Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Okay. How in hell did this happen, anyway? Were you soused on your own margaritas and not watching where you were walking?”

  Joe tried to shake his head but gave up the effort. “Sober as the proverbial judge. Although, knowing some of the judges in Dallas County, let me change that to ‘saint.’ What happened? I'm still not sure. One minute I was crossing the street holding car keys in one hand, and the box that carries the receipts for the day in the other. I heard this screeching sound and the next thing I knew I was on the ground feeling like a used tire at a drag race. Then I passed out, and woke up here in this giant cannoli suit.”

  Lida Rose quickly asked, “Have the cops found out what nitwit drunk did this? Any leads?”

  Rafe spoke for his cousin. “Not a one. It was past midnight and there aren't that many people still on the street at that hour. The cops questioned some of the regulars at the gay bar down the street from El Diablo's, but that was prime drinking time. A couple of guys were leaving right about then though, and did see a car speed away, but they didn't have much of a description.”

  I had to grin. “Don't tell me. Let me guess. A dark-colored sedan. Sans license plates.”

  Three sets of eyebrows shot up. (At least, I think Joe's did. It's hard to tell when a huge white cloth is draped over a person's forehead.)

  “What?” came from Lida Ros.

  Rafe frowned. “How did you know that?”

  “Jeez, don't you people watch cop shows on TV? Or read mysteries? Every hit-and-run that's not caused by an over-paid, stoned-out, professional athlete in a nifty Aston-Martin or Porsche, is caused by an unidentifiable dark-colored sedan without plates. No exceptions.”

  Silence. Finally Rafe shook his head and addressed Lida Rose. “She's right, you know. She has lousy taste in entertainment, but she's more than correct on this one. That's the description the gentleman gave the police.”

  Lida Rose sighed. “In other words, no help, and we'll never know who did this.”

  Rafe nodded. “Pretty much. It's nasty, it's scummy, it's eerie, but it's probably going to remain an unsolved crime.”

  Lida Rose brightened. “Eerie, you said. Do you think we can loop this onto the curse of Bad Business?”

  Rafe, Joe, and I all screamed (softly—we were in a hospital), “No!”

  Lida Rose settled back into a wicker chair and sulked for the next ten seconds. 'You all are no fun. I mean, think about it. El Diablo's opens one week before we started rehearsals. The owner is mysteriously run down in the street. Inside East Ellum a ghost watches the activities in the theatre. Gotta be a connection somewhere. Work with me on this, children. It's great for publicity. For the show and the restaurant Hey! Do you suppose Don Mueller liked Mexican food?”

  I closed my eyes and wondered if my bank account currently held enough to rent a dark-colored sedan with no plates, and a driver with no scruples.

  Chapter 11

  Lida Rose and I ran a few errands, then she dropped me off at the apartment to pick up Jed and my notes for choreographing the “Hog-tie Hoedown.” She was even kind enough to wait in the kitchen while I grabbed Jed and notes, and then drive me back to the theatre. I had two hours before the cast was due to show up for this afternoon's rehearsal.

  I opened the doors from the lobby and trudged up the aisle to the stage. The first thing I noticed was Rafe Montez lying under one of the set pieces, a gaming table. I didn't even blanch. I wasn't surprised to see him digging his conquistadorian nose into another inanimate object. Piano, trunk, gaming tables? What next? Floorboards leading into the pit? What the heck was he doing? Looking for buried treasure?

  “Hi, Rafe.”

  He obviously hadn't heard me enter, and Jed hadn't bounded up all the steps to the stage, yet I heard a loud thwack. Rafe's head cautiously emerged from under the table.

  “Kiely. How'd you get here from the hospital so fast?”

  “I might ask the same of you. I won't, however. What I will ask is why you're rabidly engaged in studying the underside of a set piece that's older than either of us?”

  “Gum.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Gum. There are wads of gum under here from years of use. I was scraping them off before we got to today's rehearsal. It's really for your benefit. After all, you have that bit in Act Three where you're hiding under this piece. Wouldn't you prefer not being on intimate terms with decades of used spearmint?”

