The butler with the features from a B-grade horror flick was nowhere in sight. He'd mentioned the billiard room as being the repository for most of the guests, but Brett had waylaid Lida Rose and me before I could ask directions, so I decided to wander and see if I could detect the sound of clanking pool balls.
I found the kitchen first, which was not a bad thing. Tray upon tray of delectable goodies hid every inch of counter space, not to mention the huge island in the center of the room.
“Kiely Davlin?”
“Yep.”
I turned and tried to hide the gooey cream puff I'd snitched from the pastry tray.
“Wilson Carew. From the Observer.”
“Hi, Wilson. How's it going over there? Circulation up?”
He ignored the question. “I'm more interested in what's going on at East Ellum. Word has it that there have been ghost sightings and fires and narrow misses with huge metal cans. Add that to the mysterious death of your leading man. And all these activities centering around you—aren't you afraid to be performing there?”
There was going to be another ghost sighting soon. I planned to kill Lida Rose as soon as I saw her again. I could easily persuade a lawyer to get me acquitted on the grounds of justifiable homicide.
“Wilson? In a wordno. Nothing bizarre is happening over at the East Ellum Theatre. We are redoing a nice old melodrama that unfortunately was the scene of some sad events fifty years ago. Yes, we had a horrible, freakish accident befall Jason Sharkey. But as I told Barrett, the fire was barely more than a puff of smoke and the raining metal cans consisted of one, mind you, one teensy tiny closed can which only fell because a techie was overloaded and trying to balance. And none of it had anything to do with me more so than anyone else.”
“Brett Barrett? Who's he talking to?”
Oh, good. Maybe I could sic Wilson on Brett and the two could duke it out over who'd get the scoop on the curse. “Last I saw him, he was chatting up Lida Rose and getting some really great inside poop on everything and everybody. Um. I believe they were headed for the pool outside?”
'Thanks. I'll check it out.”
I smiled as I piled a plate filled with everything I could find with more than seven hundred calories per bite. I then wandered off in search of anyone who would not try and pump me for information or try to convince me the theatre needed to change its name to “Spook Central Performing Arts Center.”
The sound of clanking and “rack 'em” was coming from the room on my left. I headed that way. The billiard room. I only hoped Miss Scarlet hadn't bopped anyone over the head with the pipe. Unless it was Brett Barrett. Or Lida Rose.
Chapter 21
I glanced inside the billiard room. Rafe was chalking a cue and gesturing to a corner pocket for his next shot. I checked to see if I recognized the sad victim of his hustle. His features weren't familiar, but I knew his profession. He had the undeniable air of superiority mixed with bloodhound. The only conclusion was he was a very young reporter. It would be enjoyable watching Rafe Montez decimate him. I had no doubt that our resident art expert could, and would, do so. Only someone at ease with bars and poolrooms from many past experiences could wear that casual air that brooked ill for the poor challenger. I know this because I'm no slouch myself. Two brothers had thought nothing of dragging their sister to seedy dives on weekends and teaching her to destroy opponents three times her age and weight while she smiled a smile of pure innocence. I'd lost count of the money my Dad made us pay back to unsuspecting, thought-they-were-being-crafty sharks.
Rafe called his shots, made every one, then politely bowed to the young man who'd turned redder than the latest dye on Shirley Kincaid's hair. I waved to him. Rafe, that is; not the humiliated and angry kid.
“Do you think it's wise to piss off the media before we open? Could be the arts critic you’re shish-kabobing with your stick there.”
Rafe lowered his volume to whisper level. “I know better than that. He's not from the newspaper. He's Shirley Kincaid's grandson. All of eighteen and a firm believer in his own greatness. When I came in he was trying to hustle Nathaniel. I thought it was time to teach him to respect his elders. I'll give him back the winnings later when he's had a chance to reflect on the error of his ways. I gather you haven't been by the box office or you’d’ve met him by now. So, you interested in playing a game?”
I nodded. He handed me a stick. “I presume you know the basics?”
I began to apply chalk to the bottom of the cue while politely inquiring, “How's a short game of eight ball grab you? I specify ‘short’ because I don't plan on this taking more than a few minutes of my valuable time.”
