Lida Rose stood by the orchestra pit waving her hands like a good conductor. I looked up in the middle of the phrase, “I miss the East Side” and saw Don Mueller in the balcony. He was swaying to the music. It occurred to me that if the curse held, Rafe or I might shortly be joining him in whatever hereafter ghosts inhabited.
Lida Rose clapped her hands together. “Okay. Hootenanny over. If everyone's warmed up, let's take places for Act One. We're going to add the other Bad Business cast, so I ask for patience today. With any luck and a lot of work we'll get out of here by dinnertime.”
The company settled in as Lida Rose began the process of adding the older cast. She might be horribly hung-over from too many margaritas and too much imagination, but at some point this past weekend, Lida Rose had done her homework. She knew precisely where to place the “new” actors so they could be seen and participate without unduly destroying several weeks worth of blocking.
It was going far too well. Suddenly I heard a crash from the direction of our accompanist. A loud chord filled with fury.
We all turned. Daisy was sitting more upright than an Upright. An expression of intense indignation had given her face more energy than I'd ever seen in her.
Daisy repeated the discordant G chord. “You tell that trashy slut up there that her place is behind that bar! She gets there, then I'll start.”
For a moment I thought she meant me. (Obviously, I've played trashy sluts for far too many years.) But since I was already behind the bar I didn't see how her words could apply. Then I realized she meant Macy Mihalik, and she wasn’t referring to Macy’s onstage persona.
“Daisy. What's the problem? Why are you pissed off at Macy?”
“Didn't you read the papers? Didn't you see where Brett Barrett said Jason had been with her the night before he died? Doesn't anyone care that she probably was responsible for throwing that cabinet on him!”
I hadn't gotten to that part of the article. I'd been too pissed about the curse of Delilah et al. Why Daisy was bringing this up now was beyond reason. It seemed she was still smarting from the fact that Jason had preferred Macy to her. And now the world knew it. At least the world that read the Morning News and Brett Barrett.
Lida Rose sighed. “Daisy. Play the bloody music. Macy. Places behind the bar with Kiely and Lindsay, please.”
Macy threw a look of resignation at Lida Rose, and one of hatred at Daisy. I wondered whether it might not be a good idea to take a break. But when I raised eyebrows (both) at Lida Rose she looked at her watch, then shook her head. “Hog-Tie Hoedown” was coming up no matter how many tantrums got thrown.
I nudged Rafe, who happened to be in a spot next to me at the bar, and hissed in his ear, “What's with Miss Haltom? Has she gone over the bend?”
Rafe kept a close eye on Lida Rose who'd run over to the piano to discuss some detail of the hoedown with the aforementioned lunatic.
He whispered, “Daisy is trying to get Lida Rose and Fran to call off the production. She feels we're all being totally callous about Jason's death and she wants to shut down for the next year or so. She may have really loved the man. But she's losing it. By the way, speaking of losing it, what's this I hear about you pitching a major fit at the party after I left? What? Were you upset over discovering some serious cheating going on in the card game at Fran's?”
I smiled and drawled, “Honey, carrying aces is fightin' words. I believe Fran Watkins herself had to threaten Neil Kincaid with expulsion from the party. Nathaniel told me words were exchanged between Neil and that scary-looking butler who greeted us all at the door. As to 'pitching a fit,' as you call it? Had nothing to do with a card game. I didn't care who the hell was cheating. I only cared about getting out of the pantry.”
“What?”
“You didn't hear about that? Damn, Rafe, your sources are slipping.”
I told him about my encounter down the hall from the kitchen. “Lida Rose keeps telling me I wasn't trapped. She's probably right. I've been known to panic in airplane bathrooms if the door doesn't immediately open, and I automatically assume someone has bolted it from outside. Don't tell Lida Rose I said that. I want her to worry that someone has it in for Delilah Delight after those ridiculous statements made to the press about the curse. She needs to feel a little guilty now and then. Not that she'll ever admit anything bad happening could be her fault for being such a publicity hound.”
Rafe stared at me. “I hope you're right. About the pantry not being locked. I'd hate to think you—or any of us—are being harassed by some sick practical joker.”