  I didn't even bother to answer. Too much dancing the night before, then seeing Cousin Joe encased in white and in pain had obviously turned the man's brain to oatmeal. I deposited my stuff on the corner of the stage.

  “I have to choreograph the last dance for that same Act Three. If you want to stay under the table and dig away at goo, be my guest. If you want to sleep under the table, feel free to do that, too. I'll try and dance around you.”

  He nodded. “I'm finished. I'm going to go up to ‘Kismet’ and see if I can locate more of those huge cards we seem to keep losing. See you later.”

  He left. I spent the next several hours creating what I hoped would be funny steps to the “Hog-tie Hoe- down.” At some point, Rafe came back in and marched down the aisle to my tape player. He stood by it until I noticed him. (Which happened to be immediately, but I preferred he not know that.)

  When I looked directly at him he pointed to his watch. “It's twelve-thirty. Want some lunch? We can run over to El Diablo's before everyone gets here this afternoon.”

  “Sounds good. Let me give Jed a quick run outside, then I'll be ready.”

  “I'll join you.”

  Twenty minutes later, the dog was happy, we were seated at the cafe, and I was debating whether to question the man as to what he'd really been doing for the last hour or so. Searching for prop cards is not a huge task, especially since the theatre has a drawer full of them. If we lose one set, we get another.

  I had opened my mouth to ask what constituted thrills and excitement in the prop room, when he took the initiative and started his own interrogation.

  “So, how long have you lived in New York?”

  It would be rude not to answer. I was brought up by Mom and eight years of elementary school nuns to be polite. “Nine years.”

  “So you took off, what? Right from college?”

  “Actually, no. I graduated in three years from North Texas, stayed in Dallas for another two years, earned my Equity card here, then packed five suitcases filled with dance clothes and headshots and boarded a plane for Manhattan. And if you're fishing, I turned thirty-two this past May.”

  “You look younger.”

  “Mmph.” There was no other response I could give to this. I wasn't old enough to consider it a compliment or young enough to resent it.

  “You live in Manhattan. Where?”

  I didn't know if he was truly interested or simply trying to make conversation before the enchilada special arrived. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was being nice.

  “Are you at all familiar with the city?”

  “I am, yes. I've lived there off and on myself for years. Wonderful museums, you know. And my mother was raised there.”

  Oh, yeah. Mr. Art Historian probably had lifetime passes to the Guggenheim, the Whitney, the Cloisters, and the Metropolitan, and was on intimate terms with every female guard and tour guide.

  “I've been to a few cultural sites as well. I don't spend my whole life on stage.”

  He looked slightly distressed. “I'm sorry. Did it sound like I was implying you did?”

  “I guess not. I may be a bit too sensitive. A guy I used to date accused me more than once of not being aware there was life beyond theatre. Which was absolutely false. I just wasn't able to get overly excited about his job and I freely admit I did spend every waking hour rehearsing, in class, or performing.”

  Rafe looked curious. “And his job?”

  “Accountant for the section of the police department that handles traffic tickets.”

 
; He roared, then tried to sober his countenance. He failed.

  “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to laugh.”

  I joined him. “It's okay. I got the same reaction from my brothers, my roommate at the time, and my landlord when the guy came to pick me up. I start cracking up myself whenever I think about it. It's a perfectly respectable job. It's just . . . just . . .”

  Rafe leaned forward and wiped a tear of sheer mirth from my eye with his napkin. “I can't see you with someone in that line of work.”

  I grabbed a hot tortilla and began to butter it. “Makes two of us. We didn't date long. About three weeks, if I remember correctly.”

  Rafe was buttering his own platter of the corn tortillas. “Did he at least manage to fix tickets for you before you dumped him?”

  I swallowed a too-large bite and shook my head. “I don't have a car in the city. So I didn't need his help. I might have dated him at least twice more if I'd brought my old Chevy with me.”

  “What kind of Chevy?”

  I stated stoically but with a trace of wickedness. “Corvette. Nineteen sixty-six. I love that car. My baby brother Pat took it when he went off to college, then kept it when he moved to Kerrville about three years ago. He's the only person I ever trusted with it.”