A cheering section had formed in the corner of the room, away from jabbing sticks and flying cue balls. Lindsay and Theo placed nickel bets with each other on who'd be the winner. Hank and Ham Humble nodded intelligently whenever Rafe downed a solid. Nathaniel Bollinger and Cyrus Boone smiled knowingly at Rafe and me. I had the feeling the gentlemen were more interested in the subtext of the game than the actual moves.
I have no idea who would have been the ultimate victor in our pool match. We'd been playing for twenty minutes, exchanging shots and psych-each-other-out barbs, when Lida Rose burst into the room. She was balancing two large frozen margaritas, a plate filled with cheeses, cheese spreads, queso dip with assorted corn filled chips for scooping, and another plate overflowing with some sort of gooey cookies. Combined expressions of terror and glee were plastered across her face. I extended a hand to help with the plate and glasses.
“Yo! L. R.! Come join us. And share those goodies. Damn, woman, there's enough dairy on that plate to keep a Vermont farmer on skis in Switzerland for a year.”
Rafe cocked his head at me. “What does that mean? How many margaritas have you imbibed?”
I set the plates down on a small table, and carefully banked the eight ball into the corner pocket before I grabbed one of the drinks from Lida Rose. “It means absolutely nothing and I am perfectly sober. So there. Game to me.”
I took a sip. Lida Rose took a large gulp of hers before yanking me toward her by grasping my hand quite painfully.
“Why were you so rude to Brett Barrett? The man is hot for you. And you didn't even tell me he's been hot for you. Roses and chocolates after Pippin on a nightly basis. That is marvelous.”
I chugged down half the margarita. “Whoa. Slow it down and shove it back. You said it yourself. Brett Barrett has been divorced for two years. I did Pippin three years ago. Do the math, woman. The man was married when he was trying to get in my bloomers. I don't do married. You know that. Kiely's cardinal rule. Bikers, con artists, pathological liars I have dated. Married? No. Ixnay. Nada.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well. You still needed to have stayed to back me up on spooky happenings at the theatre. We want publicity, and quite honestly we don't care how we get it.”
She licked her lips like a cat climbing out of the goldfish bowl. “I’ve now got Mr. Barrett convinced that we hold séances on an hourly basis and have communed with the spirits of the entire Bad Business cast from a hundred years ago asking their advice about changing that dreadful song in Act One.”
Rafe sighed. “Did our performing spooks have any suggestions?”
She ignored him and crashed her drink down on a table. “Oh, crap. I forgot why I was looking for you. Kiely. Rafe. You have to come with me this minute. Trouble is brewing in the dining room.”
Rafe turned from the cue holder cabinet on the wall where he'd been carefully replacing our sticks. “What kind of trouble? Physical, mental, legal, deadly, or emotional?”
I do like this man. He hadn't rushed out of the room in a tizzy. He knew how to elicit a rational response from Mrs. Worthington-Rizokowsky. Something I've yet to accomplish in twelve long years.
Lida Rose took a deep breath, a gulp of her drink, then one more. “Press trouble. I'm not sure where that follows in the troublesome list you gave me, but I think it could end up as all of the above. Fran h
as been attempting to give a sane press conference, but the members of the Texas media who are still sober enough to ask questions don't seem interested in going where she's trying to steer them. I can't explain. It's easier if you guys follow me.”
I grabbed another piece of cheese off her tray, sucked down a few more swallows of my margarita, then obediently trotted off toward the dining room behind Lida Rose and Rafe, who had assumed the brave role of leader for this parade.
Fran had tried to set up the space rather on the order of a presidential Q and A, with chairs in rows reaching across the room and a podium (seriously) in front. She'd failed. Journalists were wandering the room shoving chairs close to food-laden tables and chowing down between questions. Most had cell phones, which could record and immediately send info back to the papers or blogs. The fine art of note taking had gone the way of technology for reporters, except for Brett Barrett, who thought it looked more journalistic to write on a notepad. I recognized a friend of mine, Sherry Burt, the publicity director for the Garland Summer Musicals. I waved. She waved. Then she oozed through the hordes of food-obsessed writers to approach me. I was enveloped in a swift hug.
