I’m hungry. We can negotiate this over lunch.”

Zach grabbed hold of my hand, “Okay, we’ll go to lunch, but I want more truth, than story, from you in what is really going on around here. And Shannon, I really need for you to come to terms with the tragedy. I agreed to take over the company and God knows Zach and I look alike, so much so that people used to mistake us as twins, but Shannon, I’m Josh, not Zach. Please stop referring to me and calling me by his name.”

“No. Why are you being so cruel? Zach would never do this.” Tears streamed down my face. My body trembled out of control.

He put his arms around me. “I promised Zach to look out for you. Shannon, please, his death is hard on all of us.”

I pushed him aside. “We can talk about this later.”

We left in Zach’s old truck and Josh took me to a pub style cafe called Kathleen’s on Lake Avenue. The inside was cozy and the style was a little bit Old English. We sat in a booth toward the back, where it was quiet and private and I couldn’t help but to think that Josh asked for this booth because he was going to pick my brain about what I could remember of Zach’s death.

The menu was extensive.  I zeroed in on the Quiche Lorraine served with seasonal fresh fruit. Josh didn’t need a menu, according to him he had dined here so often with his family that he knew the menu by rote memory. He ordered a grilled chicken sandwich.

We were alone, and Josh wasted not a minute. “I’m sorry for being so blunt. Shannon. Maybe you are not up to this assignment. Honest, I can find someone else for this assignment, it’s okay, you could go back home to San Diego, maybe hang out down there and do some work for Rosario and the Inn. Or, don’t do anything at all, take time off. Shannon, everyone wants you to be okay, to heal.”

I hate it when others know what’s good for me. I looked at Joshua and for the first time I saw him, and not Zach. “I know you are probably right. And your uncanny likeness to Zach does throw me off. When you showed up at my room
that
morning, with your foot in a cast, I wanted you to be Zach.” I looked down at the table and tried to find the words that would convince Joshua I should stay on this case. I looked at him, directly in his eyes and said, “I know Zach would have wanted me to work through this and doing this assignment, working with you is good for me. This was Zach’s last contracted work, please let me help finish it, for him?”

Joshua reached across the table and took my left hand. He looked at it and gently touched my bare ring finger. His gesture spoke volumes in the silence of the moment. “Shannon, it was only my big toe that was in cast and I’m fine now. I’m so sorry to have told you the news that way, but I was with Zach when he passed and he asked me to go to you.”

He looked so apologetic. Now it was I who reached out my hand to his. “Okay. Let’s change the subject. How about I clue you in to the mystery at Stallion’s Gate?”

“I’d like that.”

The timing was perfect because our waitress appeared with our meals. We waited until she left. I took a calm deep breath and pondered, for just a moment about how to explain this to Joshua. “It has something to do with the horses in the trophy room. Especially that one big horse in the center of the room.”

“The Clydesdale?” Josh asked.

“So, that’s the kind of horse he is? A Clydesdale, hmm, I wasn’t sure, but I suspected as much. Do you know much about that kind of horse?”

Josh leaned over the table and took my right hand “Shannon, your technique of answering a question with a question doesn’t work on me. I will humor you this time. This time only,” he emphasized. “But, by the time we are finished with lunch, I want the whole story.”

Since he was holding my hand and didn’t seem to want to let go, I shook on it. “Deal. Now, tell me everything you know about Clydesdale horses.”

“They are among the largest of draft horses. The breed originated in Scotland. They’ve been bred in America for at least the last two hundred years, maybe longer than that. They were, and still are, popular in California, especially here in Pasadena where they are used for pulling buggies, carriages and cabs in the famous New Year’s Day Rose Parade.” Josh dabbed a French fry in ketchup and I almost winced, his gesture of dipping and love for ketchup was so much like Zach’s.

“Were they ever raced?” I asked.

“Probably not, at least not in the way you are referring to,” Josh answered. “And, if you mean the other horses in that room, well, the other horses were bred for racing, they’re thoroughbred horses.”

“So, that Clydesdale, and that carriage it is hitched to, do you think they were in the Rose Parade?” I asked.

“Yeah, that’s my best guess. The Coover family always had a float in the parade, at least until Reggie Coover left California. Oh, and that carriage, it’s a covered carriage with the driver’s seat above and behind the passengers, better known as a hansom cab.”

I stopped sipping my iced tea and looked wide-eyed at Josh. “I’m impressed. I had no idea you knew that much about horse carriages. So, tell me, are hansom cabs the same kind of carriages usually seen in Sherlock Holmes movies?”

“Sure, and about every other movie set in the 1800s. Hansom cabs were in use at least up until the Second World War. Now they’re antiques. Uncle Pedro has some out at his ranch.”

Bingo!
“Well, no wonder you know so much about them. I had forgotten about your uncle’s horse ranch. One more question, is a Clydesdale horse considered to be a horse of a different color?”

Josh set down his sandwich. “No. That’s an old saying, it means that something is of a different nature than what is under consideration.” He looked at me. “Your turn, where did you hear that saying?”

“Rory told me that he is a horse of a different color,” I said without further explanation.

“Rory?” Josh set his plate aside and lightly drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table surface. He looked at me with an expression of concern.

“Yes, Rory. That’s the name of the Clydesdale hitched to the hansom cab, in the trophy room.”

Chapter 7

“Whoa. Shannon, you mean to tell me, that horse appeared to you? As a ghost?”

I looked at Josh and tried to read his reaction. Was he surprised and shocked? Or just surprised? I nodded my head, “Yes, in a manner of speaking. But Josh, I’m not in danger.”

