Haunting at Ocean House: A James Murray Mystery

By Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

James Murray is a young man with a dream -- to be a writer just like his idol, Dashiell Hammett. He pens his first novel while working as a clerk at a swank downtown department store. He writes his second while working at a famous movie studio turning his first novel into a screenplay. His third novel chronicles his adventures trying to find a kidnapped scientist. His fourth novel details his efforts to help a baseball player find the source of several blackmail threats.

And now, the fifth and concluding novel in the series has him facing perhaps the most dangerous threat of all: the ghost of a young woman who died under mysterious circumstances. James and his wife, newspaper woman Arden St. Johns, investigate a supposed medium who holds séances for the rich and powerful of Hollywood’s elite. But, they encounter a mystery: someone is trying to convince others that the dead niece of a famous actress is out for revenge. Can James and Arden team up to solve the mystery?

“Haunting at Ocean House” -- like its predecessors “Blackmail at Wrigley Field,” “Abduction at Griffith Observatory,” "Sabotage at RKO Studio" and "Murder at Eastern Columbia" -- is unlike any other book you've read: Not a single novel, it's two parallel novels, featuring two heroes, working two mysteries in two different versions of 1930s Los Angeles. Join James and his alter ego as they each try to discover who’s behind the mysterious séances. His hard-boiled alter ego -- neither a private detective nor a police officer: just someone "who wants to help" -- needs to find out whether it’s really a ghost or just someone playing an elaborate and dangerous hoax.

Along the way, they encounter a rich cast of characters including a famous movie actress who is the mistress of a rich and powerful newspaper publisher, the wealthy scion of a condiment manufacturer who designs and races custom cars, an ex-farmer’s daughter who came to the big city to make good, a dangerous gangster, a famous movie canine, and plenty of famous actors and actresses.

In addition, this final novel is filled with countless Southern California locations including a lavish Santa Monica beach house, the newly opened Los Angeles Union Station and its Fred Harvey Cocktail Lounge, the famous pet hospital of Dr. Eugene Jones, the Hollywood Park Racetrack, Biltmore Hotel, Clover Field airfield, the S.S. Rex gambling ship, Mary Pickford’s Wilshire Links and the notorious San Simeon castle. “Haunting at Ocean House” is filled with twists and turns leading to a dramatic climax inside the city’s most popular dance spot: The Palomar Ballroom.

Come along for the ride in this, the fifth and final James Murray mystery: the story of a young man who dreams of something better.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christopher Geoffrey McPherson
• Release date: Jul 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310826993

Christopher Geoffrey McPherson

In more than three decades as a professional writer/journalist, Christopher has covered myriad subjects and interviewed thousands of people from the famous to the unknown. He brings these years of experience to each of his novels.In his career, his work has appeared in daily newspapers, monthly magazines, extensively on radio and the occasional dalliance with television. He has written advertising copy and radio commercials – and continues to write.Prior to this new novel, "Sincerely, Dina Lamont," Christopher wrote novels about the most famous cat in ancient Japan who had special powers in “A Cat in Time,” and “22: The Biography of a Gun,” a tale set in the near future where guns are strictly controlled yet where one manages to make its way into the hands of those who want it. Previously, Christopher spent more than five years creating a series of novels that take place in 1930s Los Angeles called “The James Murray Mysteries.” Books in the series are "Murder at Eastern Columbia," “Sabotage at RKO Studio,” “Abduction at Griffith Observatory,” “Blackmail at Wrigley Field,” and “Haunting at Ocean House.”Other writing featuring his byline includes "The Babi Makers" – a science fiction tale about a world where the most important resource is babies; "Sarah & Gerald" – a novel about Paris in the 1920s; "Forever - and other stories" – a collection of short stories; "The Life Line" – the novel of the big one that levels San Francisco; "News on the Home Front" – a novel of two friends during World War Two; and "Mama Cat" – a book for children. Also, several short plays, a few radio plays and a boatload of radio documentaries.

