Final Call - A Mary O'Reilly Paranormal Mystery (Book 4)

by Terri Reid

  Bradley waited and listened. He kept his eyes on the control booth, anticipating a shadow or a movement in the darkened booth. A car drove by, casting a quick moving burst of light through the lobby windows. He stood motionless.

  Then he heard the sound. A woman’s voice? A faint cry? What was it?

  He moved away from the stage, along the far aisle, towards the darkness of the theater. Leaning forward, he strained to hear the sound again. He could feel the ice on the back of his neck. He knew something was close.

  Then he saw the shadow at the back of the theater. He moved quickly, dashing up the aisle to reach the lobby door before the shadow could escape.

  The spotlight turned off. The theater plunged into blackness. Bradley froze, reaching for his flashlight before he made another move.

  He fumbled with the switch, his adrenalin pumping. Finally, a clear beam filled the room. He moved toward the back of the theater again.

  CRASH!

  The sound came from the stage. He jumped and turned as the main curtains crashed to the ground. He dashed back down the aisle to the stage, pushed past the crime scene tape and looked down on the piles of velvet curtains. A long braided noose lay across the curtains and in the center of the yards of material was the distinct outline of a woman’s body.

  Bradley reached for the holster on the left side of his belt. He unlatched it and pulled out his combination radio/cell phone. Still looking down at the imprint, he pressed a speed dial number and waited for a moment.

  “Hello, Mary, it’s Bradley. I think I’m going to need your help on a case.”

  Chapter Four

  Mary was pounding on the back door of the theater within fifteen minutes, stamping her feet against the sub-zero temperatures. Bradley opened the door quickly and let her in.

  “I’m afraid it’s not a whole lot warmer inside,” he said, moving up the stairs in front of her. “I really appreciate you getting here so quickly.”

  She smiled at him. “Who ya gonna call?”

  He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I think I really am going to need a ghostbuster on this one. Did you know Faye McMullen?”

  “I met her a couple of times,” she said, picturing the thin, pretentious woman in her mind, “Mostly at community functions. And since you mentioned her in the past tense, I have to assume she is no longer with us.”

  “Yeah, Rosie and Stanley found her a couple of hours ago,” he explained, “Hanging about twenty feet up in the air.”

  “Oh, wow, not a pleasant way to die,” Mary said. “How’s Rosie doing?”

  Bradley smiled, thinking of Stanley’s vow to not fuss over Rosie. “I’m sure she is being bullied into sitting down and drinking tea with a comforter on her lap. It would be great if you could stop by her place and talk to her.”

  “Of course I will. Rosie is such a dear, I’m sure this is very upsetting.”

  Nodding, he led Mary to the backstage door into the audience. “They found her on the other side of the stage. The coroner left with her body about thirty minutes ago. I think she must have been up there for at least twenty-four hours, but they’ll send me their findings in the morning.”

  “So, what happened once they left?”

  The breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding released. She knew him so well.

  He explained what had happened while he was alone at the theater and then opened the door inviting her to follow him. They walked down the stairs together and Mary touched his arm to stop him.

  “Sorry, but if I’m going to be able to see anything, you have to stay here while I check out the crime scene.”

  While working on a case together in Chicago, they had learned that Bradley’s presence blocked unknown spirits from contacting Mary. While it was great for Mary not to be bombarded by hundreds of spirits seeking resolution, it required Bradley to keep his distance until an initial connection with the spirit was formed.

  Mary walked along the front of the stage and watched as shadows of long-dead actors and actresses slowly appeared and performed their favorite scenes. Acts from plays that were performed in the 1930s shared the stage with acts from the following decades. All shared a love and connection with the old theater.

  When she reached stage right, she saw the crime scene tape lying underneath the crimson stage curtain, saw the rope and, instead of merely the shape of a woman, saw the ghost of Faye McMullen.

  The ghost opened her eyes and stared malevolently at Mary. “Who the hell are you?” she spat. “This is my scene. My death scene.”

