Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “From your mutilated attempt at Spanish I gather Joe was running around in the middle of the night slapping journalists. Which doesn't add up to an accident.”

  “Sorry. As I said, the kid was talking high speed and my Spanish language skills are limited at best.”

  I nodded and figured I'd simply have to wait for the truth to surface from Christa Hernandez, Joe's wife. I stayed silent for a moment, sending up a prayer that Joe would recover fast and making a mental note to visit him first chance I got.

  We managed to get my bags, find Lida Rose's car, and then leave the airport in less than thirty minutes. Lida Rose headed down Northwest Highway toward another Mexican restaurant. I struggled not to fall asleep from the airsick pill I'd popped before boarding the plane.

  “He was murdered.”

  “I beg your pardon? I thought you said Joe was in the hospital?”

  Lida Rose shook her head, made a ridiculously sharp left turn, then squealed to a stop at Chimichanga's. I blinked and woke up more fully.

  “No, Kiely. Pay attention. Not Joe. Don Mueller. Our resident ghost. Right at the end of Act Three. Shot down by the hero in full view of the seven hundred and fifty patrons enjoying the show. At least up to that point. I think there was mass screaming and a run for the street after he fell. Mr. Mueller, however, hung around. For the last fifty years. It's wonderful.”

  I waited until we'd been seated in a nice booth overlooking the parking lot. Lida Rose requested that spot so she could keep an eye on her car, which currently has no working locks on the driver's side. I waited until our order was filled. Then I scooped an enormous amount of salsa onto my soft tortilla, and dipped it in the refried beans. I took an equally enormous bite of the mixture. I chewed. Thoroughly.

  Lida Rose waited. I signaled to our waiter. “Another margarita, please.”

  Lida Rose shook her head. “Kiely. How many does that make?”

  I glared at her. “Three. Plus the two in the airport in New York. I don't deal well with flying. You know that. And tequila helps with the claustrophobia. I've tried bourbon but it doesn't have the same effect.”

  She sighed. “You need to get over this, you know.”

  “I've tried. I even consulted a shrink in Manhattan—doesn't everyone? He said the claustrophobia is really my fear of commitment. L. R., I swear my bullshit meter flew higher than an eagle on acid. At least the man got me a prescription for an anti-anxiety drug. It sort of helped. I can now travel by subway, but I can't take elevators. I am absolutely unable to ride in tunnels. Which gets a bit dicey when crossing into Jersey. Bridges only. And I still have to get schnockered before boarding a plane. So don't hassle me. Go on with this outrageous story. Theatre ghost, wasn't it? Yawn. Doesn't every theatre own one?”

  Lida Rose rolled her eyes heavenward. “Don't be so cynical. East Ellum really is where Don Mueller resides. And besides his murder, the whole melodrama is cursed.”

  I moaned. “I may get back on that plane. I don't remember you mentioning that fact. Why is it cursed? And do I really want to hear this?”

  “Of course you do. I'm not real sure about the curse. I'm working on it.”

  I eyed her with suspicion. “Working on it? Do you mean you're fabricating a story to give to an unsuspecting press merely for the purpose of drumming up publicity?”

  Lida Rose beamed at me as though I'd won the state spelling bee with a word no one had ever heard of. “You're so bright. What a great idea. Thanks.”

  I screamed. Softly. I was in a public place.

  She relented. “All I know is that something not so great happened to three of the actors who were in the original version that was produced about a hundred years ago. Disappeared or went mad or got shot. That may not be enough to really peak the interest of the rabid press.”

  She moped for a few seconds, during which time a song began playing in my head. Even after five drinks I recognized slightly altered lyrics from the original The Music Man:

  Oh, we got trouble! We got terrible, Worthington trouble.

  With a Capitol T. 'And that rhymes with 'G.'

  And that stands for 'Ghoul.'

  Lida Rose. Trouble. The words go together like root and canal. Like fire and cracker. Like grave and yard. Like . . .

  “Kiely. You're not listening. Stop singing.”

  “Sorry. You were saying?”

  “I've been trying to tell you for the last five minutes who all's in the show. Where was I? Ah. Hank and Ham Humble. Twins. Big strapping boys with brains and brawn and money. Playing twin ranchers Billy Joe Bob and Bobby Joe Bob Travis.”

  I put a hand up to stop her. “Hold on. Billy Joe Bob and Bobby Joe Bob?”

