Catch A Falling Starlet

By Stephen Lyons

“The first response you get when you tell a person you’ve lost something is always, ‘where did you last see it?’ We not only go to where an object was last seen, but to when it was last seen, then simply trace how it was lost and where it ended up. Clients will not be billed for hours spent solving any murders that might pop up along the way.” – Oliver Weatherby, retired Lobsterman and Co-Founder of the Pawskonsett Island Artifact Retrieval Company

Gus Milton and Carolyn Madore are two former grad students who now work for the afore mentioned PIARC; a secretive and reasonably profitable company headquartered on a remote island off the coast of Maine. Despite being run by a pair of retired lobstermen with no education beyond high school, the company has had remarkable success finding histories lost treasures. It helps that they have access to a time machine, cleverly disguised as a rather cramped mop closet.

While tracing a valuable diamond from 1920’s Western Australia to the Golden Age of Hollywood, Gus and Carolyn inadvertently leave their time machine behind the gates of the Warner Bros. studio lot; stranding them in the past. Their only friend is Errol Flynn; but the married star is having a fling with a young actress named Lorna and the scandal wary studio bosses have banned Flynn from the lot. When Lorna turns up murdered, the only way for Gus and Carolyn to return home is to find out who killed her and get Flynn back into the good graces of the studio.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Lyons
• Release date: Mar 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458101266

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CATCH A FALLING STARLET

Stephen Lyons

PUBLISHED BY

Stephen Lyons at Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 by Stephen Lyons

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

I need to thank my editor, Francoise von Trapp, for all her hard work and encouragement. Also, Olivia Barratier at livinlastudio.com for her wonderful cover design.

CHAPTER ONE

May 19th, 1937 Beverly Hills, CA. 6:27 A.M.

Carolyn sat up in bed and rubbed her temples. Her hair reeked of cigarettes, her mouth tasted like saw dust and she was fairly certain there was a tiny man inside her skull trying to tunnel his way out with a pick ax. He was a determined little fellow who kept up a steady rhythm of forceful swings.

She shielded her eyes from the sunlight that filtered in through the curtains and scanned the room for a glass of water. Nothing. Her head hurt so badly that she could yank the flowers from a vase and gulp down whatever water there was left in the bottom. But no one had had the foresight to decorate the room with a spring bouquet.

The little man with the pick ax struck a neuron and memories trickled back. The room began to look familiar and Carolyn realized that if she wanted water, she was going to have to get up and walk across the hall to the bathroom. But in her state, it might as well be a mile away.

At least it had been a hell of a party. The kind of party that doesn’t start until midnight and goes on until, well, judging from the sounds coming from downstairs, it was still going on.

Someone pounded on the piano while a group of Busby Berkley’s girls giggled and sang for the middle aged men who should have been home with their families. And where had Gus gone off to? Probably sneaking away to a secluded spot with that dancer she’d seen him with earlier. She’d figured Gus for a leg man.

As she sat there, wrapped in sheets far more luxurious than anything she had ever slept in before, she searched the far corners of her brain for a memory. Some clue as to how she got here.

The diamond. She and Gus had been looking for a diamond.

Once she had that piece of the puzzle, she seemed to remember that they had found the diamond. Which was good. But then she remembered the location of the diamond meant it was probably lost forever. Which was bad.

And then that vault, the one that sits deep inside our brains, the one holding the memories we try so hard to keep locked away, opened up. It’s lone prisoner, an angry, snarling memory hell-bent on revenge and the destruction of her fragile psyche came rushing out:

They had no way of getting back home.

Carolyn felt her breath rush out as that memory punched her in the gut. She doubled over and clutched her head, trying to force the memory back into its prison. But even in her dehydrated state she knew it was too late.

After a few moments she relaxed and allowed herself a weak smile.

At least it had been a good party.

The sound of gentle snoring now won the battle for her attention. She wasn’t alone in the bed. With a feeling of dread and just the slightest bit of anticipation, she looked over to see who it was sleeping next to her. His jet black hair was hardly mussed, his pencil thin mustache still perfectly groomed.