  “Oh, excuse me,” Mary answered simply. “Allow me to take a seat so I can better observe your talent.”

  She moved back and sat in a seat directly in front of the specter. The ghost, pacified, lay back on the curtains and continued. Mary noted that her face was slightly disfigured from lying against the rope and her head lay in a slight angle, probably from her broken neck.

  Throwing her arm back over her head she moaned. “Oh, what a cold cruel world this is to cut down the life of such a promising, young ingénue…”

  “Excuse me,” Mary interrupted, “but really, young ingénue? I don’t think so.”

  The ghost turned, eyes blazing, and hissed at her. “This is my scene; I can write it the way I want to!”

  “Well, fine, but I think you are pushing the willing suspension of disbelief a little too far. You pushed me right out of the moment.”

  The ghost pondered her comment. “Really? It pushed you out of the moment?”

  Mary nodded. “Yes. I was right there with you. Feeling it,” she emphasized by patting her heart. “But that whole ingénue thing.”

  The ghost sighed, deeply, and dropped her chin. “You’re probably correct,” she agreed. “I’ll rewrite it.”

  Smiling, Mary cautiously walked up to the stage. “So, during the act before this one,” she said. “Do you recall who the villain is?”

  The ghost’s face lit up. “Of course,” she said. “I know exactly who did it.”

  Mary’s heart leapt. Well, this murder case will be a piece of cake. “Do you mind if I bring the Chief of Police over to hear what you’re going to say?” she asked.

  The ghost nodded graciously, “Of course, the more the merrier.”

  Bradley had been standing across the theater, watching Mary as she conversed with empty space. A few months ago he would have immediately characterized her as a nut case or a con woman. But, in the short few months he had known her, Mary had opened up a whole new, unbelievable world beyond this life to him.

  “Oh, Bradley,” she called. “Could you come over here for a moment please?”

  Bradley hurried over to her side and Mary placed her hand on his. Through some miraculous synergy, when Mary touched him, he was able to see the same spirits she could see. He looked up on the stage and saw the spirit of Faye McMullen reclining on the curtains.

  “Faye is going to tell us what happens in the Act prior to this one,” Mary explained meaningfully. “She is going to let us know who the villain is.”

  “Well, I’d like that very much,” Bradley said. “Please, continue.”

  Faye stood up and walked over to the side of the stage, carrying the rope with the noose. She slid her head inside the loop and slowly started to rise into the air, the rope straightening above her.

  She looked down at the audience, her arms spread gracefully to the sides, her legs mimicking a ballet dancer on pointe. “This is my final call,” she said in a stage whisper. “This is my end. And as I take my final breath, I call out the name of my executioner.”

  The rope tightened around her neck and she moved her arms, pointing to the audience. “Envy,” she choked out. “Insecurity. Jealousy. Ingratitude. Stupidity.”

  Her last words were gasped out, “These are what killed me.”

  She took a deep shuddering breath, her body spasmed for a moment and finally hung limp.

  Mary and Bradley stared at her and then turned to each other. “But…” Mary began.

&
nbsp; “What did you think?” Faye’s voice rang out across the theater.

  They turned to the stage. Faye still hung in the noose, her eyes wide, her face filled with pride. “Made you cry, didn’t I?” she crowed.

  “But, you didn’t tell us who murdered you,” Mary said.

  Faye shrugged, sending the rope swaying gently. “It doesn’t matter who, it only matters why. They were all jealous of me.”

  “It really does matter who,” Bradley insisted. “We need to catch your murderer.”

  “Besides,” Mary added. “It makes the plot line so much more interesting.”

  Chapter Five

  Bradley walked Mary back to her car, their feet crunching in the crisp, frozen snow. “I’m sorry I dragged you out in this cold,” he said, taking her arm and helping over a high snow drift next to the curb. “This has been a total waste of your time.”