  She shrugged. “I didn't write the script; I only cast the show. That's how it is in the script. The only drawback to the Humble boys is they can't dance.” She paused before beaming at me. “I'm sure you've taught and dated worse. Jason Sharkey. He's playing Lance Lamar, the hero.” She gave a low growl. “Holy Ma-Ma! Hunk, hunk, and more hunk. Blond, blue-eyed, tall. Good actor. I did a great job of getting men over the height of six feet for this show, by the way. I should pat myself on the back.”

  She suited the gesture to the words, then returned to her description. I continued to eat my way through combination Numero Tres. At least she'd quit the ghost tales for a while.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes. Jason. Done him. Come to think of it, so has every female in Dallas. Anyway, next we have Theo Stafford who is playing Ace Royale and is as cute as they come. He's funny. He's playing a card shark and I swear he's never played a game of poker in his life. Rafe Montez. In a word. Wow. The man put the 'some' in handsome. He's playing Nick Nefarious the villain. I believe you share a nice kiss with him in Act Two. I'm extremely envious. Um, Charlie Baines. He's our tech director. Sexy in that dark, longhaired, wiry-bodied techie way. Even the box office personnel is cute—Neil Kincaid is cherubic looking. Like an impish choir boy.”

  She stopped long enough to gulp down a few swallows of iced tea, then eyed me intently.

  “Well? Doesn't that sound great?”

  I smiled. “So, we're doing a drag show?”

  “What?”

  “A drag show. You know. Guys dressing up as women? I've read this script, L. R. There are parts for at least six girls. And since you've not mentioned a single female in the last ten minutes, I must assume there aren't any.”

  She rolled her eyes and wrinkled her nose. “You have a demented sense of humor. Did I ever tell you that?”

  “Constantly. For twelve years.”

  “For your information, I have cast numerous wonderful ladies. Remember, you're one of them? Delilah Delight. I merely assumed you'd be more interested in hearing about your intended mate. And geez, Kiely, it's not like I'm not giving you variety. I think all these guys even live in Dallas and you could marry any of them and stay down here and do shows with me all the time.”

  “You're worse than my mother, you know that? At least she doesn't care if I'm married or not. She simply wants me back in Texas.”

  “Well, listen to her every now and then, you ungrateful child. Your mother is a brilliant, wonderful woman and she's usually right. Especially when she agrees with me.”

  There was no good response to that statement. I poured more salsa on my rice and quickly began to tell Lida Rose about all the changes to my apartment building since she'd last visited. She knew I was avoiding more discussion concerning marriage and moving, but she let me drone on about the renovated lobby. That's why she's my best friend.

  We left a huge tip for our waiter, and then Lida Rose drove me to my new home. She'd been uncharacteristically reticent the entire ten minutes it had taken to get there. She'd avoided all mention of men, ghost hunting, and curses. Instead, she'd given me a quick rundown of the women in the cast of Bad Business on the Brazos. I was gratified to hear that at least two out of the six had had formal dance training.

  “This is it, Kiely. Your new abode. Isn't it terrific?”
>
  It was.

  My hosts, Ted and Margaret Wyler, had bought an old Victorian-style house on Bennett Avenue. It's a funky neighborhood. Every ethnicity and economic statusexcept very rich is represented. (How the Wylers got through this intangible opposite wealth barrier, I have no idea.) There are good grocery stores within walking distance. Nights on Bennett are filled with the sounds of reggae drums, Celtic fiddles, and mariachi guitars. Scents of zeppolis, dim sum, and fried chicken mix with jambalaya and curry. It reminds me of Manhattan neighborhoods; just less crowded with bigger apartments and wider streets.

  Upon my arrival, I was greeted by the next-door neighbor bearing keys and a sixty-five-pound, black-and-white dog of very uncertain ancestry. The Wylers had entrusted the keys and the canine to their neighbor woman, then flown off to Cancun. The dog immediately jumped up, put both paws on my chest, and proceeded to lick my face, removing what little make-up remained following a three-and-a-half-hour flight. I forcibly shoved his bottom to the floor.

  “Sit. Good dog. No, don't get up again. Sit. Good dog.”

  I needed at least one hand free to accept keys and his leash. Once the transfer was successful, I squatted down to get a better look at my new roommate. His tail flapped happily on the ground behind him.