Damn, she said softly as she rubbed her temples again. She hadn’t intended to sleep with Errol Flynn. But some men were just irresistible.

April 7th, 2010 Boston MA.

A spring day in New England is more or less the same temperature-wise as a fall day in New England. But a spring day brings the false hope that warmer weather is just weeks ahead. Of course, it’s usually months ahead and anyone who has lived in New England for most of their life should know that. But year after year, millions of people delude themselves, looking longingly at their calendars, assuring themselves that April will be beach weather, camping weather, t-shirt and shorts by the back yard grill weather.

With the number of universities and colleges in New England, a surprisingly large number of highly educated people can be counted among the delusional.

Carolyn Madore was one of those highly educated people. Though delusional probably wasn’t the best term to describe her. Dreamer might be better a better word. Not the One day I’m going to marry a prince type of dreamer. More the I should learn Portuguese in case I ever end up in Portugal type of dreamer. A practical dreamer.

Which is why at this particular moment she was shivering, because she had worn a skirt and white t-shirt from the Gap to her nine o’clock class. Yes it was April. Yes it had been cold when she had left her apartment at eight thirty to catch the Red Line. But the sky was blue, the sun was shining and she was certain that temperatures would rise to the low eighties by the time class ended at ten thirty.

At ten twenty-eight the temperature outside Connolly Hall was sixty three degrees. It was slightly warmer inside Professor Milburn’s lecture hall, but not by much. The university years ago had placed those little wire cages over all the thermostats, making it impossible to change the temperature without getting the janitor’s key first. Year after year, the students who attended lectures in Connolly Hall cursed themselves for being History scholars, a group not known for their clever technical problem solving skills. They were certain that their comrades over at M.I.T had long ago solved the locked thermostat cover conundrum and were basking in warmth.

So as the lecture ended and Carolyn stood up and gathered her things, she swore that she would dress warmly for her weekend trip to Maine. She began to file out with the other students when Professor Milburn motioned to her.

Carolyn, can I speak to you for a moment?

She stepped out of the flow of traffic and looked back at Professor Milburn. Milburn was her graduate advisor. Her mentor. They were on good terms but weren’t necessarily close. Milburn would invite her over to his house for small gatherings with other members of the department, but like a lot of college professors, he was an odd duck. He was in his forties, but looked like he hadn’t updated his wardrobe since the third season of Miami Vice. Pastels and shoes with no socks tended to make a person stand out in Boston.

What’s up, professor? Carolyn was pretty sure she knew what was up. She had actually been trying to sneak out of the room with the rest of students so that she could avoid talking about what was up.

As the two of them stood by the lectern at the front of the classroom, Milburn waited for the last student to step out into the hallway before speaking. He looked disappointed. Maybe even hurt. You haven’t notified the doctoral committee about your decision, he said softly.

Carolyn had been expecting this. I just want to take the weekend to think about it, she assured him.

I recommended you. Again, not angry. Just caught off guard. Maybe a little hurt. Like Sonny Crockett would look if Tubbs had just told him he didn’t want to be partners anymore.

I’m sorry if it reflects badly on you, Professor. But I’ll have an answer on Monday. Carolyn was trying to be assertive, to keep eye contact, but the door was so close. Could she inch her way out of the room? Maybe make a run for it? She was sure she knew where the conversation was going and she didn’t really want to be around when it got there.

Professor Milburn hesitated for a moment, and Carolyn was certain that he knew her reason for the delay.

You’ve been offered a job, haven’t you?

I really shouldn’t say.

To Milburn, I really shouldn’t say was just as bad as actually saying. It confirmed his suspicions. And he looked crushed by what she hadn’t actually said.

I’ve been helping you to get to this point since day one. Other than a health issue. the only thing that would keep someone like you from accepting a spot in the doctoral program… The professor paused, as if the next words out of his mouth were extremely painful for him to say. Or you have an interview with Pawskonsett Island.