  Mary could hear the polite distance in his voice and knew that her actions had put it there. But, really, how could she have an honest, open relationship with him when she couldn’t be honest and open?

  Mary pulled her keys out of her car and unlocked the Roadster, and then she turned back to him, leaning against the car. “Hey, no problem,” she said, trying to sound cheerful. “Besides, I don’t think it was a waste of time. When Faye realizes that being dead isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, she’s bound to get in touch with me. You just moved that process along.”

  Bradley leaned one hand against the roof of the car, blocking Mary in place. He looked down at her and she looked up, meeting his eyes. His breath mingled with hers in the icy air. He lifted his other hand, encased in soft leather and slowly stroked her cheek with his thumb. “I miss you,” he said softly.

  Shuddering from his touch, she felt her eyes fill with tears. One single teardrop slid down her cheek and he gently wiped it away. “What did I do?” he asked, pain and confusion apparent in his gaze.

  She shook her head. “Nothing,” she insisted. “Nothing. It’s not you. It’s me.”

  He sighed. “Mary, will we ever be able to get back what we had?”

  She nodded, her voice tight in her throat, wondering how he was going to respond when he discovered she had known that Jeannine was dead. “I really hope so.”

  He stepped back away from her and the car. “So, are you going over to Rosie’s?” he asked, his voice friendly and impersonal.

  “Yeah, I thought I’d head over there now.”

  He paused for a moment. “I was going to go over there too. Will that be a problem for you?”

  Mary felt her heart break a little bit more. “No, that won’t be a problem at all,” she said.

  He turned before she could add anything else. “Fine, I’ll see you there.”

  Mary watched him walk back down the street to his cruiser, and then she opened the door to her Roadster and slipped inside. Inserting the key, she listened as the engine purred to life. She fastened her seat belt and reached over to the gear shift to move it into reverse when she felt the hairs on the back of her neck raise. Slowly turning her head towards the passenger seat, she found herself face to face with a pair of non-corporeal eyes floating in front of her.

  She jumped, initially startled, and watched as the face around the eyes slowly began to materialize. He was an older African-American man, with a distinguished face and a nearly balding head.

  “Sorry,” she stammered. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  The gentleman glanced around. “Where am I?” he asked, his face creased in concern.

  “Well, you’re in my car, which is parked on Walnut Avenue, near Clark Street in Freeport, Illinois,” she replied. “Does that help?”

  He shook his head violently. “No, no, that does not help, young lady,” he bellowed. “I was in the hospital, intensive care, my heart…”

  Pausing, he lifted his hand and placed it over his chest. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he said in wonder. “There is no pain.”

  Closing her eyes for a moment, Mary took a deep breath. She really hated when it happened like this. “It doesn’t hurt anymore because you died,” she said softly. “You’re a ghost.”

  Whipping his head up to face her, he shook his head. “Oh, no, young lady, I’m afraid you have this very wrong,” he said firmly. “I am a minister. I am Reverend Hezekiah Johnson, a servant of God. There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “I can understand how this might come as a surprise,” she began.

  “Surprise, young lady? No, this is not a surprise, it’s blasphemy! I don’t know who you are, or how you got me here, but you will be lucky if I don’t press charges,” he growled, as he reached over and tried to open the door, but failed. “You let me out of there, or so help me…”

  Mary reached in front of him and opened his door. He slid out of the car and turned back to her. “You don’t look like the type who would pull a prank like this,” he said, his voice softer and a little more kind. “I would suggest you think about the company you’ve been keeping lately.”

  She nodded. “If you ever need help,” she added quickly before he could walk away. “Please feel free to call on me. My name is Mary O’Reilly.”

  “I find that highly unlikely,” he sniffed. “But, I thank you for the offer.”

  He turned and walked down Walnut Street towards Stephenson.

  Probably going back to the hospital, Mary thought. Well, perhaps he’ll be able to sort things out there.

  Mary closed the door and once again shifted into first gear. This time she was able to pull out of the parking spot and drive down Walnut without further interruption.