Book preview

Chapter One

I opened my eyes.

Surprise! they all yelled as I stood there, feeling my face flush partly in embarrassment, partly in anger that the girl arranged something -- ‘specially after I told her I hated surprises.

Well, I said, trying to think of a way to be polite when faced with all those smiling faces. A surprise party! I managed through gritted teeth. I turned to the girl and gave her a little pinch. A surprise party, I said directly to her. You shouldn’t have. And I meant it. And she knew I meant it.

Yes, I should’ve. Relax. Enjoy it! she said in that straight-forward manner that made her seem so attractive at times like this.

I will, I lied, forcing a smile to remain on my face. I will, indeed.

The crowd surged in toward us, the men shaking hands, slapping me on my back; the older women giving me a chaste peck on the cheek, and not a few of the younger ones giving me a square kiss, right on the lips, while grabbing my rumbling down below. I sorta hoped the girl didn’t see that part; then I sorta hoped she did. That’s what you get for giving me a surprise party, I would say if she got all testy the way dames do when it’s another dame involved. Maybe next time you’ll listen to me.

Perhaps the surprise part of the party wasn’t such a surprise. I sorta gathered something was up when we were in the cab going down Santa Monica Boulevard headed toward the beach. The girl told me we’d been invited to dinner with her publisher and his companion. I guess you could say that was the first hint that something was amiss -- that and the dozen or so cars that were parked along the highway around the gigantic little beach house.

The cab let us off and we walked into the massive house, toward what I found out later was the dining room. The girl told me to close me eyes. I heard the doors to the dining room open and the unmistakable rustling of people in formal attire trying really hard to not rustle. I was led forward a few steps, then we stopped. I was told to open my eyes and....

I have to admit the girl did a pretty amazing job with the party and the guest list. Here we were in the dining room in one of the swankest private homes in all of Los Angeles. There was a buffet spread that was amazing considering that we were all still in the midst of a Depression. And the guest list: well, she must have found a couple of my old little blue books because here was every girl I’d ever dated -- the ones that were still alive, of course. That’s another example of what I loved about the girl: she didn’t give a good goddamn about me and the other girls in my life. She was bold, confident, brash and daring -- along with sexy and feminine, when she wanted to be. She was like all the qualities I’d ever liked in all the girls I’d ever known all rolled up and placed into one very sexy body.

I looked around and saw that here was also a big sampling of people I’d helped out over the past few years in the various cases I worked. How many years had it been? Around fourteen, I would guess, since I did a favor for that wealthy society dame who asked me to help her find her kidnapped pooch. I didn’t know it at the time, but that would turn out to be my first case. The dowager, so grateful I found her dog and returned it to her in good shape, started telling everyone she knew that I could help solve whatever mystery they had. Pretty soon, I was making good money at it -- good enough to be able to move out of that dump I shared with my alcoholic father and into a dump of my own. It might not have been one of the mansions up on Bunker Hill, but it was my place and I didn’t have to share it with anybody. I started making more money, getting better known around town. I was able to rent a nice apartment -- nothing fancy, of course, but nice. Then the Mexican girl’s father gave me all that money after she died and I bought the building where I’d been living and where the girl reporter and I still live. I took a moment to think back: yes, I guess it’s been a good life.

At that moment, another one of my wealthy clients came up and smacked me square on the back. He hit me so hard it nearly made me choke on my own tongue. It set my head spinning. It doesn’t take much to make that happen, anymore. I’ve been whacked over the head so many times a slight breeze can make me dizzy. I recovered soon enough to thank him for the birthday wishes.

That’s when she walked up.

You’ll never believe this, but my girl got Irene Dunne to attend my birthday party. It was certainly no secret that I thought she was the best actress in all of Hollywood, and I thought she was the classiest dame I’d ever met. Add to all that, she was the most beautiful woman in the world -- back when I saved her life on the RKO lot, and still.

