Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Don't bitch at me. I am trying to keep you from either getting arrested or crashing into parked cars on the street below. Listen. Yo. Madam. My buddy. You've had people bug you about shows before. Why is this so different?”

  “Kiely, Fran Watkins and Shirley Kincaid own this theatre. If they are not pleased with what goes on, they can and will shut it down. If Fran wants forty people onstage, she's got forty people onstage. Plus, she listens to everyone, and everyone has a different opinion. Even darling Nathaniel, who incidentally worships you. I'm almost glad Shirley doesn't listen to anybody.

  Or maybe it's that nobody listens to her because she never makes sense. Where was I?”

  “Nathaniel worshipping me.”

  “That was two sentences ago, but thanks anyway. Okay. Even darling Nathaniel, who has been so lovely about my direction—”

  “You said that. Go on. What's the darling's suggestion?”

  'That we redo Act Three so that Lance Lamar won't shoot Nick Nefarious at the end. He's afraid that it might freak out all the former cast members to see that scene done.”

  I pondered the idea for a bit. “Well, that's sort of understandable. I mean, talk about traumatic. They watched a friend die right before their eyes. Hell, I’m still shaking over Jason and I saw his body for like fifteen seconds tops.”

  “I know. I know. I sympathize with them. But the idea was to do the hundredth anniversary of this melodrama, not to change it because of what happened fifty years ago. I've already added the nutty hoedown hog-tie thing, which admittedly is cute, but caused a pile of extra rehearsals and work for you and me. But change the ending? I mean, haven't people died down the years doing Hamlet from sword fights and poison? I don't see anyone changing the last act there.”

  I coughed and poured more liquid into her glass. “No offense, L.R., but let's face it, Bad Business ain't Shakespeare.”

  Lida Rose’s deep sigh threatened to bust the buttons on her madras shirt. “Quite true. But it is a good show. And I hate the idea of mucking up a good show. There's one other thing. I don't want the bastards who murdered Don Mueller to think they've won. If I change the ending, it's like a signal saying 'okay, we're scared, we back off.'“

  I nodded, then helped myself to some of the bourbon, but added diet cola. For some reason this choice instantly set Lida Rose into a fit of hysterical laughter. I wrinkled my nose at her.

  “Don't start with me. It has nothing to do with calories. I don't like it sweet. That's all. Anyway, back to the murder, accident, whatever. You know I agree with you about this. Don Mueller's death was no accident, no matter what the official consensus was at the time. After all, don't ghosts only haunt places if they died too soon and have something to avenge? Rafe and I had a nice discussion about that last evening.”

  She beamed at me as though I had correctly answered the final jeopardy question. “Don't ghosts also hang out at the scene of their demises if those demises were strictly kosher?”

  This worried me. I understood her. Nonetheless, I removed the glass from her fist. “No more for you. The intent behind that statement was clear, but talk about murder. You are skewering the English language to the nth degree.”

  “You're not doing much better. And I'm sober enough. I'm just twitchy.”

  We sat in silence for a second, until she asked, “Aren't you?”

  “Aren't I what?”

  'Twitchy. Damn, Kiely, aren't you listening? The atmosphere at the 'double ell' is ripe with spookiness. Jason's bizarre death. That weird fire in the prop room. The rope breaking with Rafe on the end of it. The can of nails falling from the catwalk.”

  The can of nails thing had happened during the latter part of rehearsing the hoedown yesterday. Most of us had been too busy breathing hard and hadn't even noticed. I assumed that Charlie Baines, the tech director, who'd been balancing about six items including cans of nails, had dropped them. Lida Rose had other ideas. She waited for me to agree with her. Naturally, I did so.

  “Okay. Now that you bring it up, I am a bit twitchy. I've been trying to ignore it.”

  A horn sounded from outside the front window.

  “It's George. I'm outta here. We'll be back in an hour to pick you up. Wear something gorgeous. By the way, how was the date with Rafe at the museum today?”

  I sat down on the floor. The woman was a witch. “How in hell did you know I was at the museum today with Rafe?”