  Pedigree-challenged aptly described the puppy. He was a black Labrador wannabe whose mom had been involved in a run-in with a Siberian husky. The personality was all black Lab. And his looks were close to what I normally associated with the breed. His tail was Siberian husky. Curly, with a brownish-white color. His ears were lopsided. He had one brown eye and one blue and he was gazing at me in cross-eyed adoration. The tag on his collar read “Jedidiah.” Jed. I hugged him. For once Lida Rose had matched me with a male I could honestly love.

  The house was as much fun as the dog. The bedroom had been converted from a sundeck, so it was light and airy and overlooked the street. The kitchen had an island in the middle, a ton of cabinet space, and countertops boasting the latest in programmable coffee machines, juicers, and vegetable-chopping devices that terrified me. I would be able to dance in the living room without knocking into furniture, especially when I moved the quilted floral sofa against the wall. There was even a library with a selection as varied as a used bookstore after Christmas.

  Jed and I spent a nice afternoon bonding. He took DNA samples of my belongings by chewing on my blusher brushes and the bottom of the jeans I'd removed after the plane trip. A few “No! No! Jed!”s convinced me that negatives were not part of his limited vocabulary. Luckily, I discovered chew toys bigger than my makeup case in a pantry, along with a fifty-pound bag of puppy food. I quickly became the recipient of Jed's undying love upon offering a fresh toy, then filling the food dish marked “The Dog” to overflowing. Once fed, Jed continued the bonding process by plopping on my bed, although he graciously allowed me a spot on the edge. Every dog I'd had as a kid had done the same thing. I didn't try and kick him off. There is something ultimately soothing about feeling the warmth of a canine companion snoozing and twitching while experiencing their puppy dreams.

  Following a long sleep, I was ready to meet new people and start rehearsals. Lida Rose, bless her, had suggested I bring Jed to the theatre so as not to worry about leaving my new buddy to do what seven-month-old puppies do when home alone.

  Chapter 3

  “Gennel'men. Ah b'lieve the last hand is mine. Excuse me whilst I take m'winnins.”

  “Ah don't rightly think so, Mr. Travis. Seems to me that four aces beats three of a kind every day, includin' Sunday. Now, ah'll jest take that pot.”

  “Not so fast, Mr. Lamar. I'd say my royal flush makes those aces look pretty puny. Nothing personal, you understand. But this round goes to me.”

  “Jest hold those hands off'n the table, Nick Nefarious. If I 'member ma poker rules, a royal flush starts ace high, don' it? And since I've got four of 'em, you, sir, are cheating.”

  The sound of five chairs crashing to the ground and five guns cocking back filled the air.

  “Daisy? Daisy! Where the hell are you? Your cue is 'this round goes to me.' Damn it, this is a run-through of the entire scene, not a blocking rehearsal. Daisy?”

  Our flushed accompanist hurried down the aisle toward the piano to strike the opening chords of “Gamblers We,” the song that interrupts the gunfight before it escalates into more than mere bravado.

  “I'm so awfully sorry. I was backstage drinking a coke, and lost track of where I was.”

  Lida Rose lifted violet eyes heavenward and sighed, quite audibly. “That's okay, Daisy. Please stay at the piano during the run-throughs, all right?”

  Lida Rose surveyed the stage. “Take five, everybody. Coffee break time.”

  “Damn straight. My butt's killing me sitting this long.” Jason Sharkey winked at me. “Hey, Kiely. Want to go get coffee with me? Maybe share a cup? Maybe share some time? ‘Kismet’ is available and quiet.”

  I smiled sweetly. “Since I have no clue what ‘Kismet’ is apart from the show from the ‘fifties, the answer is ‘not on your life’, Jason. A coffee break with you is more like the chase scene in this play. I'll save my energy for dancing, thanks.”

  Jason laughed and extended the same offer to Macy Mihalik, the dance hall girl with the face and body of a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. She trotted off behind Mr. Sharkey. Macy is very young. She wouldn't know a rounder from a round off. I debated the merits of giving her a short facts-of-life lecture concerning certain leading men, but nixed the idea. With those stars in her eyes, she'd ignore me, then resent me for interfering.

  I jumped off the stage and headed toward the lobby where Lida Rose keeps pots of coffee going during marathon rehearsals. I was in luck. There was one freshly brewed, hot, and there were cups available. Only one other person was in line—Rafe Montez, who played Nick Nefarious, the villain.