She was wearing a becoming sheath of cream silk, cinched at the waist with a braided black-silk belt. She had her hair down, all loose, the way I really like it; and was wearing just the slightest hint of color on her lips -- again, just the way I like it.

It was like watching fog roll in over the mountains of San Francisco the way she moved through the crowd, approaching me. I guess the other guests weren’t impressed that a real-life movie star was in attendance because, let’s face it, there were several others in the room; but still, I was impressed that this real-life movie star was in attendance, and that’s all that mattered.

She took one graceful step and then another. Soon enough, she stood right in front of me.

Happy birthday, she cooed, in that special way she had.

Thank you, Miss Dunne, I sputtered. I don’t know what it was about her, but shit and goddamn if it wasn’t every single time I saw her that I felt like a twelve-year-old boy standing in the middle of a huge crowd with a roaring erection and every single eye in the room focused on it. I was at once embarrassed to be in her presence and thrilled.

She leaned in to give me a chaste kiss on the cheek.

Please, she said in that husky voice of hers. It’s Irene.

I gulped. I knew that if she followed the lead of the other girls in the room and grabbed me -- down there -- I would cream my pants like a schoolboy. Luckily, I think, for both of us, she kept her hands to herself.

Irene, I said, barely able to get the words out. Thank you for coming.

I wouldn’t miss it for the world, she said, somewhat cryptically.

I gave her a bit of a look and she gave me a bit of a look back. I wondered what she meant by that look of hers. I wondered if she wondered what I meant by that look of mine.

We mingled a little more. I glanced across the room and saw our hostess: that actress who was the mistress of that famous newspaper publisher. You know the one I mean. Yeh, it was the actress, standing at one end of the room, chatting with someone I didn’t recognize, at home in her own little beach cottage.

There she is, I said to the girl reporter standing near me.

Yes, she said, quietly.

How did you get her to let you throw me a birthday party at her house?

Oh, the girl said taking a sip of champagne. We’re old friends. We go way back. You know I work for her boyfriend.

And she did. She was still the star girl reporter for the big newspaper she was working at on the night I passed out in front of her table at the Palomar Ballroom two years ago. Wow! Has it really already been two years since we met, fell in love and --

Soon, we all started moving toward our tables where the first course had been laid out by the attentive staff of waiters. The girl sat next to me, of course, and Irene Dunne nudged a pert blonde out of the way to take the chair on my other side. I smiled. That was a good move on her part. Dunne’s husband of several years sat next to her and soon our entire table was filled with the famous and the unknown alike. After a few minutes, everyone was seated and I could hear the clinking of glasses and the clanking of silverware on plates.

We sat there for a long while, eating course after course; drinking glasses of wine and chatting with the people around us at the table. I took the chance to become better acquainted with Dunne’s husband and realized he was an all-around swell guy which, of course, made me hate him even more. I sighed. If things had only been a little different, things could have been so much different than they were. I made small talk with Dunne while my girl made small talk with the man next to her -- some kind of doctor, it turned out.

After the last course of flavored ice with fresh strawberries, we sat and chatted some more until I heard the clinking of a knife against a wine glass.

Quiet everyone, I heard a voice say at the other end of the room. Quiet please!

The crowd turned from their dessert and toward the sound of the voice.

Standing at the front of the room was another one of my ex-clients, a lawyer who’d had a bit of a problem with some love letters that had been stolen from him. He hired me to retrieve them, and retrieve them I did, saving his bank account and his reputation. You see, they were love letters from a handsome young naval man stationed nearby. In itself, not too much of a problem except the lawyer was married, with three children, and the naval man was still just eighteen years old.

Quiet, please, the lawyer said, again. First off, I would like to thank our host and hostess for putting together this lavish gathering. The lawyer began to applaud and was followed by everyone else in the room. As you all know, we’re here tonight for several reasons, one is to wish a happy birthday to a friend and colleague of ours. The other is to give a well-earned thank you to a man who’s made our lives better and more secure. The man of the hour is one you all know. I hope you will all join me in a heartfelt round of applause.