  She fluttered her lashes. “I'd love to make you think I was truly psychic and had seen the two of you through some sort of haze in my mind, but it was sheer technology. Fran and Shirley used whichever's cell phone and rang me up. Talk about two old biddies with nothing to gossip about. Fran got on first and started right in on the fact that Delilah Delight was seeing Nick Nefarious and did I know that Don Mueller had been in love with that era's Delilah Delight. Then Shirley takes off on this tangent, and I quote, ‘not to mention the very first Delilah O'Sullivan had also had an affair with Nick Nefarious since she was slutty’, and did I wonder if tragedy would repeat itself?”

  This called for another gulp of my drink. It possibly called for another shot of booze in the drink. A large one.

  I sighed, “Our two resident Delilah experts tried to grill both Rafe and me for a good fifteen minutes about our quote social relationship unquote, while we were standing in front of the Mayan god of Ping-Pong or somebody named Jose Hernandez or something.”

  I paused, then continued, “I wonder if that deity is any relation to our own Joe? Talk about recipes being in the family for generations. Hey. Did I tell you Christa called Rafe and told him Joe is getting out of the hospital for opening night? He's determined to see the show, even standing on that nutty platform. Then he wants us all to come to El Diablo's to party to festiva. Uh, I mean fiesta. I wonder if he felt twitchy before the dark sedan ran him down?”

  Lida rose grabbed my drink and set it firmly on top of the television. “Talk about me drinking and not making sense. Kiely. Switch to tea. Immediately.”

  Lida Rose stuck her head out the living room window, barely missing a freshly watered ficus tree hiding most of the panes. She hollered down to her husband, who patiently waited in an ancient beetle vehicle the same color as L.R.’s capris. “Be there in a minute, Hon!” She turned back to me. “So?”

  “So, what?”

  “You are an annoying young woman, Kiely Davlin. What did you and Rafe say to Fran and Shirley? I swear you must have looked enamored and guilty all at once, because they sounded ready to tack up the banns if you survive the curse of Act Three. I'm glad they don't know about your skeevy rendezvous in the prop room.”

  I chose not to respond to the last sentence. “It is coming across like a curse, isn't it?” I mused.

  “Kiely.”

  “Oh, sorry. I told the ladies the absolute truth. Rafe saw me sitting on a bench after Mass trying to make up my mind whether to take the bus to the exhibit. He was planning on going to the museum, so gave me a ride there as well. That's all there was to it. Nothing else. Sheer chance. Coincidence. Nothing more. Nada. Got it?”

  I was getting riled.

  Lida rose, smiled, and patted the top of my head.

  “That sounds so nice and logical, Kiely. A tiny item of interest. I happen to know that when Rafe is in Dallas he sings in the choir of St. Bernard's Church over near White Rock Lake, not Sacred Heart Cathedral downtown. Think they needed an understudy?”

  She carefully wrapped up four brownies from the pan “for George,” then cheerfully waved good-bye as she headed toward the back stairs. “See you in fifty-seven minutes. You really should try to sober up by then.”

  I stood, squished a brownie in one hand, and prayed that she'd forget to pick me up.

  As soon as she'd gone I began tearing through the clothes I'd brought from New York. I had originally assumed that Fran Watkins's party was to be a simple, casual barbeque for old and new cast members to bond a bit. I had no idea it had become the theatrical social event of the
summer. One good dress stared out at me from the closet. The one I'd planned to wear for the opening night party. Since I didn't want to show up in jeans at Fran's, this was the only option. Maybe I could hit my favorite boutique in Highland Park Village sometime before the end of next week so I wouldn’t have to deal with a wardrobe repeat.

  I showered, and then put on a ton of makeup and the gorgeous white sundress, which was nearly backless, with spaghetti straps and a nice swirly skirt. My hair, for the moment, was fluffy but not frizzy. Not to be too immodest, but I looked damned good.

  I made myself a plate of nachos to go with the brownies and downed three glasses of iced tea. I was sober. And I still had at least thirty minutes to wait.

  I was also twitchy. The fault of one Lida Rose Worthington Rizokowsky. Nothing but trouble. Like battle and cry. Like cat and apostrophe. Like doom and gloom. I redid my makeup and sang through all my songs for the show twice.

  A horn honked below. I patted Jed good-bye, then scurried downstairs to catch my ride to the party.

