Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I kept it in mind as a last resort, and roamed through an aisle that wasn't terribly organized. Jewelry had been tossed in among ceramic pots and giant iron columns. I found velvet paintings similar to those at El Diablo's that were even trashier, with images of all four Beatles and some former president; one of the Bushes. Or Reagan. (It was a bad likeness.) Masks had been carelessly plunked on top of paintings and pots. I guessed Mia Maya’s hadn't yet gotten the knack for organization, or how best to display their goods for maximum consumer interest.

  I did finally come across some outrageously huge feathered earrings in rainbow colors for Lida Rose (who would no doubt wear them with both her designer dresses and capri pants on alternate occasions).

  I was about to go back and purchase the Bali dancer when I saw something glinting underneath a hideous squatty statue with the body of a baby and a face of someone at least fifty-five. I moved the sculpture over and discovered a mosaic about ten inches long and seven inches wide. It depicted a conquistador engaged in battle with a Mayan warrior scantily clad in a loincloth, feathered headdress, and jeweled neckpiece. The conqueror had tied up the man rather like a pig prepared for the luau. Next to the Mayan warrior was a girl wearing something akin to a string bikini in shreds. She was gazing at the conquering male with a look somewhere between lust and fear. Sacrificial virgin was the impression I got, but one who might well be happy to lose that status if the Spaniard was involved in the process. It was not the prettiest piece of art I'd seen, but Rafe would get all the double meanings behind it. I loved it.

  “How much?”

  The smiling salesgirl blinked twice when she saw the piece and tried to hide her laughter.

  “Twelve dollars,” she said apologetically. She should be apologetic. It looked like it had been rescued from a garage sale for fifty cents.

  I paid for the painting, and Lida Rose's feathered ear bobs, and left, absurdly pleased with myself. I do love buying fun good-show gifts. For the first time since Jason's death I felt a real tinge of happiness.

  I walked back across the huge vacant lot that separates the theatre from Mia Maya imports and strolled inside, grinning about my purchases and pleased to be out of the heat again. I glanced at my watch. I had a good thirty minutes 'til call time for “final dress.”

  The tech crew was everywhere, and everywhere they were was chaotic. Techies screaming, techies testing microphones onstage, techies testing headpieces to the conductor, to the stage manager and lighting booth, techies yelling at cast members to get off the stage. Orchestra members strolling in and warming up; each starting on a different key from his fellows. I smiled at everyone in turn and started to head for the green room where actors hang out before a show. (If one has never been involved in theatre, I should mention that green rooms are seldom green. What they are are brown. Brown from coffee stains, brown from remnants of makeup that shouldn't rub off but does, brown from old age, and occasionally brown because a set crew finished up a set with too much color for background flats and decided the green room needed a fresh coat.)

  I veered left before going to the green room to look for Jed, whom I'd last seen in the costume shop in Thelma Lou's care. (Now that we were at the point of having real musicians, the orchestra pit had been deemed off limits to the dog.) My canine friend was snoring underneath one of the sewing tables. Thelma Lou was snoring on top of the other sewing table. They both looked serenely content. I gave Jed a quick pat, received a sleepy lick on my knee, and then I left, silently closing the door behind me.

  The green room was empty. The dressing rooms were empty. I checked my watch with the clock in the hallway.

  “Oh, hell.”

  It had died. I was at least forty minutes late for call.

  Mia Maya had presented me with cute gift bags that worked better than any wrapping paper and would additionally serve as cute carryalls for the presents, so I hurried back to my dressing room and stashed the gifts under my chair. At least I wouldn't have to lug Rafe's and Lida Rose's presents home tonight, then bring them in tomorrow with the good show gifts I had for the rest of the cast.

  I got into my first act costume and did my makeup in about five minutes, skipping the false eyelashes for now. I ran into the tiny room we were using for vocal warm-ups before shows and was greeted with a barrage of, “Where the hell have you been, Kiely? s” from Lida Rose, Daisy, and, surprisingly, by Rafe.

  He lookedI don't knowrelieved to see me, as though he'd been watching that clock and worrying.

  “Sorry. Sorry. I was out running errands and my watch stopped. Sorry. I will buy batteries tonight if some kind soul will drive me to an all-night store.”

  I squeezed next to Lindsay and Macy and joined in with the singing.

  Rafe managed to squeeze in next to me after the first set of scales. “Where were you? Don't give me this errand business. What kind of errands could you be engaged in an hour before final dress?”

  I snuck a look at Daisy and Lida Rose. They were listening to Cyrus trying to hit a high note that was more in soprano range and arguing that Billie had never meant for that note to be taken up an octave.

  “If you must know, Mr. Nosy, I was buying good- show gifts. Tomorrow's impossible for me. Lida Rose has managed to schedule my day from rising to theatre call with media appearances at all local news stations. This was my last chance.”

  That seemed to pacify him.

  He grinned. “Whatdja get? Huh? Huh?”

  I fluttered my lashes at him. “Well, never you mind, Mr. Nick Nefarious. Suffice to say, you'll get yours, Darlin’.”

  “That I will, Ms. Delight.”