Carolyn had been dreading him saying those words out loud. But now that he had, she actually found herself enjoying the moment. Professional envy was tearing him up inside and she knew it. She liked Milburn but he was the one who told her and the other students that applying for a job with The Pawskonsett Island Artifact Retrieval Company was pointless. I applied there ten years ago and was turned down, he had said. I hear they have an anti-Harvard prejudice. Which was Milburn's way of once again pointing out to his non-Ivy League students that he, in fact, had gone to Harvard.

But Carolyn Madore knew that applying for a job with Pawskonsett Island was pointless. She knew that now, anyway. No one who applied was ever selected. And all who were selected had never applied. You were tapped. Much like the old fraternity tap on the shoulder while walking across campus. Carolyn Madore had already applied to the doctoral program and was looking forward to receiving her acceptance letter. Then she was tapped. Not by an upperclassman on the quad, but by a gray haired lady who smelled slightly of fish.

She had been on the subway, heading back to her apartment in Boston’s South End when she was tapped on the shoulder. The woman who smiled at her when she turned around asked Carolyn if she would be interested in working for the Pawskonsett Island Artifact Retrieval Company. Carolyn had no reason to suspect that this woman was a representative of Pawskonsett Island, so her reaction was more in tune with how you would react if a stranger stopped you on the street and asked if you liked ice cream. Carolyn had smiled and replied, of course. The woman then handed Carolyn an envelope. Carolyn was so transfixed by the plain white envelope with Pawskonsett Island Artifact and Retrieval Company embossed on it that when she looked up again, the woman had disappeared into the crowd that was getting off at the next stop.

Carolyn got off the train herself one stop later, the envelope still unopened. She was slightly afraid to open it in public. It seemed like the wrong thing to do. Pawskonsett Island was such a revered name that she felt that it must be some kind of joke. A sweet old fishy smelling lady handing out such a plain white envelope on the subway; someone must be playing a joke on her. And she wasn’t going to make it easy on them and embarrasses herself in public.

When she got back to her apartment she locked the door behind her and closed the curtains. After staring at it in its pristine state for a moment, she finally dared open the envelope.

1-800-555-0312. That’s all that was written on the ordinary looking post-it note that was inside the envelope. Well, now it has to be a joke, she had thought to herself. The Pawskonsett Island Artifact Retrieval Company would certainly have some type of company letterhead. Even a plain sheet of paper would be more official looking than a post-it note. She blinked her eyes several times and looked at the front of the envelope again, making sure it didn’t actually say something like Paul’s Inland Asbestos Removal Company.

Nope. It clearly said Pawskonsett Island.

Certain that one of her classmates would be on the other end, laughing at her, she picked up the phone and dialed. But the phone only had time to ring once when she remembered: history majors aren’t funny.

So if it wasn’t a prank, what could it be? What if it was another grad student trying to get her to drop out? Creating a phony job opportunity that they knew she would never be able to pass up, leaving one extra slot in the Doctoral Program open. Obsessed with this conspiracy theory that had suddenly popped into her head, Carolyn was about to hang up the phone when it stopped ringing and connected.

Hello, the recorded voice said. You have reached the Pawskonsett Island Artifact Retrieval Company. If you are calling because you would like to hire our services, press one. If you are calling because you received an envelope from a gray haired woman in a periwinkle Kingfield Henley wool sweater from L.L. Bean, please press two.

Carolyn panicked. Had the woman been wearing a periwinkle Kingfield Henley sweater from L.L. Bean? She hadn’t noticed. If only they had said a gray haired woman who smelled somewhat like cod or Atlantic salmon, she would have been certain. After the recorded voice patiently said I’m sorry, I did not understand your response, Carolyn decided there could only be one gray haired woman passing out envelopes and pressed two.

A moment later a man’s voice, in a thick, old fashioned New England accent asked, Am I speaking to Carolyn Madore?

Carolyn answered that he was.

Who did Napoleon marry after Josephine?

Not expecting to be quizzed, Carolyn hesitated for just a moment before answering, Marie Louise of Austria.