  Chapter 20

  Fran Watkins's estate was exactly that. An estate. This was no little house carved out of any prairie. The mansion stood square in the middle of an entire city block in the Highland Park (read “old rich”) section of Dallas. I am not ashamed to admit that when George dropped Lida Rose and me at the entrance gates I stared at the house in sheer awe. As did Mrs. Rizokowsky.

  George wasn't staying. He had tests to grade for the kiddies taking his summer seminars. He waved cheerfully to us after suggesting we avoid getting too drunk to be able to call him.

  We stood at the gate for five minutes, continuing to stare without exchanging a word. The architect who designed this house had either had a warped sense of humor or no humor at all. “Gothic” was the only word possible to describe the turrets, the dark carvings, and the gargoyle sculpture smack in the middle of a fountain . . . smack in the middle of the yard.

  “Think Jane Eyre is in there partying with Mrs. Rochester and Cathy and Heathcliff? Burning down the house, perhaps?”

  Lida Rose hit me on my shoulder. “Now, now. We of the peasant class do not understand the workings of the minds of the aristocracy. Obviously there is a reason for a Cornish mausoleum to be slap in the middle of the Lone Star State.”

  I snorted. “How about atrocious taste?”

  She laughed. “That'd do it.”

  I grabbed her arm. “I'm afraid to go in there. If it starts lightning and thundering I'm running like a bunny. I'm already set to jump out of my skin if someone I don't know says ‘howdy.’“

  We both looked heavenward. There was an ominous cast to the sky. Normally, Texans pray for rain in the summer but seldom get it. Tonight, it appeared that those prayers were to be answered. In a big way. Seven o'clock in the evening and the darkness looked like midnight. I hissed into Lida Rose's ear.

  “It was a dark and stormy night . . .”

  “Kiely! Stop that.”

  “Remember that twitchy feeling we were discussing only an hour or so ago?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, my entire body feels like I've been in a poison ivy patch for a week. I am now seeing omens of disaster everywhere.” I looked up. “But especially that house. I guess there's no hope for it. We have to attend. Maybe the inside is less threatening?”

  “At least there'll be food. That's probably our problem. Nothing but brownies and bourbon. Our blood sugar has skyrocketed and we're filled with hypoglycemic forebodings.”

  “You're filled with something else, but my mother forbade me to use those words. Okay, L. R, let's make a splashy entrance.”

  We marched arm and arm up the long driveway. Before we could knock on the huge double doors, a man in full black tails with as gruesome a face as I've seen outside of old Christopher Lee films pulled them open, then bowed.

  “Mrs. Lida Rose Worthington Rizokowsky. Miss Kiely Davlin. Welcome.”

  I could feel Lida Rose shaking next to me. Whether it was from fear or laughter I couldn't tell, and was given no opportunity to ask.

  “Please, ladies. Do come in. You may leave your purses with me. Most of the other guests are in the billiard room.”

  He disappeared with our purses around a dark corner. I clutched Lida rose's hand in mine. “Did you hear that? Billiard room. Will we find Colonel Mustard standing over Miss Plum with a pipe in his hand? Miss Scarlet looping a noose around Mr. Brown?”

  Lida Rose was starting to get a look I recognized as I'm having far too much fun. I’m ready to sail off a bridge without a bungee cord.

  She chuckled. “Do you suppose that horrid man actually works here or do you think we've just delivered our most precious belongings into the hand of a brilliant con man and purse snatcher?”

  I shrugged. “Doesn't matter. George is still our chauffeur, the keys to the Wyler residence are under a brass bell on the sun porch, and I left the bathroom window open. I think other than an extra wand of mascara, two quarters, and three pieces of used gum in Kleenex, there's not a lot of value in that bag.”

  She wasn't listening. She was smiling. “Kiely! This is perfect!”

  My “uh-oh” antenna shot up faster than Jed's ears upon hearing, “Squirrel!” but with far less enthusiasm.

  “Lida Rose? Leave me alone. Whatever you intend? Don't.”

  She snorted. “You always say that. Look. Heading in from behind that awful portrait of Fran's ancestor. It's Brett Barrett. From the Morning News.”

  I sighed. Lida Rose didn't know that Brett had snuck into the theatre the day of Jason's death and tried to pump everyone who hadn't yet left for information. She also didn't know I was acquainted with Brett.

