Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I sighed and took her by her chubby hand. “Lida Rose. There are no burning bushes up here. No smoldering cigarettes. No frayed wires and no blown circuits. You need sleep. I need sleep. Rafe needs sleep. It is way past time to go home.”

  She ignored me. “What have you got in that hot little hand?”

  “Oh! Programs. I found them buried beneath a pile of books. Haven't had a chance to look at them yet.”

  “Neat. I'd love to see them, but not in this light and not in this room. You children coming?”

  We followed her out of the prop room, even though I was itching to continue my search, with or without Rafe and our director. The three of us headed directly for the kitchen where the light was strong and the surprising smell of freshly brewed coffee stronger.

  Thelma Lou smiled at us from her stool nearest the coffeepot. “Find anything interesting?”

  I handed her the programs. “I haven't had a chance to look at them but they look really, really old.”

  Thelma Lou plopped them onto the counter and spread them out like a fan. She immediately pointed to the middle program. The worst kept of the lot.

  “My God,” I breathed out. “It's Bad Business on the Brazos. The absolute original. From a hundred years ago.”

  Lida Rose nearly knocked me to the ground to see the cover. Rafe peered over her shoulder. Both stared for a good minute while I waited my turn. Then they turned and stared at me. And stared.

  “What?”

  “It's you.”

  “What? What's me?”

  Rafe shook his head. “Lida Rose. It's not. Not really. It's more of an impression. Nothing else. Don't get Kiely all wrought up here over nothing.”

  I wanted to scream. “Will you tell me what you're both jabbering about?”

  Neither answered. Lida Rose handed me the faded, torn program and pointed to the photograph on the cover.

  Our current cast of Bad Business had posed for a photo quite similar to this only two days before Jason's death. Villain, hero, card sharks, and Polly Sue Primrose, the heroine, were all seated at a round table. Behind them, in various provocative stances stood the dancehall girls Sultry Salome and Bathsheba Bombshell. And the actress obviously playing Delilah Delight. I could have been looking into a mirror at a sepia-colored version of me.

  Rafe was holding his breath. Lida Rose was grinning.

  “It's uncanny. Kiely Davlin and—what the hell was the name of the girl who first played Delilah.”

  Thelma Lou said, “Charity. Charity O'Sullivan. By all accounts a beautiful Irish redhead with great dance skills and a lovely voice to match.”

  She left.

  Rafe shook his head. “Don't even start, ladies. Take another really hard look and you'll see there's only a superficial resemblance to our Kiely. Nothing more. Now then, I'm leaving. May I escort anyone home?”

  “Thanks, but no.” I wasn't ready to be alone with Rafe again.

  Lida Rose waited until Rafe had gone, then she poked my side so hard I knew I'd have a bruise. She avoided any mention of Charity O'Sullivan. My clone.

  “Shit, Kiely. If you and Mr. Montez are finally going to get it on, you could pick a better spot than ‘Kismet’. It's so banal, so trite, so used. Not to mention the site of a very tragic death.”

  I glared at her. “Mrs. Rizokowsky. Not that it's any of your nosy little affair. Wait. Make that your business. The word affair will immediately strike chords of illicit sex in your mind and I'd prefer not to leave that impression, thank you.”

  She sighed. I pursed my lips together. “Where was I?”

  “Nosy. Business. Affair.”

  'Thanks. Anyway, I found the most incredible thing under the sofa.”

  She snickered. I narrowed my eyes at her. “Mind out of the gutter, wench. Look.”

  I showed her the garnet earring and explained that it had been caught in the netting that had been twisted around the old Bad Business prop anchor.

  “Yow. Kiely. That's real. Not costume.”

  “I thought it might be. Listen. When I first touched it, it gave off the most intense feeling of pain. Sadness. It was frightening.”

  “Want me to keep it for you?”

  “No. I want to hang on to it. I feel a strange link with whomever it belonged to. As if she's trying to tell me something.”

  Lida Rose patted my hand. “Soon you'll be communing with the ghost of its owner. Undoubtedly Charity O'Sullivan. Cool! Bonding with Don, empathizing with the wearer of garnets. Now if I can get you and Rafe together, I’ll be a happy woman.”

