by P. N. Elrod
It was a big elevator, tall and deep. You could haul some sizeable things in it. Still, Burton and Ruthie must have found it to be much too small when they noticed me hovering a yard off the floor like. . .well, a ghost.
They didn’t react right away, just stared open-mouthed.
I started laughing. Couldn’t help myself. It was silent. Not enough of my lungs and larynx were there to make noise.
Ruthie spoke first, her voice down to a hoarse whisper. “You said you took care of him!”
“I did take care of him!”
Now that was funny. They’d said almost exactly the same thing in the kitchen. I shook my head, grinning, which caused Ruthie to shrink against Burton.
I pointed at him, index finger straight, thumb up. . .used by kids everywhere when playing cops and robbers and mimed shooting him.
Bang-bang, you’re dead.
He couldn’t take it and pulled the trigger on his empty gun. He kept pulling it, one empty chamber after another trying to kill a man he knew was dead.
When he worked out its uselessness I expected him to throw it at me, but he didn’t get that far.
The elevator had safety measures, which was just as well for these two. Burton had forgotten to keep track of things, like how fast we were dropping. A buzzer went off, and some kind of emergency brake kicked in. While I continued to hover, my companions on the ride were thrown off their feet by the jolt and abrupt stop.
Good enough.
I went solid all the way, and knocked Burton out completely.
Ruthie fled to the back of the car. I was between her and the exit. She looked to be just this side of screaming, but held her own.
I wanted to knock her out, too, but something in me—another useless bit of self-knowledge—rebelled at smacking a woman around, however much she deserved it.
Instead, I bent and removed Burton’s necktie. It was a nice one, real silk. Strong.
Ruthie ended up screaming bloody murder and fighting like mad, but she had a right. It’s not every night that a man comes back from the dead to hogtie and leave you on the floor of an elevator.
She was still screaming as I opened the doors, but there was a different tone to it. Maybe she’d decided that Burton hadn’t snapped my neck after all. Fury replaced her fear and her curses followed me as I made my way across a dark basement to some stairs and let myself out.
The alley again. Crap, was I ever tired if it.
At one end was a police car with a couple of uniforms hanging around.
I yelled at them, sounding urgent.
One had a flashlight, but I put a hand up to obscure my face and crouched to hide my height. I waved them closer.
“They’re in here! It’s the killers! Hurry!”
They came running. I kept up the act until they were past, then sprinted down the alley. Too tired for more disappearing games I could still run like hell. I slowed after a block and turned for a look back.
Nothing to see, all the fun would be inside. Those guys would be busy for the rest of the night trying to figure it out.
My Buick rolled up, Gordy at the wheel, looking concerned.
“What happened to you?” he wanted to know.
“Be glad to tell you, but first I need a drink.”
“No problem.”
“You owe me a new suit, too.”
“No problem.” he said in the same tone and drove me to the Stockyards without another word.
I like that about Gordy. Anyone else would be eaten alive with curiosity and give in to questions, but he held his peace. A patient and remarkable man, he held it even after I emerged from the Yards, eyes still flushed blood red from feeding and feeling two hundred percent better.
“Back to the Nightcrawler?” I asked.
He nodded. At this late hour the streets were fairly clear. I filled him in on the details.
His head bobbed back and forth. That was his version of a belly laugh. It took him a while to get control of himself. I laughed a little as well, but it didn’t feel right. I was tough, but needed some internal healing, the kind that I couldn’t get simply from a fresh dose of blood.
I’d downplayed the part where my neck had been broken, and the part about being dropped off the building. Gordy was a friend, but there are some things about myself I don’t talk about to anyone.
That knot of fear was still there, slightly looser than before. It would ease with time, given how I’d made myself go up the side of the building.
“How do you think they’ll explain the suitcase and that chair you threw?” Gordy asked.
I shrugged. “If they’re smart, they’ll ignore it.”
A few nights later we got an answer, of sorts.