  “Kiely. He's a hunk. And single. I think his divorce became final about two years ago. Long enough to be over it, and short enough not to get trapped into eternal bachelorhood.”

  She began hissing even though I hadn't said a word. “Be quiet. He's almost here.”

  “Almost” was not the operative word. All six-foot-five inches of Brett Barrett, including the coppery tanned skin and immaculate head of brown hair, loomed in front of us. He flashed his white teeth at us.

  “Ms. Worthington. And the gorgeous Ms. Davlin. So nice to see you again.”

  Lida Rose shifted her gaze from him to me and back in a matter of milliseconds. “You two know each other? Kiely. You never told me.”

  I smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “You never asked. Yes, Mr. Barrett and I are quite well acquainted. He attended at least twenty performances of Pippin three years ago and kindly brought me roses after each one.”

  “Brett. You devil. I had no idea you were such a lover of the theatre.”

  His smile grew broader. “Let's say I am a lover of beauty. And in my opinion Ms. Davlin definitely qualifies. But ladies, I'm not here to reminisce. I'm here to grab an early scoop on the excitement at the East Ellum Theatre. My nemesis, Jerry Klein, is currently engaged in hustling various theatrical types in a pool game. I haven't seen the idiot from the Star-Telegram, and Wilson from the Observer is in the kitchen devouring pastries. No one else matters. Cub reporters—wouldn't know a good story if they found the mayor of Dallas in their car boffing an alien.”

  I had to close my eyes to shut out that last picture. Lida Rose started giggling. I assume it was for the same reason.

  “So, Lida Rose—is it true that supernatural events run rampant at East Ellum? And is Jason Sharkey's death part of the curse?”

  My shameless best friend batted her lashes at him. “They do indeed. And we believe Jason's death might have been caused by paranormal forces. Our costumer communes on a regular basis with the resident ghost, who incidentally seems to have a crush on Kiely.”

  I choked as Brett stared deeply into my eyes and too smoothly stated, “Can't say I blame your ghost. Seems to be contagious.”

  “Stuff it, Brett.”

  He continued questioning Lida Rose. “I've heard there have been some . . . let's call them 'incidents' at the th
eatre since Mr. Sharkey's demise? Accidents? Is that correct?”

  That did it. Lida Rose jumped in with both feet. “There have, indeed, been incidents. Beginning with the big fire. A roaring inferno in the prop room. Well, the old props room. We call it ‘Kismet.’ The prop room. Not the inferno.” Her voice dropped its enthusiastic tone for a second. “Exactly where Jason was found. Rafe Montez, our wonderful villain, put the fire out before the theatre could burn down, but we never discovered the cause of the blaze.”

  My mouth had gaped open to my chest during these last remarks and I didn't bother to close it. My best friend had been spouting the biggest pack of lies I'd heard since the mayor of Manhattan promised to roll back subway prices five years ago.

  Brett was going to get carpal tunnel syndrome if he didn't loosen his hold on his pen. He wrote rapidly but kept his eye on Lida Rose the entire time. Transcribing those notes would be hell. I smiled.

  Brett glanced up for a second with a hint of distrust regarding my smile before returning to his main target. “Lida Rose. Please. Go on.”

  “Okay. Yesterday in the middle of rehearsal nails started flying off the catwalk onto the stage. It was like a hailstorm of metal. We were running for our very lives!”

  I coughed and poked Lida Rose in her ribs. “Excuse me? Much as I hate to dampen the enthusiasm shown by my director, I have to point out that, A, the fire in the prop room consisted of one door smoking and becoming slightly charred, and B, that hailstorm happened to be one—get that?—one can of nails remaining capped and tumbling harmlessly to the floor.”

  Lida Rose and Brett turned equal looks of disappointment my way. Lida Rose sniffed. “Kiely has no imagination. Well, I take that back. She has a ton of imagination. She is, however, somewhat of a chicken. She's terrified. Believes all these bizarre incidents are part of the curse of Bad Business and since that curse involves everyone who plays Delilah Delight, she'll be next.”

  I whirled around and literally ran away from the pair. Let Lida Rose deal with Brett Barrett for the entire party if she liked. Let the woman schmooze and lie her way into headlines and publicity. I wanted food and a drink and to be away from Mr. Perfection and his garrulous prevaricating source.