  “Lida Rose? Get your surgically altered prying rotten nose out of my love life.”

  She nudged me. “Ha! This is the first time you've skipped the word 'pimping' from that statement. I'm wearing you down.”

  Chapter 18

  Since it was well past midnight, Lida Rose drove me home. We spent the short trip from East Ellum to the apartment chatting about what we were planning to wear to the opening night bash.

  After walking Jed once around the block, I'd collapsed on the bed. I had no desire to go honky-tonking this late, eat, or see what the sci-fi or mystery channels had cooked up for midsummer trashy movies, even though we had no rehearsals the next day. My bed called, and I answered “yes.”

  Jed, the sweetheart, let me sleep 'til nine the next morning. Not bad. Steak bones were in the offing for that puppy.

  I took him for a nice run, then decided I'd attend Mass at the old mission church at the edge of downtown. It was easy walking distance for any soul accustomed to Manhattan streets, so I left Jed on the bed taking his midmorning nap, then headed out. The service was short, probably because what air-conditioning there was in the church building was on the fritz. The heat wave continued.

  There was a general rush to cool cars as soon as the priest gave the last blessing. I waited for the stampede to end, then sat down on a bench under a tree and tried to decide what to do for the rest of the day. I'd seen in the Guide that the museum at Fair Park was holding over a Mesoamerican exhibition and I really wanted to go, but wasn't sure if I was up for the bus ride to and from.

  I pondered the extent of my desire to see the exhibit. Then I noticed a pickup truck, so old it was colorless, driving toward the church. It pulled up by the curb. Normally I ignore anyone in a vehicle I don't know (kidnapping is not on my list of favorite activities), but when a familiar face leaned out of the window, I waved.

  “Rafe Montez. Whatever are you doing here?”

  “Would you care for a lift somewhere?”

  His handsome face peered out at me, then leaned back inside. I heard a series of curses from behind the driver's seat, then his door opened and he jumped out. “I saw you at Mass. I remembered you didn't have a car so I thought I'd see if you were stuck waiting for the bus.”

  Rafe Montez in church. It fit. After all, Mr. Montez had probably forcibly converted Aztecs or Mayan warriors to Christianity in a previous incarnation as conquistador for Spain and Queen Isabella. Or at least several of his ancestors had. I smiled at the thought.

  He didn't miss it. “Something tickling your funny bone?”

  “I'll tell you later, when I know you better. Otherwise I might be in danger of being left to rot on my bench.”

  “Hmmm. Okay. Need a hoist to the truck?”

  “I'm fine, thanks. My knees are not so decrepit as to flinch and buckle when faced with a ten-inch rise into a truck.”

  He looked solemn. “They're nice knees. Not decrepit at all.”

  “Speaking of various stages of decrepitness, what do you think of our old Bad Business counterparts?”

  He smiled and let me get away with both the change of subject and the use of a word any Scrabble player would challenge. “Interesting group. I've been talking a lot with Nathaniel. Very nice guy. Sharp.”

  “I like him, too.”

  Rafe's tone became a bit too light. “Nathaniel was a close friend of Don Mueller's?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I kn
ew I was about to be teased again. I was right.

  “And has Nathaniel had a chance to converse with his old buddy at rehearsals? If so, you didn't mention it last night while we were discussing ghosts and garnets.”

  I hit him, none too gently, on his shoulder. “Simply because you are not a highly enough evolved person to be granted the gift of psychic, uh, sightings, do not cast aspersions on those that have. And no, Nathaniel hasn't said anything to me.”

  The trace of a smile crossed his lips. “I do enjoy tormenting you. You always have such wonderfully witty responses. Actually, if anyone really had the capabilities to see ghosts, I'd bet money on Nathaniel. Sensitive soul. Did he tell you I remind him of Don Mueller in my guise as the villain? I took it as a true compliment. I may not believe the man haunts the theatre, but I do believe he was a phenomenal actor.”

  I stared at him. “I had no idea you even knew anything about Mr. Mueller as a person or his talent as an actor. You usually seem more interested in the scientific explanations for ghostly chemicals lingering on the earth.”

  “Chalk it up to being a lover of history. I'm fascinated by anyone or anything in the arts that has this much of an effect on people for so many years.”