  I nodded. He nodded. He walked away, coffee cup in one hand, the other clutching a bag of freshly popped popcorn. He hadn't said more than two words to me since I started rehearsals six days before. It irked me. I admit it. The man was gorgeous. Thick, wavy black hair and deep-set eyes the color of a midnight sky. The longest, darkest lashes this side of Maybelline. Bronze skin, chiseled jaw, and full lips. A body designed by a Greek sculptor on a very good day. Strong chin. Roman nose. Four hundred years ago, he would have been wearing armor, conquering Peru. I would have been first in line volunteering to be conquered.

  I had to keep that thought away from my mind before Lida Rose picked up on it. She'd be on me to mate with Mr. Montez like a June bug on a tick. So far, rehearsals had been blissfully free of The Madam's matchmaking. I hoped to keep it that way.

  My first few days at the theatre had gone by almost too smoothly. I'd been busy learning names, choreographing dances, and memorizing lines and songs. Lida Rose had been busy directing and having production meetings, and hadn't started bugging me about the men in the show.

  I knew her non-interference policy couldn't last. I was right. As I sipped coffee, watching Rafe Montez striding away from me, and Lida Rose marching toward me, I could feel my peaceful existence rapidly slip away.

  “Kiely. Are you finished with your coffee?”

  “No, Lida Rose, I am not finished. I've barely begun. What do you want?”

  “I need you to come backstage and look through these costumes the historical society sent over. I think there's at least four we can use, but I'd like your input”

  “Why ask me? Why not Thelma Lou? Or her assistant? What's his name—Larry?”

  “Thelma Lou is looking at fabric. Larry has gone over to the Undermain Theatre. They're donating.”

  I followed Lida Rose to the back of the theatre, passing by our ninety-something-year-old costumer, Thelma Lou Treeberry, who was perched on a comfy chair in the wings. The brocades and laces on her lap failed to obscure the Dallas Mavericks T-shirt and faded cut-off jeans. A Yankees cap faced backward over sparse platinum-blond hair. I nodded. She nodded. She returned t
o the mass of fabric now spilling onto the floor. I picked up a stray piece or two, gave it to Thelma Lou, and then hurried off after Lida Rose.

  We spent the next fifteen minutes wading through leather chaps, satin gowns, feathers, petticoats, and early jeans. I wasn't much help. Lida Rose knew exactly what she wanted. That should have warned me. This was no business meeting between director and choreographer. She didn't care what I thought about the leathers and laces. This was girl chat time.

  “So, Kiely? Whatcha think of the guys?”

  “Don't start with me, Madam.”

  “Now, now. Let's not be hostile. You must admit, I've collected a nice batch of unattached attractive males.”

  “Yes, you have. And I suppose you're aching for me to rate them. I mean, it's been, what? A week since I got here? By your standards I should have a giant ring flashing by now.”

  She nodded. I stopped her before she began giving her opinion of nice china patterns. “Don't look so happy, Ms. Worthington. Would you care to hear my general objections? Or would you prefer specific objections?”

  This question elicited a classic Bronx cheer from my genteel friend. “Go ahead, Ms. Davlin. Pick them apart. At this rate you will never find a husband.”

  “I wasn't aware I was looking.”

  “Oh, Sweetie, every girl over the age of twelve is looking.”

  I took a deep breath, intending to dispute that statement. But arguing with Lida Rose is useless. I know this.

  So I launched into a review of the gentlemen of East Ellum Theatre currently onstage for Bad Business on the Brazos. “Fine. Jason Sharkey is an egocentric, lady-killing, smarmy, heavy drinking s.o.b. Oh, by the way, what’s this bit about ‘Kismet’ being quiet and available? Is that a code for something?”

  A sliver of a grin appeared on my friend's face. “ ‘Kismet’ is what everyone calls the old prop room. Holds every last item from when the theatre actually did the show Kismet about a thousand years ago, i.e. beads, bangles, baubles, scimitars, magic carpets, you name it. There's a highly comfortable sofa-type bed up there that's been used for, shall we say, recreational activities throughout the years.” Her grin grew broader. “At least, so I've been told. I prefer to do my aerobic amours with George at home in the four-poster. Anyway, forget it. I can't see you rolling around a floral loveseat for illicit purposes anytime soon. So, Jason's out. I agree with you there. What do you think of Theo?”