Lida Rose waved at us. “Hey, you two. Hush! We've been ready to rehearse for the last five minutes. Everybody? Places for the hoedown. And for those of you who imbibed a bit too much last evening, please remember, the tech crew is working on the orchestra pit today and it's in the ‘down’ position. I'd avoid heading too far off your marks if you don't want to land in on top of the Baby Grand.”
Chapter 24
Rehearsals went smoothly for three hours. The elderly actors held up well throughout the morning, wisely staying silent during the arguments. Daisy also stayed silent, playing the piano with exceptional skill. Perhaps she needed a daily blow-up to release the talent within.
Then came the afternoon rehearsal.
Daisy and Macy had gotten together during lunch, made up, and decided that the rest of us in the cast were not only responsible for Jason's death, but were continuing to show how unfeeling and rotten we were by not canceling the show or extolling the late Mr. Sharkey's virtues in casual conversation. They’d apparently plotted how best to antagonize everyone. They arrived late, sat next to each other, whispering while Lida Rose gave notes from the morning's rehearsal, and giggled inappropriately whenever questions were asked by various members of the company concerning schedules, music, acting problems, and costume fittings.
Finally, Lida Rose had enough. “Pardon me for interrupting what I'm certain is an important discussion, Ms. Mihalik and Ms. Haltom, but it really chaps my hide to give notes that are not heard or adhered to by cast members and musicians. So get your respective faces out of one another's, and pay attention.”
Macy stood. She smiled. “We were discussing how best to save the show at this point,” she said. She looked around at the cast members sitting in chairs, on the floor, on the stage, leaning against the orchestra pit, and standing by the piano Emily had moved to the stage right audience. “Because, let’s face it. It's not working.”
My first thought was if anyone was possessed by a ghost around here, it was Macy. She sounded exactly like Jason.
Silence. Lida Rose stared directly at the girl. “What's not working? Would you care to be specific?”
Oh, crap, L. R. Don't ask that. You're playing her game.
I feared my wordless thoughts had been heard. Rafe looked at me, smiled, and raised his left brow. I shifted my focus back to the debate.
Macy began answering Lida Rose's question. Actually, Macy started intoning as if she were at the microphone of a public address system. “This ‘oldies onstage’ trip is not working. It looks stupid. I'm sure I'll offend the politically correct members of this group who believe old age is not a deterrent to talent, but it looks like a geriatric picnic up here and saps the energy from those of us actually hired to do this show. Daisy agrees with me.”
A buzz broke out all over the theatre. A mass participation of arguing, agreeing, or listening to others arguing or agreeing.
Except for me. I leaned against the railing by the orchestra pit casually watching each group, and pondered the best way to end what was fast becoming chaos and possible mutiny.
The solution wasn't one I'd have thought of on my own, although it did end the ridiculous discussions. A light coming from the balcony caught my eye. I glanced up. Don Mueller was frantically pointing at me and shaking his head. At the same time, I felt the railing give way. I heard a crack and envisioned myself at the bottom with more than a bruised forehead. Life went into slow mot
ion as I imagined the end of my career. The possible end of my life.
Gasps came from every direction. A strong hand grabbed my arm, firmly pulling me away from the broken rail. I stood nose-to-nose with Rafe Montez, who'd just rescued me from what might have been the unhappy finish of the third Delilah Delight.
Lida Rose rushed over with a look of terror on a face paler than the white sundress I'd worn the night before.
“Oh, my God! What in bloody blue blazes is going on? Charlie! Charlie! Get your crew here. Now.”
The tech director poked his head out from behind the stage near the scene shop.
“What's the problem?”
'The problem is we nearly lost Kiely thanks to the railing giving way. I thought this damned theatre had been renovated. This piece of wood looks like termites have been having a dinner party!”
Charlie hurried across the stage to check. Two techies followed him. Charlie looked as guilty as Jed had the day he'd eaten the bathroom mat.
“This is left over from years ago. It's ripped in so many places it's no wonder it gave way. Sorry, Kiely. I should have checked to see that a new railing had been put in. There's supposed to be an iron one.”