“Hey, Kiely. You look great. You involved in this curse business?”
I merely sighed. Deflecting the question was getting to be boring. “Curse business? What curse business? Our resident costumer yelling at the Humble twins in language comparable to sailors on leave? Or have you been talking to Lida Rose about that stupid fire and the big nail can tragedy?”
Sherry smiled. “Don't be coy. The buzz around the press is that Bad Business has a deadly bane following it. You've had one death and several narrow escapes, right? Fran Watkins has been dodging the issue for the last ten minutes, trying to get everyone to focus on who's who in the cast and make some big pronouncement about the original cast joining the new, but the more sober and enterprising among us are not giving up.”
She ran back to what must be her chair to salvage a huge slice of cake that was in danger of being absconded by a beefy, red-faced man dressed in the most elegant gray tux I've seen since brother Sean's wedding six years ago. Sherry won, wresting the pastry from his eager grasp with bare seconds to spare. I turned to Rafe, who had managed to sneak a plateful of Chinese- looking hors d'oeuvres. He graciously offered me a steamed dumpling.
“Yo. Rafe. Do we have a curse?”
“Probably not. But Lida Rose has been pushing for one for weeks. Thanks to Jason, perhaps she's finally convinced the media?”
“Come to think of it, now that I've found that spooky garnet earring and discovered I share my good looks with another Irish dancer who sends sad feelings my way, we may be headed in the right direction. Perhaps this whole ghostly curse thing warrants further investigation.”
Rafe nodded toward a pack of journalists circling the podium near Fran. “They appear to share your thirst for knowledge of the paranormal. Come on. By the way, what was that bon mot about the original cast members joining us onstage? Did Fran mention anything to you?”
I told him what Lida Rose had told me this afternoon. He took it well, only downing an entire glass of what appeared to be straight bourbon. I wondered how the others had received the news. Or even if they had. I hadn't heard Macy's dulcet tones bellowing obscenities or Daisy's voice whining through the halls, so it was possible the current cast members were as yet unaware of the change.
Other, less dulcet tones were heard issuing from the reporters. Brett Barrett bellowed from the middle of the room.
“What about the fire, Ms. Watkins? Or the nails? Do you believe these are merely coincidence, or proof of a paranormal being roaming the theatre? What about the rumors that your costume mistress has seen a ghost? Or those antique jewels that were found in the prop room? The same room where your former leading man met with a very untimely accident?”
Fran and Shirley Kincaid both gasped and looked on the verge of collapse. When Fran handed the microphone to Shirley I nearly collapsed myself. All we needed were quotes from the bubble-tongued septuagenarian. Shirley looked horrified.
Rafe and I pushed our way to the front of the throng in time to see a gray-tuxedoed bull of a man thrust a microphone into Fran's face. Rude, but effective. It also conveniently cut out Shirley from talking.
“Miz Watkins. You've been tap-dancing around the issue. I'm Jerry Klein from the Star-Telegram. What can you tell us about the curse that clouds Bad Business? Without any more steps, shimmies, or twists, please.”
I almost laughed. I had to admire his terminology. Fran gestured toward Lida Rose. “Lida Rose Worthington, who is directing this production, will now answer all your questions.”
“Like hell she will,” I muttered. “The woman will make up some outrageous lie about falling bodies and spectral ectoplasm dripping from the coffeepot and have every one of those people camped out at the theatre for the next week.”
Rafe whispered, “Are you saying you don't trust our Lida Rose to capably dispose of rumors and innuendo?”
I nudged him. “Really? You are looking at the mistress of misdirection, the master of mania, the queen of crap, the—”
“I get it. Let's see what she says.”
Lida Rose smiled at the crowd. Her countenance was one of serenity and honesty. Have I ever mentioned that in addition to being a fine director, she's a damn good actress?
“Ladies and gentlemen of the press. It is true that Bad Business on the Brazos has, shall we say, an interesting history.”
I audibly groaned.