  I finally noticed we weren't heading toward my apartment.

  “Not to change the subject, Mr. Montez, but you're going southwest instead of northeast. Ahem, ahem. Do you need directions or do you have that annoying male habit of not asking where you're going?”

  He continued to stare ahead as he asked, “Weren't you planning a trip to Fair Park before returning to your pal, the dog?”

  My eyes opened wide. “I don't know why you don't believe in paranormal activity, 'cause you're definitely psychic. Yes. I wanted to see the Mesoamerican art exhibit at Fair Park. I have no desire to sit at home and create dance steps today and brood about whether or not Jason Sharkey was murdered or why I look like Delilah Delight numero uno. Besides, it's too hot in the apartment. Floor fans both currently blocked by a dog. There must be something going around this area because the air-conditioning in the apartment is also on the fritz. My options were to see to the exhibit or hit the old revival theatre near S.M.U. for about eight hours of Hitchcock movies. Howdja know I wanted to go?”

  “Call it a great hunch. The exhibit is well worth the time. I saw it when it first arrived in Dallas and since it's leaving next Friday, this is your last chance to get down there.”

  “Are you sure you don't mind playing chauffeur? I wouldn't want to take you away from wherever you were headed.”

  “I was headed there as well. I’ve been wanting to see it again. But you’ll love it. I was considering kidnapping you if you hadn't said yes.”

  We reached Fair Park and Rafe found a nice parking spot under a tree. I didn't see many cars around. It was rapidly turning into one of those Texas Sundays when intelligent people stay indoors with the air-conditioner running nonstop on high.

  Rafe gallantly offered to pay my way into the exhibit and I immediately began to argue. “I'm not poverty- stricken, Rafe. I'm living in an apartment free of charge and Lida Rose pays me for both choreographing and performing.”

  “I'd make the offer even if you owned half of Dallas. Now be quiet and allow me to be polite. You can get the next one.”

  I started to ask, 'The next what?” but kept silent. He and Lida Rose shared several character traits. Stubbornness and a refusal to listen unless finally forced to were high on the list of those shares.

  It was nice having Rafe as my guide. He knew his art backward and forward, and could explain such trivial facts as why the Mayans had chosen hairless dogs to worship. Or why everything was made out of feathers and jade.

  “Rather like a Vegas showgirl's costume.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Sorry. Thinking aloud. All the feathers and foo-foo.” I jumped back. “Oh my blessed mama! Yikes! That is one nasty, uh, depiction of whatever.”

  “Not your type, Ms. Davlin?”

  I'd come face-to-face with the sculpture of a feathered serpent that also seemed part human. And very ugly.

  “Remind me not to offend who or whatever this guy is. He does not seem to be a happy fellow. Or happy snake. Or . . . “

  Rafe patted me kindly on my head. “Kiely, meet a war serpent. Usually plastered onto a candy-striped column surrounding what we think of as a pyramid. Like a barber shop pole in front of a silo. Anyway, this guy's the pawn of one of the higher gods. He's not a real deity.”

  “Thanks so much. Damn. Creepy. These sculptures aren't exactly Degas ballerinas, are they?”

  He shook his head.

  We entered a room filled with small ceramic pieces and a few assorted jewelry items. I fell in love with a small jade pendant made in the shape of jaguar. “Do you know if they have replicas of these pieces in the gift shop? This is too neat. I'd probably be offending some ancient Aztec god, but this would be stunning with the white dress I was planning on wearing to the opening night party.”

  Rafe nodded. “We'll make a detour through the gift shop before we leave. There are a couple of prints I saw last time I was sorry I hadn't bought.”

  We were raptly gazing at a feathered mosaic of what appeared to be three women washing a hairless Chihuahua when I heard a giggle behind me.

  “Fran! Lookee here! It's those two charming children from the theatre.”

  I turned. Rafe turned. Shirley Kincaid and Fran Watkins, arm in arm, were beaming at us like kindergarten teachers passing out gold stars to students who stayed together during fire drills. I blinked. Shirley's hair had changed since yesterday. The platinum-blonde locks now resembled a ripe tomato on the verge of explosion.

  “Hi, Ms. Kincaid. Ms. Watkins.”