I was back at my favorite table at the Nightcrawler, wearing my new suit and watching the show when Gordy came up again, this time sitting with me.
The band was once more in the midst of the big horn and drum number. The players got through it flawlessly, crash-bang-boom, followed by applause.
“Poor Alby,” I said.
“He’s covered.” By that Gordy meant that he was paying for the funeral. It turned out that Alby didn’t have any family at all, but he wouldn’t wind up in Potter’s field.
“That’s square of you.”
“I owed him. Between the two of you Burton’s off my back for good.”
“Give Alby the credit. He’s the one who lost the most.”
“He’s getting the credit.”
“Oh, yeah?”
The band swung into a new song. Couples quit their tables to dance to it.
Gordy pulled out a newspaper folded to an inside page and slid it over to me.
We’d been keeping up with the headlines about Soldier Burton and his arrest for the murder of Alby Cornish. Burton wouldn’t be marching away from this one; the DA—in possession of the murder weapon, prints, and with half a dozen of Chicago’s finest to testify to Burton’s violent resisting of arrest and escape attempt—was a happy man.
In all those stories no mention was made of flying suitcases or furniture. . .until tonight.
The paper was one of the lesser tabloids, not worthy of sharing newsstand space with the Tribune, but the headline was bold: Did the Ghost of Alby Cornish Nab His Killer?
The story was long on conjecture and short on facts, such as the reporter’s source. She disclosed only that an anonymous member of the police force confided details to her about Burton’s arrest. Those details had not made it into the official report. There was a mystery about a thrown suitcase destroying a door, and some violent poltergeist activity centered on an otherwise ordinary looking armchair. Soldier Burton had used the distractions to attempt his escape, threatening the police the same weapon that had killed Alby Cornish.
Who or what force was behind the ghostly activity was a great mystery, but the reporter speculated that Alby himself might have returned from the grave to help get his (alleged) killer behind bars.
Gordy’s head wobbled again from laughter, and we sat there not saying anything, just watching the dancers. I thought about Alby missing out on it all, but maybe somewhere he was laughing, too.
* * * * * * *
__________
THE SCOTTISH PLOY
Author’s Note: Editor Denise Little asked me to write something a bit outside my box for her collection MURDER MOST ROMANTIC for Cumberland House. I’d been watching a lot of Xena: Warrior Princess reruns, so the hero in this bit of lighthearted dash bears a strong resemblance to New Zealand’s Kevin Tod Smith, who played the god of war, Ares. This delightful actor was taken from us far too soon. I hope his other fans enjoy this one.
Cassie Sullivan slammed her clipboard onto the props table, causing the sword collection that lay there to jump. One fell to the floor with a solid clank. The abrupt noise startled everyone, giving her the undivided attention of the whole cast and crew. “If just one more thing goes wrong, I’m calling an exorcist!”
Nell Russell left off wiring together tre
e branches that were to be part of Burnam Wood. “What’s happened now?”
“Trevor Hopewell backed out.”
“What?” Similar expressions of dismay and shock flowed from the others, who stopped work on the set to come closer, faces tense.
Cassie looked at them all before speaking, but this new disaster was no one’s fault. The company’s poltergeist could not be responsible for this flavor of random bad luck. “Hopewell got a starring role in a straight-to-video horror movie they’re shooting in Canada and grabbed it.”
Nell’s mouth twisted. “He chose that over the lead in Macbeth?”
Some of the more nervy members of the cast winced and groaned.
Nell rounded on them. “Oh, get over it! You can say the name of the play out front, just not backstage. Cassie, he can’t do that. Why would he want to?”
“Money. They can pay him more. The option’s in his contract.” Everyone nodded, understanding perfectly. The Sullivan Theater Company, for all its members’ sincere enthusiasm, was small change to an actor like Trevor Hopewell. Apparently his commitment to keeping theater alive wasn’t deep enough to survive the lure of film dollars. Cassie herself could side with Hopewell to a degree, but there was such a thing as fair warning.