The was a rustling noise on the other end of the phone, then the voice said, hold on. Let me find my reading glasses. I’m always losing… The man’s voice trailed off before he excitedly announced, found ‘em. That was followed a moment later by, That’s correct.

Carolyn almost said, of course it is, but before she could, the voice on the other end asked, Can you be at the ferry landing in Bar Harbor, Maine at eleven-thirty Saturday morning?

Uhhh, yes, I guess so, was the best Carolyn could come up with for a response.

The ferry will take you over to the island for your interview. Don’t be late. The next ferry isn’t until Sunday. The voice was neither warm nor gruff. It had facts to state and it stated them plainly.

Carolyn, still stunned by what was happening, had almost forgotten to write the information down. She quickly jotted the time and location on the bottom of the post-it that had come in the envelope.

Now, Miss Madore, the voice said slowly. You must understand, we like to conduct our employee selection process in secret. We just feel it’s better that way.

Of course. Carolyn had no idea why she had said of course, but it sounded like a reasonable response.

We do not interview anyone who has applied to us for a job. We have our reasons. And we only select people who have seemingly shown no interest in working for us. Again, we have our reasons. We would appreciate it if you would refrain from discussing with anyone else how you were contacted, and the content of this phone call.

And with that, the phone call was over.

May 19th, 1937, Los Angeles, CA 4:58 A.M.

Gus walked down the long series of steps that led from the house to the street. Eighty three of them to be exact. Lorna had said there were a lot of steps, but until you’ve had to carry a drunk woman up them, you have no idea what a lot of steps means.

He hadn’t wanted to take her home. He’d wanted to spend more time with that dancer he’d met by the pool back at the party. But then Errol and Lorna had gotten into a fight and he’d felt sorry for her and agreed to drive her back to her house in the hills.

Driving around Los Angeles was much easier in 1937 then the last time he’d visited the city, in 2003. There were fewer cars. There were more empty lots. You could drive down Sunset and see Hollywood Boulevard off to right and Wilshire Boulevard down the hill to your left. But here, up in the hills, the roads were a twisting maze no matter what year it was and he wondered if he’d be able to find his way back to the party before that dancer left.

He was about eleven steps from the street when he heard the crash. The sound of breaking glass. A lot of breaking glass. He paused for a moment, only to consider the task of making his way back up the roughly seventy one steps to the house. But when he heard the thud, he double-timed it.

He made it to step seventy nine when he stopped cold. Even in the darkness he could see Lorna’s body lying lifeless on the landing in front of the house. Her eyes frozen in a death stare, her head cracked open, the blood beginning to run down the steps towards him.

He glanced up at the house looming above him; the large picture window on the second floor was shattered. Gus figured it to be at least thirty feet up. Plenty high enough to do the job when concrete lies below.

He had left her passed out on her bed in that very room with the picture window less than ten minutes earlier. Now here she was, dead on the stairs.

Gus was still staring dumbstruck at Lorna’s body when he heard a door slam at the side of the house, followed by the rustling of the brush up the hillside. He ran around to the back, slipping more than once in the loose dirt around the foundation. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, not even the bushes that he knew must be just a few feet in front of him. He stopped for a moment, standing perfectly still, trying to determine in what direction the other person had fled. A car engine turned over somewhere up above him. Headlights illuminated enough of the hill for Gus to realize that Lorna’s house sat maybe fifty yards below its crest, with a narrow street above her and a narrow street below. The headlights moved off as the car traveled the road along the top of the hill.

Gus took a few steps up through the brush before realizing it was pointless to try and make it to the road up above him. The car would be long gone by the time he got there. And even if he ran back to his own car, being unfamiliar with the streets, he couldn’t be certain the road at the top of the hill and the road at the bottom even converged at some point.

What he did know was that since he didn’t officially exist in 1937, getting involved with the police was not something he wanted to have happen. There was nothing he could do for poor Lorna, so he didn’t consider himself a coward as he ran down the long stairway to the street. He had to get back to Carolyn.