  Shirley giggled again. “Please, Hon, it's Shirley and Fran. We're theatre people. We don't sit on testimonies.”

  I translated that last bit of confusion to mean “stand on ceremony” and wondered whether Ms. Kincaid was for real with her mangling of verbiage or if she was attempting to stay the cute ingénue she'd been fifty years before. Doubtless many men had found the grammatical boo-boos charming coming from the tiny actress.

  Rafe gave the ladies a devastating smile while I tried to form the word “Fran” on my lips as ordered. It was difficult. I couldn't imagine Fran Watkins being called anything besides “Ms. Watkins” even when she'd been in pre-school. The woman had what can only be described as a forbidding countenance. Mrs. Danvers overseeing the burning of Mandalay was the first image that came to mind. I shook off the thought. Rafe had taken the conversational ball and was making for mid-field with it. He was explaining the meaning behind the Calendar Stone, which is a favorite of souvenir shops in Central America, plastered on ashtrays and welded to key rings. In his best art history seminar voice he told us that the stone didn't really represent a calendar; it was more a catastrophic cosmic scene display. By this time both women were gazing at him with much the same expression as I'd given my first plate of enchiladas the day I arrived from New York.

  Fran lowered her glasses to the edge of her nose and peered over them at me. “Kiely? Are you interested in art?”

  I almost shot out, “No, I'm only here for the air-conditioning,” but I wasn't sure if Ms. Watkins had a sense of humor. Instead, I nodded politely. “I've spent more Sundays in the Metropolitan Museum, the Cloisters, or the Guggenheim than I have in my apartment in the city. I'm interested in art for its own sake, and I've discovered that each century, each style, each period has unique movement. It's very good for a choreographer to study.”

  The ladies nodded. Rafe smiled. I had no idea if he was pleased that I'd answered Fran Watkins without sarcasm, or liked the idea of Kiely Davlin browsing through museums. Fran was staring at the two of us.

  “It seems the casts of Bad Business are quite a cultured group.”

  Rafe threw her a sharp look. “How so?”

  Shirley answered him with wide eyes. “You two are the third or fourth sex of cast members we
've seen today exhibiting. Including the Boones. We ran into the boy playing Ace Royale and the other dancehall girl whatshername, over at the potty section. And those two tall children, the twins? They're down the hall in the almanac ruins.”

  My brain was racing away from the image of Theo and Lindsay in what had to be old ceramics and not a bathroom, the Humble boys staring at Olmec artifacts, and what in creation were the third and fourth sexes? Rafe's eyebrows had gone up a good inch, but whether it was for the same reasons, or the mind- boggling thought of Hank and Ham hanging out in a museum in their Stetsons and boots discussing pre-Columbian symbols and fertility gods, I had no idea.

  Shirley was grinning at Rafe and me with close to the same look Lida Rose gets when she utters “Kiely! This is perfect!” then points me toward the nearest available male. I was getting nervous. Shirley nudged me. “So, are you two itemizing?”

  “Itemizing?” Visions of tax forms with 1040 Schedule C ran through my head.

  Fran lightly swatted her friend on the shoulder. “Jeez, Shirley, learn to speak the language. She means, are you two an item? I must say, you look very sweet together.”

  Rafe knelt down as though preparing to tie his shoes. I prayed that the goddess Quetzalcoatl would come to life, trot down the hall, and lop off my head for the day's sacrifice. It would be less painful than continuing to stay and endure the interrogation. Shirley took the opportunity of the short silence to ask another question.

  “Did you spend the night?”

  I started to cough. Did she mean at the exhibit, or together? Either way I had no desire to explain my actions to the old ladies. I opened my eyes as wide as Shirley's had been. “Rafe gave me a lift from church this morning. It's really hot out today, isn't it? I have no car and I swear the heat is hotter than Manhattan this time of year. Oh my, what an interesting mask over there. Shirley, that would look lovely on you as a pendant or something. You should see if they have anything similar in the gift shop. Rafe, I hate to rush you but aren't they starting the lecture on Mayan tripod vessels in five minutes? And way at the other end of the building. Shirley, Fran. So good to see you both. We'll talk later. At the party. I can’t begin to tell you how much I’m looking forward to it. ‘Bye.”