Lida Rose ignored me. “Fifty years ago, the illustrious actor Don Mueller was shot and killed onstage in a dreadful accident. What you may not know is that the first time Bad Business was produced, one hundred years ago, three members of the cast died under mysterious circumstances. And it is true that our choreographer, Kiely Davlin, who is playing Delilah Delight and who bears a striking and eerie resemblance to the original actress, actually found a garnet earring belonging to the first Delilah in the prop room.”
I winced. “Ouch. Improvising at its best. Or worst. We've been speculating as to where that earring came from, but she's cooked up this crock of lies, and is spilling it to the press. Mysterious circumstances? What the hell does that mean? Floodwaters from the Trinity River engulfing East Ellum? A horde of killer bees flying eastward from San Saba County swarming through the theatre and attacking at will? A rash of suicides? A rasher of bad bacon?”
Rafe didn’t bother to hide a grin as he looked down at me. “I had no idea such a treasure of imagination and metaphoric brilliance resided in that brain.”
“Oh, shut up. Lida Rose is as drunk as a Grecian prostitute after shore leave and she has no idea what she's saying. We're about to spend the next week dealing with bored journalists trying to sniff out a story while we try and get some work done, including adding four elderly thespians to every scene. If there's a curse on Bad Business, you're looking at her. Five-ten, dyed black hair, love of chocolate, booze, tamales, and all.”
Chapter 22
“Gentlemen. I believe that last hand was mine. Excuse me whilst I take those chips.”
“I don't think so, Hank Humble. Seems to me that four aces beat three of a kind every day including Sunday. So, I'll just take that pot.”
“Not so fast, Mr. Montez. I'd say my royal flush makes those aces look pretty puny. Nothing personal, you understand. But this round goes to me.”
“Hands off the table, Kincaid. If I remember the rules of five-card stud, a royal flush starts ace high. And since I've got four of the little darlings, you, sir, must be cheating.”
Quoting the great Yogi Berra, it was “deja vu all over again.” The guys were engaging in a little impromptu rehearsal of the scene leading to the “Gamblers We” number. How Neil Kincaid knew all the dialogue when he spent his hours supposedly selling tickets in the box office eluded me, but this whole scene was right out of Act Two.
I wandered toward the card table placed dead center in Fran Watkins's spacious
game room. Rafe, Neil, Hank, Nathaniel, and Cyrus sat upright, wearing identical expressions of concentration and mistrust. I peered over Hank's shoulder, but was careful to keep my own poker face even. The man was bluffing. A pair of fours. Nowhere near the park. Or even the garden.
I circled the table in turn. Nathaniel and Cyrus both had cards facedown in front of them. They'd wisely folded near the beginning of this hand. Rafe really did have four aces and Neil had a flush. But not a royal, or a straight, and not from his cards. His face turned a very unbecoming crimson.
Neil whined, “I'm not cheating. I had a momentary lapse in memory. I thought a royal flush went up to king, not ace.”
Unintelligible murmurs were the only response from the other four. Rafe scooped up the pot and raised his right brow at me. “My first win of the night. Can you believe it?”
He looked like he'd been handed the blue ribbon at the county fair for his prize heifer.
“If this is your first win, perhaps you should have stuck to pool?”
He shook his head. “No one will play with me. Word is out regarding my incredible prowess with chalk and stick.”
Neil growled. “Would you flippin’ deal, Montez? That was the largest damn pot of the night and I don't plan on letting it stay in your greasy Spic hands.”
Obviously, Jason Sharkey hadn't been the only person affiliated with East Ellum to have a few problems with bigotry. Rafe closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He kept his own poker face, though, so I couldn't tell if he planned to toss the chips in the kid's face, challenge him to a duel on the lawn, or deal the cards, ignore the rudeness and get him back in some non-violent and doubtless crafty way.
The latter. Rafe shuffled, shoved the deck toward Nathaniel to cut, and then swiftly dealt the next hand. I left. I had no desire to watch five testosterone-driven males playing the same game I've witnessed too many times during rehearsals.
Ghosts, Wandering Here and There Page 17