He began clapping, and others in the room followed. For my part, behind my smile, I started making mental notes on just how long the girl was going to have to pay for this indiscretion.

We all hope there are many more birthdays to celebrate and cases for you to solve, he said, pointing vaguely in my direction.

I nodded.

And, now that we’ve had our dinner, I want to introduce our special entertainment for the evening. He’s a man possessed of potent mystical powers, a seer who can communicate with the afterlife, the man who has helped many hundreds of people find tranquility knowing their loved ones are happy in the world beyond the grave.

He spoke the man’s name and, much to my surprise, the room erupted in applause and cheers. Louder and with more enthusiasm than they had for me. Sheesh! I recognized him, of course. As far as I was concerned he was a phony who bilked the rich and famous for their money while pretending to be communicating with the dead. I never for a moment believed in such malarkey, but a lot of people with a lot more money than brains believed in it and believed in him. Sadly, many of those people seemed to be in this room with me, tonight.

A very short, portly, middle-aged man rose from his chair at one of the tables as the applause continued. He smiled, turned and nodded vaguely in response. He slowly made his way to the front, accepted a handshake from the lawyer, then turned his attention to the others in attendance.

Thank you, the man said, his voice thick with some vaguely east-coast accent. This is an exciting night. You see, you are all invited to participate in a special event, he said, pausing for effect. Tonight, we’re going to have a séance.

Séance? the voices in the room repeated with excitement, turning and looking to the others seated nearby.

I was in agreement with them.

Séance? I said to the girl.

Shh, she said, resting her hand on my arm. It’s part of the surprise.

You know I hate surprises, right?

She gave my arm a squeeze.

I turned back to the sound of the clinking. I tried to remember that I wasn’t supposed to get angry anymore, or stressed. I remembered what the doctor had said about the, well, the thing in my brain and how any excitement could make it come loose. That, I knew, would spell the end.

As you all know, the mystic continued, when your loved ones pass on, they don’t die, they just move into the spirit world beyond, where they await their chance to communicate with you.

There were murmurs from the crowd.

Under normal circumstances, I hold readings or séances for a specific client to contact a special loved one. Tonight, however, we’re going to do things a little differently. We’re going to hold a séance and see who comes to visit with us. We’ve set up a special table, the mystic continued, motioning with his arm toward a table on the other side of the banquet room. For us to be successful, we will need to have nine volunteers -- nine believers who will sit at the table with me and link hands to form a bridge over which the spirits might be able to visit us.

Do I have a volunteer? the mystic asked.

There were more murmurs in the room.

Do I have a volunteer? he repeated.

The young man stopped typing.

Chapter Two

The young man stopped typing.

Do I have a volunteer? the voice repeated.

What? James said, his mind half in the moment and half somewhere else.

He turned and saw his beautiful wife, Arden, the star girl reporter, standing at the door to the bathroom.

James, really, Arden said, in mock desperation. It’s impossible to have a conversation with you when you’re working!

What were you saying?

I was asking if I had a volunteer to help me button up my pyjamas. But, apparently no one’s interested.

She walked over to him, buttoning up the red silk pyjamas she always wore to bed. She turned him in his chair and sat down on his lap.

A girl could get a complex being ignored all the time, she added, playfully, tweaking his nose before she leaned in to kiss him. Shouldn’t you be calling it a night? It’s already nearly midnight. I have to get up early for work.

James was in no hurry to end the kiss with her. He loved her as much now as when he met her two years ago. He loved her then and he loved her still. Nothing made him happier than spending time with her -- no matter what they were doing.

I know. I’m sorry, he said, apologizing all at once for ignoring her and working so late. He had a personal policy to never work after dinner, unless he was on a roll or a deadline. This time, it wasn’t a deadline, but he was on a roll crafting another intricate plotline for his newest novel. He had tried many times before to explain, but could never make anyone understand, the hours of work needed to create an outline for his novels. Any novel was difficult to write, but add a mystery to be solved and the difficulty factor was bumped up a notch. He had to make sure all his ducks were lined up before he could even begin writing, lest it all unravel in an overlooked plot detail. It took all his time and energy and he didn’t want to disappoint his audience who had come to expect a certain level of sophistication in his fictional stories about an unnamed detective in contemporary Los Angeles.