Opening night was only a week away.
“What’ll we do for a new Macbeth?” asked Willis Wright, the stage manager. No one groaned, since he referred to the character, not the play.
“Hopewell’s agency is sending over someone named Quentin Douglas as a replacement.”
“Who?”
Cassie shrugged. “He’s done some commercials.”
A general groan. Nell joined in. “What kind of commercials?”
“Who knows? Foot powder, shaving cream, talking sandwiches—I don’t care so long as he can project the lines. They said he played Macbeth in college—”
Another groan.
“—so he knows the part. If Isabel likes him, he’s in.”
“Great. Did he save his old costume?”
Cassie glowered. “Don’t get me started. At this point I may do a nude production.”
“That would sell more tickets. Think of all the sword jokes.”
“Argh!” Cassie looked around for something else to slam or throw, but nothing non-breakable presented itself. The company watched her, somewhat wall-eyed. Her tempers were infrequent and short lived, but infamous for their intensity. Everyone knew to get out of the line of fire for the brief duration, but this time no one seemed to know which way to jump.
She put her hands palm-out in a peace gesture. “It’s okay, boys and girls. I just hate surprises. Chalk this up to the production poltergeist and get back to work. Let’s keep it to one life-and-death crisis every ten minutes instead of every five. Okay?”
A rumble of agreement. They resumed their tasks. Nell hung close, though. “This sucks.”
“I know, and I shouldn’t blame the poltergeist.”
“Please, let’s do.”
“You’re not into superstition,” said Cassie.
“I wasn’t, but this show could make me a believer. Much more of this and I’ll be tossing salt over my shoulder. When’s the foot-powder wonder boy due?”
“Sometime today. I just got the call from—”
“Miss Sullivan?” Baritone voice. Rich. Chocolate-smooth delivery. Built-in projection. No need for a body microphone.
Cassie turned to take in the owner of the voice. Oh, my gawd. Hair like jet, soap opera hero’s face, body of a personal trainer, thin line of beard edging his jaw—perfectly in keeping with a Shakespearean character—straight white teeth in a friendly, open smile.
“I’m Quentin Douglas—the Gilbert Agency sent me?” Hand outstretched. Expecting her to respond.
“Yes, they certainly did,” she murmured, still goggling. She put her own hand out and connected with his firm grip.
The vision spoke again. “I hope I can work out for you.”
His “hope” momentarily sparked a variety of emotions in Cassie, which she quickly smothered. You’re off actors, Cassie-girl, you are immune no matter how gorgeous they are. Anyone that good-looking is going to be attached or gay. “I’m sure you will, Mr. Douglas.” She was still holding his hand. Belatedly, she released it.
“Please, call me Quentin.”
Before she could call him Quentin, she felt an urgent tug on her shirttail; Nell obviously wanted to be included in the first-names fan club.
“Quentin, this is Nell Russell, she’s playing Lady MacDuff, Hecate, and Young Siward.”
“I’m very versatile,” Nell purred, oozing forward to shake his hand, too. She had no misgivings about fraternizing with actors, usually bestowing one broken—or at least bruised heart—per production.
Quentin tendered another easy smile, his royal blue eyes twinkling.
“Glad to meet you. Is there much doubling up for roles in this one?”
“A few,” Cassie answered, since Nell seemed to have forgotten her next line, basking as she was in his presence. “None of the principals, of course. Go through there to my office, the red door. I’ll be right along.”
Quentin Douglas departed, walking smooth as a panther on ball bearings. Nell made a low moan of appreciation deep in her throat, ogling at the snug fit of his jeans on his perfect backside—not to mention the muscular set of those sculpted shoulders. . . .
The view wasn’t lost on Cassie, but she made herself look elsewhere, gritting her teeth.
“I didn’t think they made them like that anymore,” Nell sighed.
“Down, girl.”