I was shaky, but couldn't stand to see him so miserable. “Not your fault. Honest. I've seen that railing every day for the last few weeks when my dog has been cooped up there and I never noticed a thing wrong. I don't think any of us did.”
Lida Rose nodded. She was calmer now that it was clear she hadn't lost one dancehall girl and best friend to the floor below.
“I'm sorry if I seemed nasty. No one's to blame. I didn't even know if plans for a new railing were part of the renovations. Well. Now they are. Kiely? You okay?”
I smiled. It was a shaky smile, but at least I hadn't burst into tears. “I need to sit for a minute or two. Maybe some coffee?”
“Here.”
Thelma Lou appeared at my side with a steaming mug.
“How do you do that? Come up with the right thing at the right time?” I asked.
She grunted. “I listen.”
The coffee even had the right amount of cream and sugar. I'd been about to ask for the real stuff anyway. I'd always heard sugar's good for shock. I didn't care if it was true or not. It tasted a lot better than chemicals, which I now vowed to avoid forever.
Lida Rose signaled for attention. “Okay. Cast? Kiely's all right. And the excitement is over for a while. I hope. Now. Regardless of the fact that we wasted ten minutes arguing over Macy's theories on casting and directing, I hate to tell you, but theatre is not a democracy. At least this one isn't. The other cast of Bad Business remains part of this company. Age or no age. Case closed. Back to work. Kiely? We'll start with scene two of Act One. You're not in that, so rest for a bit.”
I did as asked. Rafe hadn't said a word other than “You're welcome,” when I'd thanked him for the fast save before what could have been a fatal dive. Worry was etched all over his face, but he got onstage and flawlessly delivered his Act One, Scene Two lines.
I cautiously looked up into the balcony once the rehearsal was back in progress. Don stood next to the ladder leading to the catwalk. He waved and nodded his head in satisfaction that he'd been able to warn me of impending disaster with enough time for me to slightly readjust my weight forward into Rafe's firm grasp. I wished I had a way to repay him for the help.
The rest of the day ended up being far less traumatic than I'd feared. I was able to get up and sing and dance and go through the numbers with ease. I was even able to get the nagging feeling that the railing had been stronger yesterday than today out of my mind. Well, almost able.
Rehearsal ended at five o'clock. I was more than ready to get home, take a hot bath, and watch something mindless on TV. I grabbed Jed, looped his leash around his neck, and prepared for the walk home. I'd made it halfway across the parking lot when Brett Barrett, the reporter with the intuition of a bloodhound, accosted me. Jed growled. I lied by telling the dog it was okay, and advised him not to tear Mr. Barrett's trouser legs to shreds. Yet.
“Kiely. I heard you nearly took a header into the orchestra pit this afternoon.”
Crap. That's all I needed. A psychic reporter.
“How did you know about that? And it wasn't a header. More like the other end.”
He winked. “I'd love for you to believe the ghost told me, but since there isn't one, the truth will have to suffice.”
I wanted to relay the fact that the ghost was more than capable of relaying the information (well, I hadn't heard Don talk, so maybe not) but I didn't want to get Brett started on paranormal possibilities.
“So? How did you hear?”
“I've been out here for the last hour waiting to catch whoever will fill me in on the latest concerning curses, jewels found, and general doings amongst the cast. I lucked out. Shirley Kincaid and the kid who works box office. Some relative of hers? Anyway, she gave me the scoop and he translated, since she is not the most, um, lucid person I know.”
I had to agree with that assessment of Shirley Kincaid, while fuming over the fact that the woman didn't have the sense to keep quiet about what was really nobody's business.
Brett continued. “I was also able to gather from Ms. Kincaid's comments that she, unlike some people I could name, does indeed believe the theatre has some sort of jinx associated with this show. Great scoop.”
“Brett. Please don't print all this garbage. Shirley is as bad as Lida Rose about publicity. Worse, really. At least Lida Rose doesn't come out and say she gives the curse theory any credence. She simply puts it out for the universe to decide. Anyway, you know damned well it's all rot.”