It’s all right, Honey, Arden said, softly. But it really is getting late.

I know, Dear.

She hopped off his lap and started turning down her bed. She had already turned down his, and plumped up his pillows the way he liked.

What is it you were asking me, something about your pyjamas? James asked as he pulled the cover over his trusted Corona typewriter -- the one he’d been using since he wrote his very first novel more than eight years ago. He knew he still had work to do, and his mind was still a flurry of activity, meaning he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep for a while yet; but he stopped anyway, not wanting to ever give Arden a reason to be unhappy with him.

The pyjamas were just a cover story. I really wanted to know if you were interested in volunteering to help me with my new assignment, she said as she turned off the light to the bathroom and climbed under the sheets in her bed.

Assignment?

Yeh, the one with the phony medium. You know, the supposed psychic who contacts the dead?

Oh, yeh. Listen, is she short or tall? James asked.

I think she’s fairly tall, for a girl. Why do you ask?

Oh, just thinking of a great headline, if she was short and on the run from the authorities.

What would that be?

Small medium at large, he said, trying hard to stifle a smirk.

Really, James. Aren’t you a bit old for that?

Gosh, I certainly hope not, he said, rising from his chair and giving his back a stretch. Boy, it’s getting harder and harder for me to sit down for such long periods of time.

Anyway, she’s more of a swindler than a psychic, if you ask me.

How do you mean? James asked, taking off his robe and climbing under the sheets of his own bed. He flicked off the light on his side, leaving the two of them illuminated by the single light by her bed.

Well, she’s conned the rich and famous of Hollywood into believing she can communicate with their dead relatives. You know how that goes: you ring a few bells, make the table move and she interprets that as advice from the dead.

Do you know it’s not real?

What?

Well, listen, I don’t believe in that kind of stuff, either; but do you know for a fact she’s a fake?

Arden gave him a look.

Well, of course I do, she said, emphatically. You can’t communicate with the dead. It isn’t possible.

You’re a newspaper reporter. You collect facts and report them. Do you have any facts to support your position?

Are you trying to annoy me, James Murray?

Not at all. I’m trying to make you realize you can’t call her a fake without proof. You know she’s lying just as I know she’s lying; but a lot of rich people pay her a lot of real money -- over and over -- to bring them updates from their deceased loved ones. They believe her, and it’ll take more than your word or mine to convince them otherwise.

Arden slipped down further under the covers and allowed herself a moment to think about what James had said. She knew he was right: reporters follow the facts. They can start with a theory, sure; but they have to go where the facts take them. No matter what she might personally think, she could only report facts.

But, how can I prove she’s a fake? Arden asked. Or, for that matter, how could you prove she not a fake?

Therein lies your problem, James said, interlacing his fingers behind his head. Aside from the bells and shaking tables, everything goes on in her head. You have to somehow crawl into her mind to find out if it’s real or not. Or, get her to admit she’s a fake.

Arden sat there in the silence. See? This is why she liked having him along as a partner on some of her projects. Even though she was the journalist and he the fiction writer, he was the one who always made sure she didn’t reach conclusions not supported by the evidence. It had served her well over the past two years and the several big assignments on which she had gladly accepted his assistance.

In fact, James’s cynical attitude even saved her bacon on one particularly important assignment. She was covering the trial of a man who had been accused of abducting the infant son of a famous politician -- in a situation virtually identical to the Lindbergh kidnapping in ‘thirty-two, and just a few years after. However, in this case, it was wood taken from an attic to construct a crude coffin for the child that almost got the man executed, rather than wood taken to construct a ladder. Even though they found the child alive, everyone thought the man guilty. When they discovered there were missing planks of wood in his attic, they were sure. Then, when they disassembled the coffin and realized the pieces fit in the attic perfectly, they were convinced.