  “Does he still have it?”

  “Oh, yeah. It's hidden in his garage. He and my sister-in-law have a total of three cars between them, not including the Corvette, because she has full use of a company car, but the only one that has the honor of residing in the garage in Kerrville is the Chevy. My older brother Sean makes a yearly pilgrimage, on his motorcycle no less, to worship at the shrine. I think when Pat dies, he's going to refuse to enter the pearly gates unless they let the 'Vette in, too.”

  Rafe was laughing again. I felt the same heat swirling around my body as last night when we'd been dancing. I blamed it on the hot sauce. El Diablo’s makes a mean bowl and I'd been liberally pouring it over every inch of my plate.

  We talked about cars and my family. He knew I had two brothers, one older, one younger; knew my parents now also lived in Kerrville; knew every show I'd done since moving to New York, including the stints on television cop shows where I always seemed to play a hooker. I knew nothing about him short of what I'd discovered the previous day—he was a helluva kicker, his mom had been a dancer, and he knew oodles about art.

  “So, Rafe, you still have family in Manhattan? Or is everybody in Texas?”

  “No. My mom was adopted and her parents died before I was born. So no one's up there I can call family.”

  “I'm sorry.” I smiled at him. “I need to introduce you to Eugenia Grace and William James Worthington, Lida Rose's folks. They're my in loco parentis duo when I'm in the city. They're still in shock they ever birthed Lida Rose and they seem to think I'm normal.”

  He inclined his head toward me. “I'll take you up on that offer.” He paused, then added, “Uh-oh.”

  “What?”

  Rafe had glanced at his watch. “It's one twenty-eight. We have two minutes to get back to the theatre.”

  We hastily paid the check (split right down the middle) and ran back to the theatre.

  We barely made it into the lobby when Lida Rose pounced and grabbed my arm. She winked at Rafe. “I need her. Excuse us, won't you?”

  She dragged me into the kitchen. I spent a full minute reuniting with an ecstatic Jed and ignored Lida Rose's efforts to quiz me about my lunch with Mr. Montez.

  “I'm telling you, Kiely, you two are made for each other. Think of the kids you'd have! Some black-haired, a couple of redheads, each with brains and talent. I'd immediately hire them for all future productions of Annie, Oliver, and Matilda.”

  The future father-to-be strode into the kitchen before I could come up with a withering comment to curb Lida Rose's enthusiasm.

  I slithered off the counter and grabbed the strap of my bag off the floor, slinging it over my shoulder.

  “Rafe? What's up? Are we needed?”

  “In a way. I thought you ladies would like to know. The senior contingent has arrived. We have in our lobby the live members of the original cast of Bad Business on the Brazos. They look rested and ready for action.”

  Chapter 12

  Rafe was correct. The lobby was teeming with actors. Actors from the past, actors from the present, actors talking, and actors sipping coffee. Actors everywhere. I've been to Equity cattle call auditions in New York with fewer members of the industry.

  Lida Rose immediately went into her Auntie Mame persona. She hugged each one of the former cast members of Bad Business so hard I prayed no one suffered from osteoporosis. Then she pulled me into the circle of chattering senior citizens.

  “Kiely, I want you to meet everyone.”

  She pointed at a tall lady with iron-gray hair and an expression that matched the color.

  “Fran Watkins. The counterpart of Bathsheba Bombshell from the cast fifty years ago. And of course, part owner of the theatre.”

  This was no one's sultry vixen. I wondered how she'd come across on stage years ago. Maybe when she was young she hadn't had such a grim expression and icy countenance. Lida Rose moved on.

  “Shirley Kincaid. Sultry Salome. And our second owner.”

  Shirley would have never made the height requirement for the Rockettes but would have been a shoe-in for a job as one of the clowns that pop out of tiny cars in the circus. She was perhaps five feet tall on a good day, with heels. Her soft, baby-fine hair had been badly dyed a severe platinum blonde, and her round cheeks and expression put her closer to another Shirley, a certain Miss Temple around age five. Shirley hugged me as though we'd been friends for decades. How she had played a wicked dancehall girl had to have been a feat of amazing acting. She was speaking in a high-pitched childish tone.