“I thought they were all CGI effects, costume padding, and makeup.”
“Just don’t go breaking him before we even start.”
“But he’s the one.”
“What? Your own true love? Nell, you’ve said that on every—”
“No, I mean I know who he is! He’s the sports drink shower guy.”
Cassie blanked. “O—kay.”
“You know, that commercial where the guy takes the shower and they pour sports drink all over his sweaty body. Relief from your killer thirst in sloooow-mooootion.”
“I’m surprised you even noticed his face.” Not much of a TV watcher, Cassie had no recollection of the ad. She quelled a sudden feeling of deprivation.
“I’ve seen him in As the Day Passes, too. He can act.”
“On TV. I’ve gotta find out if he’s any good for stage work.”
“Cassie, he looks like he’d be good for all kinds of things!”
“Yeah, but can he cook?”
“You’ve got to get over your allergy toward dating actors. They can be lots of fun.”
“Like a root canal.” Cassie hurried to her office before she caught Nell’s terminal case of carbonated hormones. Yes, Quentin Douglas was a prime physical specimen; yes, he could probably act, but having once fallen far too hard for that type, Cassie had sworn them off forever. Of course, that was difficult to remember when face-to-face with Quentin across her cluttered desk. He had an energy that beat against her like a sunbeam. She refused to be burned by it, but quietly rejoiced; that sort of dynamism was priceless. He just might be able to make a whole theater feel it.
“Here’s my résumé,” he said, handing over a sheet of paper stapled to a head shot.
She compared the photo to the reality. Usually publicity pictures were an idealized improvement of the subject. Not this guy, though. Would his looks detract from the production? Possibly, considering Nell’s reaction. On the other hand, it wouldn’t hurt to have a drop-dead handsome, virile Macbeth leaping around the stage waving his sword. “Know how to play with your weapon?” she asked. “I mean—do you know stage combat?”
“It’s a passion of mine.” He flashed those perfect teeth. “I don’t get much call for it in commercials.”
“This job doesn’t pay as well as TV work.”
“It’s experience. I’m always looking to hone my skills.” He kept up with the eye cont
act.
Is he flirting with me? she wondered, conscious she was in her second-best work shirt, her third-best jeans, with her red hair piled every which way from its hasty morning pinning. But Quentin had live theater in his background; he’d know how grungy things could get. No matter. I’m immune to his type now. Stick to business. She found a copy of Macbeth and handed it over. “Let’s have a reading, then.”
“Sure. What would you like to hear?” Quentin was remarkably self-possessed. Most of the actors she’d dealt with had panic attacks at the prospect of a cold reading. Not this wavy-haired and cool cucumber.
Cucumbers? Why did I have to think about them? Cassie cleared her throat. “How about Act Three, Scene Four? Macbeth’s talking with the First Murderer at the banquet.” There, a highly charged scene to work with; would he know the right level to hit?
Quentin found the spot in the book right away, indication that he knew the play well. She fed him the lines of the First Murderer. After a glance at the pages, he delivered flawlessly and in such a manner as to make the arcane language easily understandable to a modern audience. He also got the emotions across without snacking on the scenery.
Cassie tried not to look too enthusiastic. “Okay I’m happy, but the decision rests with the show’s angel, Miss Isabel Graham. I’m directing, but she’s the producer and star and has final say.” She expected a response from him on the name. Millions of people knew of her. Even Cassie had seen an episode or three of Isabel’s hit comedy series, I Love Isabel.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Quentin, not batting an eye. “I’ve worked with Bel before.”
“Really?” Cassie did not miss the affectionate diminutive of Isabel’s name. Only a select few had the privilege of calling her that.
“She and I were in college together,” he explained. “In fact, we were in Macbeth one semester. The same roles.”
“How. . .convenient.” Cassie spotted the confirmation of this on the resume.
“Bel’s career took off faster than mine. I did a stint in the navy to pay for college, which delayed things for a couple of years. I’m catching up.”