“How would you know?” He was serious again, dead serious and I could tell I wasn’t going to get away with a simple explanation. 

It was my turn to lean over the table and whisper in a tone of high conspiracy. “Look, this isn’t the place for me to tell you about it. Let’s go back to Stallion’s Gate and on the way there I’ll clue you in. And when we get there, I want you to return with me to the trophy room. Okay?”

Josh got up and grabbed the check. “I’ll pay for this and then I’m calling Grandpa. I’ll meet you at the truck.”

Before I could object to involving Francisco at this early stage of the mystery, Josh shooed me out the door of Kathleen’s.

We were at Stallion’s Gate in fifteen minutes, standing in the trophy room. Josh walked over to Rory, the stuffed Rory, and not the ghost horse. I stood in place at the entrance. I insisted on keeping the door open wide, just in case, of what I wasn’t sure. Josh walked slowly around the horse, thoughtfully studying it and the carriage. He walked back to where I stood.

“The taxidermist was an expert. Except for minor fading here and there, the horse is in really good shape,” Josh said.

“Have you seen many stuffed horses?” I questioned, wondering how rare they are.

He grinned and said, “Would you believe, I saw Roy Rogers’s horse Trigger. He died sometime in the 1960s and was then stuffed. He was over thirty years old. It seems to me that Roy Rogers had his dog stuffed too, I don’t remember. Anyway, Grandpa and I went out to the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans Museum before it was moved to Missouri, I think that was in the 1990s. It was located out in the high desert of San Bernardino County, near Victorville.”

“No Way! Roy Rogers stuffed Trigger? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” the voice behind us said. We turned. Francisco was here.

“Grandpa, you got here in record time.” Josh gave Francisco a hug and then it was my turn.

“I’m so glad to see you. I thought you were in San Diego,” I said.

“I drove in last night to visit with my sister Teresa.” Francisco smiled and he looked so handsome, decked out in khaki slacks and a pale yellow polo shirt. Even in the heat of summer, Francisco Zavala looked unflappable.

“And I suppose, Josh hasn’t said a word to you regarding my suspicions about Stallion’s Gate?” I asked.

Francisco laughed. “Not so much a word. In truth, his commentary was ushered in whispered sentences. I had to come see for myself.”

Our attention was drawn back to the display of Rory and his carriage. Francisco broke the spell. “That horse is a fine specimen.” He looked around at the numerous heads mounted on the walls. “All these horses were the top racers in their day. I did a little research last night, mostly just word of mouth from long time residents in Pasadena and all of them say that Reggie Coover was passionate about his horses.”

I turned to Francisco and asked, “So, given that even Roy Rogers had his horse stuffed, then, mounting and displaying horses wasn’t considered bizarre?” I looked at him, knowing he would not sugarcoat an answer.

“Eccentric, maybe. It would seem especially eccentric to the middle class of society. But for the wealthy, such as the Coovers, doing this was a lasting tribute to what he loved most. These horses were loved and they were the pride of Reggie Coover’s extravagant lifestyle,” Francisco replied.

This puzzled me. And I could only wonder why Rory, as a ghost, would seek me out. Was Rory acting as a spokesman for all the horses in this room? I looked at Josh and then to Francisco. “Could there be some other reason why I’ve been put in a position to speak to the past?”

Francisco’s eyebrows shot up. “Given the history of Reggie Coover, I believe there is more to him than what meets the eye and more than what was ever reported in the newspapers of the day. Oh sure, he contributed to a long list of charities that were popular, but he also had business exchanges that were behind the scenes and potentially questionable.”

“And, by questionable, do you mean Reggie Coover was involved in horse racing down in Mexico, where it was legal?” I asked.

“Yes, the horse racing in Mexico and there could be more. It’s too early to tell. So, I’d rather not say until we have more information to go on. Some solid leads, so to speak,” Francisco answered.

I nodded my understanding, knowing all too well that it would do no good to push Francisco to reveal his suspicions. As a retired police detective, he would always be cautious about disclosing information before it could be proven with hard evidence.

“Grandpa, sounds like you did a lot of snooping last night. Did you come by all this information in conversation with Pasadena residents?” Josh asked.

“Most of it came from conversations. But I also visited with a local historian earlier this morning. Josh, when you called me from the restaurant, I was with a man who has a mystery in his own family that could be related to Reggie Coover. He’s indirectly related to a young starlet named Marla Devereux, who, by all accounts of the period in the 1920s, was wined and dined by Reggie Coover, until she went missing.”

I looked to Josh, who was lost in thought and then to Francisco. “Do you think that the starlet, Marla Devereux, ever had anything to do with Coover’s horses?”

“The one right there, hitched up to the hansom cab. By all accounts that horse is named Rory. He was the horse trained to pull Miss Devereux in that very cab, for the Rose Parade of January of 1926. She was reported missing a few days after the parade. Odd occurrence is that the horse died that same week. According to gossip, Reggie Coover was so distraught about Marla Devereux’s disappearance that after the horse died, he had it stuffed and preserved here on display, in her memory.”

“Did the horse die of natural causes?” I asked and it got a knee jerk reaction from Josh.

“A lady goes missing without a trace, never to be heard or seen again and you’re wondering about how a horse died?” Josh asked, suggesting I lacked empathy for Marla Devereux.

“Wait a moment,” Francisco interceded, “Shannon has a valid query.” He turned to me and said, “Rarely ever would a horse’s health or death have been questioned in that era. I doubt if it was reported at all. Essentially we have no way of knowing if this horse, or any of them, died from natural causes.”