  “We don't have any of the twins from our show, you know. Not that they were real, anyway. The actor playing Bobby Joe Bob Travis when the other one played Billy Joe Bob was about half the size and twice the weight. But Billie Boone said that made it funnier. I can't even remember their names now. But one was that boy who went on to Hollywood. He became a stuntman for a bunch of marshal arts films.”

  She turned to me and beamed. “I can't remember his name, either, but my goodness, he could kick. He used to practice kung fooey or mai tai or whatever that was during breaks.”

  I hadn't opened my mouth. As Shirley Kincaid let loose her unique bits of malapropism, I couldn't speak at all, because I was wondering how anyone could be such a ditz and live to the ripe old age of—what? Seventy-two? I clenched my teeth together and stayed quiet.

  After Shirley's last remark Rafe began to cough and immediately covered his mouth with his hand. I poked him in the ribs. Either Shirley hadn't noticed the pair of us bleeding from bit lips or she was used to this reaction. The rambling continued.

  “Did you know Fran here still acts? She's done commercials and had roles in about every movie filmed in Dallas. And she's played Tennessee Wilson, too.”

  I nodded. I wasn't sure if that meant performing roles in plays written by Tennessee Williams or going a few sets on a tennis court in Nashville with her Wilson racket. I assumed it was the former.

  Fran sighed. “Shirley has a tendency to get things, well, a tad off. It's not age. We've been friends for fifty-five years and she hasn't changed. No one could make sense of her when we first did this show, either.”

  Shirley smiled happily at this less-than-favorable description before gasping out, “Fifty-five years. My gracious stars in Hades! I can't believe it's been that long. Frannie and I actually met working in my daddy's store. You can still see it from the theatre, did you know? Henry's. The old five and dime. Although Daddy actually sold it to become an antique store soon after. I miss that place. Now they have all these tactless dollar stores that don't even sell things for a dollar. But my own store reopened a few weeks ago.”

  A rich baritone voice boomed from behind me, addressing Shirley. “Shirley Kincaid, you still have th
e most alarming way with words of anyone I've ever known.”

  The gentleman teasing the lady resembled an elderly version of Denzel Washington. He took the hand I extended.

  “Nathaniel Bollinger. I played Ace Royale way back when.”

  “I wondered. With that voice you could sing Ace's gorgeous ballad from Act One with no warm-up. Are you still working as an actor, Mr. Bollinger?”

  “Please call me Nathaniel. No, I gave it up right after Bad Business closed. After Don's death. I moved to Austin and I've been teaching history at St. Edwards University ever since.”

  We stared at each other for a long moment. “I'm so sorry, Mister . . . uh . . . Nathaniel. About Don Mueller, that is. It must have been devastating to lose a friend like that.”

  His eyes crinkled as he smiled down at me. “You have a sweet soul, Miss Davlin. And thank you. It was hard. Still is, even after all these years. Don was a good man, and a good friend. I miss him.”

  I almost told him he might have a chance to renew old acquaintances if Don decided to put in a spectral appearance, then decided to shelve that comment for the time being. After all, I still wasn't sure I hadn't been hallucinating the few times I'd seen his form wandering through the balcony. Shirley Kincaid bounded into the conversation before I had a chance to say another word. “I wonder where Noemi Trujillo is. Do you think she's dead? I wonder if she'll show up.”

  I was struggling to deal with Shirley's last remarks. I had an unnerving vision of a deceased Noemi Trujillo showing up for the opening night party. On Don's arm.

  I'd barely noticed the rest of our current cast, who'd crowded around during introductions and were now gathering their belongings together to start rehearsals. At least Lida Rose wouldn't need to stop and introduce the former cast. It appeared everyone knew who was who. Jason kept looking at Nathaniel with raised eyebrows, but at least our resident bigot had kept his mouth shut about non-traditional casting from fifty years ago.

  The Boones were already inside. Billie sat in a chair next to the piano talking with Daisy Haltom while