  She started to turn towards Rosie’s house and thought of the ghost making his way back to the hospital. He had been sent to her for a reason, even if he didn’t understand the reason. He might need her. She shook her head. Well, she had wanted to be busy.

  She pulled out her cell phone. “Hi, Rosie, it’s Mary. How are you doing?”

  Chapter Six

  She slowly followed Reverend Hezekiah Johnson down Stephenson Street to the hospital. She hadn’t realized how tall he was when he was sitting next to her in the car. He must have been over six feet tall and, although his body was carrying some excess weight, she could tell he had been an athlete by the way he carried himself as he strode down the street.

  He was wearing a long dark overcoat that flapped open as he walked, but he wouldn’t notice the cold, Mary thought. And, she added to herself, he wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t noticing the cold.

  He wasn’t floating yet, she noticed as he made his way around a group of people walking to their cars. He was still earth-bound, either by his own determination or his lack of acceptance of his current state. He walked with purpose, not looking to the right or the left, but simply marching forward.

  She thought he might have looked a little angry, not used to having things detain him from his usual routine. She thought back to Mike’s statement about how ghosts didn’t really worry about time anymore, she wondered if this ghost would be able to adjust.

  As he entered the lobby, she found a parking space close to the door and settled down to wait for him. Rosie had understood when she told her she wasn’t sure how late she would be. But with Stanley and Bradley there, Rosie had plenty of people looking out for her for the time being.

  Reverend Hezekiah Johnson entered the lobby and looked around. Where the he…, he stopped. What’s wrong with me? I can’t believe I nearly swore, he thought. That young woman had shaken him more than he cared to admit. Imagine, suggesting he was dead and, even worse, not admitted through the Pearly Gates to his eventual reward. Why, for all the time and effort he’d put into his ministry, he was sure he would eventually be welcomed home with jubilation and celebration. A ghost. No, sir! That was certainly not part of his future.

  Pushing through the doors to the triage area of the Emergency Room, he noticed the duty nurse didn’t even look up from her computer to ask his name. Really, things were getting lax at the hospital, h
e decided. Well, at least he wasn’t going to have to waste his time with explanations, especially since he didn’t have one.

  He peeked around curtains to try to locate his family. It was just like Lucinda, his wife, to get turned around in a place like this. She was probably roaming the halls somewhere, he thought with a wry shake of his head. That woman couldn’t do anything without his guiding hand.

  The sound of weeping stopped him in his tracks. It sounded just like Lucinda. He turned and followed the sound down a long corridor and found himself in front of a room with a door that was slightly ajar.

  “I’m so sorry Mrs. Johnson.”

  He recognized that voice; it was Dr. Polley. What had he missed? Was it one of their children?

  He rushed into the room and his heart filled with relief as he realized his entire family was there, standing around a hospital bed. They all looked fine.

  Moving closer, he craned his neck to see who was sick. Probably one of the beloved parishioners. Elle Jones had been sick for quite a while now.

  Standing behind his wife, he peered over her shoulder and his jaw dropped. It was his body in the bed. He looked around the room at all of the people standing around. His four children were sobbing. His dear Lucinda was holding his hand to her cheek and crying.

  “Wait a minute here,” he bellowed at the top of his lungs. “I am not dead! I forbid it.”

  “I can just hear Daddy,” his eight year-old daughter, Vivian, said, sniffling back the tears. “He’s asking God for more time, telling him that he’s not ready to go yet.”

  Sixteen year-old Rudy shook his head, “Oh, no, he would be demanding that God send him back. He wouldn’t be asking for anything.”

  “Now, Rudy, Vivian,” Lucinda said softly. “You must still show respect for your father.”

  Alvin, his fourteen year-old son cried. “I don’t want him to be dead. Mommy what’s going to happen to us?”

  Lucinda put her arm around the boy and pulled him close. She placed a kiss on his forehead. “Don’t worry, Alvin, the Lord will provide.”