“Perhaps to you, but Shirley voiced her opinion that the show should close before it starts. She's willing to be onstage but said she's nervous about the whole thing now.”
I shook my head. “She's a sweet, rattled ditz. And she's pulling your chain. She knows quite well the amount of revenue that's being generated with the anniversary showing of this melodrama. No way would she want to shut it down. And she could. She and Fran discussed doing that after Jason died. Shirley's known Fran long enough to convince her if she had a mind to do so. Bottom line, Barrett? You're giving this theatre precisely what they want. Now, don't hassle me about it all. I've got enough to do. I can't worry about what I say to the press.”
“Come on, Kiely, one lousy quote. You almost took a twenty-foot drop into an orchestra pit today. How does that make you feel?”
I smiled and pointed to the expensive Italian shoe on Mr. Barrett's left foot. Jedidiah was happily peeing on it. My sentiments exactly. The reporter quickly made tracks for the nearest rest room stocked with paper towels.
Once back at the apartment, I hugged Jed for his bravery in taking on intrepid reporters. Then I took Jed out, fed Jed, played tug-of-war with Jed, flopped on the couch with Jed, and finally shared a plate of nachos with the mutt as we watched some movie channel's Mummy specials. The current flick was The Mummy Returns. Original version. He really did look like Joe Hernandez in his cone body cast. I fell asleep with the dog on my lap, hearing an Arab workman hissing something about curses. Neither dog nor girl stirred for the next ten hours.
Chapter 25
I’d paced in figure eights on the sidewalk in front of Mia Maya imports for a good five minutes. Did I really want to buy Rafe and Lida Rose some kind of fake Mayan artifact for an opening night present? I'd already found small, funny inexpensive trinkets for the rest of the cast at a great dollar and junk store. A can of silly string for the Humble brothers (to represent the lasso.) A pack of trick cards with at least ten aces for Theo, who was playing Ace Royale. A mauve-colored blusher labeled “Primrose” for Amber, playing Polly Sue Primrose, the ingénue. A video of the classic movie David and Bathsheba for Lindsay, since her character was Bathsheba Bombshell. An old fan magazine from the Eighties with Michael Jackson on the cover and a headline reading “Jackson Gone Wild!” for Ben Collins, the actor playing Jackson Wild. I'd even f
ound potted plants for our “live scenery” original cast members and daisy earrings for our accompanist. Maybe yellow flowers dangling from her ears would lighten her up a bit.
My favorite present so far was an old vinyl recording of Vaughn Monroe singing about Daniel Boone. This was for Cyrus Boone, who'd let it slip at rehearsal the other day that Daniel was his middle name. As of yet, I hadn't purchased anything truly obnoxious for my best friend, or for Rafe Montez, whom I couldn't quite classify in my head as friend, foe, or—well, whatever.
Someone in the cast had mentioned that the import shop had reopened a few weeks ago. I hoped to find some pieces reminiscent of the Mayan works Rafe and I had seen at Fair Park. Perhaps one with a silly connection to our show. Even if the only thing they had in stock turned out to be an exotic clay vessel with a hairless chihuahua singing to the moon costing more than $25, I'd buy it. I owed him that much for paying my way into that exhibit and buying the ice cream. Also for saving my life when the railing broke.
A tinkly bell rang as soon as I opened the door to the shop. A smiling young woman behind a counter asked if I needed help and nodded affirmatively when I told her I only wanted to browse for now. How does one ask a salesperson for aid in finding what one is clueless about?
I wandered the aisles for a good ten minutes, discarding evil-looking masks, plaster-of-Paris dogs, statuettes of ugly naked gods, turquoise jewelry, and jade pendants. I stopped in front of a replica of that awful war serpent that had scared me at the museum but couldn't figure out any significance between his nasty face and anything in Bad Business. No snakes. Just guns, cards, and ropes. A solid brass goddess in less clothing than I wear at the beach, who seemed to be engaged in a Bali fertility dance was a possibility. But we dancehall girls were clad in traditional frilly outfits complete with corset, petticoats, and garter belts. Our dances were closer to the French can-can than belly dancing of any kind.
Ghosts, Wandering Here and There Page 19