Her mind wasn’t changed until one night, over dinner, James suggested that someone was framing the man. He pointed out that it could have been something like this: someone could have broken into the man’s house, stolen wood from the attic in an attempt to frame him. Arden couldn’t bring herself to believe such a far-fetched story; but James insisted. He was so adamant she began digging into the man’s past just to shut James up. Sure enough, she found one link that led to another link and finally convinced her it was indeed a set up.

Despite her editor’s refusal to believe her, Arden persisted and ran the story. It detailed how the arrested man had been working at a bank and accidentally uncovered an embezzling scheme involving the bank president. The man said he would keep quiet, but the president couldn’t take any chances. It would come out later that the bank president hired someone to break into the bank-employee’s house and steal wood from the attic floor. He then arranged with his friend, the politician, to take his own baby, put him in the coffin and arrange for it all to be discovered. Arden took a chance piecing together the otherwise-circumstantial evidence, but when it appeared in print it created a firestorm. The bank president, sure he’d been caught, started babbling that it was the politician’s idea. The politician immediately implicated the president and the employee was released, his life barely saved by her intrepid reporting -- and James’s questioning of the facts.

Arden made sure her editor knew they all had James to thank for another big scoop, an honor that James humbly accepted. Of course, his part in the case bolstered sales of his recent novel about the baseball-blackmail scheme; so, in the end, it was a win-win situation for everyone -- except for the politician and the bank president who were both sitting in a federal penitentiary on kidnapping charges.

Was it possible James was correct on this point as well? Was it possible that such things as communicating with the dead were real? She had always assumed they were fake, but what evidence did she have to come to that conclusion? None, really.

She reached up and clicked off her light.

Good night, Sweetie, she said to her husband.

Good night, Arden, James replied.

Chapter Three

Do I have a volunteer? the mystic repeated.

I had no intention of being one of the guinea pigs. I don’t believe in this kind of thing and he specifically asked for believers; but my girl grabbed my hand and thrust it into the air.

We have our first volunteer! the portly man shouted as he pointed my way.

The room was filled with applause as I, the birthday boy, was forced to my feet and escorted to the table that had been specially set aside for the evening’s entertainment. Something told me this had all been planned: for the girl to raise my hand and the mystic to be looking in my direction at the same time to guarantee I’d be part of the shenanigans.

I never believed in all this mystical shit. That was why I didn’t volunteer voluntarily. I was sure that nothing that was going to happen tonight would change my mind in the slightest. But, I gamely played along with the charade and took a chair at the table.

Others volunteered and we soon had enough to fill the table: me, the man in charge seated next to me, and eight other believers or unbelievers. Didn’t much matter to me which. I gave a glance to my girl, still sitting at our dinner table.

She caught my eye and smiled.

I caught her eye and grimaced. I hoped she understood that look to mean she was in a heap of trouble.

She apparently did. She laughed and lifted a glass of wine in a silent toast to my predicament.

Shall we get started? the mystic said.

There was a din in the room as people began to settle down.

What we need to do first, the man started, is to dim the lights in the room. If you’d please, he said to the lawyer who walked over to a bank of lights and flicked the switches.

There were murmurs as the room went mostly dark.

Then, we must all hold hands.

I hesitated, but took the mystic’s hand on one side, and then reached over to the young man next to me and took his hand.

The young man gave me a look. I mean, he really put the mince pies on me.

Geez! Another lavender type. Why couldn’t they have seated a pretty girl next to me? Oh, well.

There was a silence in the room for a few long minutes. Soon, I could hear tittering from people in the audience. Everyone in the room seemed uncomfortable, but no more so than I was, I can tell you that.

After a moment, I felt the mystic start to sway back and forth. He was pulling my hand out and back to the rhythm of his swaying.

Spirits, come to us, he said in a ghost-type voice.