What he couldn’t see, because it was dark, was that Lorna’s blood had begun to slowly trickle down the steps, so that when he ran past her body, he tracked a bloody shoe print down twenty two of the steps.

Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to park their car where it wouldn’t be seen. And to sneak into Lorna’s house. And someone had apparently thrown her through the window. And Gus Milton, a man who wouldn’t even be born for almost half a century, was the only witness to the crime.

April 7th, 2010 Boston, MA

Carolyn had successfully excused herself from Professor Milburn’s presence and actually made it out the door. Feeling like a prisoner making a jailbreak, she was half way down the hallway before Milburn caught up to her. She thought their conversation was over, but Milburn had other ideas.

You didn’t tell me you were applying to work there. He matched Carolyn’s stride despite her best efforts to pick up the pace.

She was about to defend herself. Was about to tell him that she hadn’t applied and that this had had come about recently and unexpectedly. But then she remembered the phone conversation and the rules that had been laid out to her.

I’m sorry, Professor. I really can’t say much. It’s kind of a confidentiality agreement.

He looked at her, slightly puzzled. Kind of?

I can’t say anything more. The exit was right in front of her and Carolyn was determined to hit it in stride. She was desperate to get away from Milburn before she said too much.

Look, Carolyn, I completely understand if you take a job with Pawskonsett Island and leave school. Anyone would.

Carolyn pushed the door open and stepped outside. She positioned her body so that Milburn was forced to hold up as the door began to swing shut between them.

Please, I have to know Milburn said, looking into her eyes, as if the secret to one of the world’s great mysteries could be found within them. And then, when just his lips were visible through the closing doorway, How do they do it?

How do they do it?

If you did an internet search of the Pawskonsett Island Artifact Retrieval Company you would find a long list of accomplishments. But you would not actually learn how they had achieved them.

You would learn that in just twelve years, a small company located on an island off the coast of Maine had somehow managed to rack up a string of amazing archeological, historical and culturally significant finds.

Wikipedia would tell you the company’s first major coup was the wreck of the San Pedro and its vast cargo of gold. Treasure hunters had been searching for the wreck for decades. But a team from Pawskonsett Island found it their first week on the water.

After that, it was the discovery of Athena’s head. The rest of the statute had been found in 1887, but the location of the head remained a mystery. Until a team from Pawskonsett Island began looking into it.

Who had found an original Guttenberg Bible tucked away in the attic of a house belonging to an eighty three year old Scarsdale woman? Pawskonsett Island. Who had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that Baron Von Hadler was in fact the notorious 19th century serial killer The Strasburg Slasher? Pawskonsett Island.

The list of accomplishments was so long, and the time in which they achieved them so short, that jealousy was rampant in the academic community. Any historian or archeologist would gladly join their staff, of course, but the fact that only a handful were asked was the chief cause of the jealousy. Academics at the tops of their fields offered their services and yet were not hired.

Instead, Carolyn Madore had been asked. But why? She hadn’t truly distinguished herself as far as she was concerned. She wasn’t tops in her class. She was near the top, but not at the top. And certainly there were historians who had qualifications up the wazoo who you would think would have been asked before her. But she was the one who had been tapped. What was it that made her special?

April 7th, 2010 Pawskonsett Island, ME

There’s nothing special about her, Gus said to the other two men in the conference room as he looked at the photo of Carolyn Madore. He turned the photo over, so that it was face down on the table, closed his eyes and tried to remember her features. He couldn’t do it.

He was aware the two men were looking at him, waiting for his judgment. The decision ultimately wasn’t really up to him, but it was good to know that they valued his opinion.

He turned the photo over again and studied the image of Carolyn Madore.

Bridesmaid attractive. It was the term one of the women in the company had used. The type of woman who is valued for her ability to look good in the wedding party photos, without drawing attention away from the bride.

Her hair was brown, her eyes were brown. She was attractive without having a single feature that set her apart. Her height was average, her weight was average. Her nose wasn’t prominent, nor did it turn up in a cute as a button kind of way. She didn’t have cheek bones to die for, but she also didn’t