  The look in his eye changed from teasing to daring. The memory of that quick kiss in the prop room the day I'd found the garnet surfaced in my mind. I knew the same memory was floating in his mind as well. And possibly a few other anatomical areas.

  Passionate glances during warm-up were not the best idea. I nudged him. “Rafe? You seemed overly concerned when I was late? Worried about Delilah cutting out on final dress?”

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “I was more worried that Delilah Delight wasn't going to make final dress. Lida Rose and I scoured the theatre looking for you. When we couldn't find you, she started moaning you'd probably met with an accident and it was all her fault for ever getting you down here.”

  “Good. She needs a guilt trip. Maybe if she has enough of them it'll teach her not to go telling outrageous stories all the time. So, you let her get to you?”

  “I did. I am ashamed. But not sorry. You seem to have a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and I couldn't help but wonder where that talent had taken you.”

  “Me? Me? You're the one with his butt sticking out of every damned set piece around here. You discovered Jason. You nearly got singed during the fire. You nearly landed on the Grand Piano twenty feet down in the pit. Either you're very accident prone or someone has it in for you.”

  For once he didn't scoff at me. He looked me straight in the eye. “I think someone has it in for both of us. I think someone is using the curse story for their own reasons to do away with Lance Lamar, Nick Nefarious, and Delilah Delight.”

  My mouth dropped open. Good position to begin to sing.

  “Okay, everyone. One last time through ‘Gamblers We’ for the guys and the ‘Bad Business’ number for everyone, then it's back to dressing rooms before ‘Places.’”

  Lida Rose waved her arms around. Rafe squeezed my hand, and then hurried back to his position with the guys. I stayed still and tried not to think about what he'd said.

  Ten minutes later we were done and back in our dressing rooms. I carefully applied my eyelashes and the remainder of my blush and lipstick and thrust out any thoughts of curses and accidents from my mind.

  The five-minute warning could be heard over the intercom the techies had somehow managed to get working again. I heard, “Places.” Final dress was about to begin.

  Chapter 26

  Rehearsal had
been finished for more than an hour. It had been a terrific final dress. Nothing had gone wrong. Not a false note from the orchestra, not a missed cue by an actor, not a follow spot highlighting the wrong singer during another's solo. I admit to being very superstitious when it comes to theatrical traditions. I don't whistle inside theatres (okay, fine, I've never been able to whistle anyway). If I'm in the vicinity of a theatre, including high school cafeterias, I say “the Scottish play” rather than the real name of Shakespeare's tragedy (for anyone wondering which one, it starts with thunder, lightning, and three witches muttering about trouble). Then there’s the big other tradition. If final dress is a disaster, opening night will be terrific. It only follows that the reverse is true.

  My fellow cast members were calling out goodbyes and “meet you at El Diablo's.” Normally I'm the life of the pre-show after-dress rehearsal party, but this particular night I didn't feel like going out. I didn't even want to go home. I gathered my belongings from the dressing room and my dog from the costume shop, and sank down onto the floor between the first row of seats and the orchestra pit, resting my legs over the new iron railing in a dancer's traditional “take five” pose.

  I closed my eyes and made a conscious effort to shut out every noise. The box office staff and techies were the only people left in the theatre and they were in the lobby and scene shop, respectively, so no sound filtered through. East Ellum was totally quiet. But I was seeking more than silence. I wanted peace. I needed to block out the sight of Jason Sharkey lying in his own blood amidst thousands of shards of glass and a weapon straight out of an old Cecil B. DeMille epic. I hadn't told anyone, but I still saw that image in front of me on a daily basis. I needed to banish it before I got onstage tomorrow night. I began to focus on my breathing. I conjured up cool blue lakes in mountain regions. I tried to imagine the ocean lapping onto a shore somewhere in New England. I tried every trick of yoga or theatre meditation I'd ever learned.

  But the only thing sticking in my head was the word “motives.” Reasons why Jason had not been the best beloved actor at East Ellum. There were plenty. Theo, Lindsay, and Rafe had tolerated his bigotry in silence. Ham was in love with Amber and angry with Jason for getting there first. Hank would naturally take up for his brother. Macy and Daisy might well have gotten tired of Jason's “from this girl to the next” routine. Macy's husband could have decided that he wasn't thrilled about their open marriage. Even the older cast had cause to dislike Jason Sharkey. He'd ignored Nathaniel because of his race. He'd hassled and tried to humiliate both Billie and Cyrus Boone. Fran and Shirley might have realized the actor was creating too much dissension. Thelma Lou hated the man on principle. Even Lida Rose might think a murder was a great way to carry on the curse. A ridiculous, immoral, nasty, and troublesome way, but one affording great publicity.

  Everyone had a motive to dislike. Were any of those motives enough to kill?

  I started feeling twitchy. I got up and began stretching. Jed followed me, begging me to play tug-of-war with one of his chew toys. One of us got a bit too enthusiastic, because the red-and-white- striped rag landed in the orchestra pit on a music stand. I figured I'd best dispose of the toy before some hapless musician was forced to touch the gnawed and damp toy to keep it from hindering the turning of pages.

  The pit was in down position, so I had to go backstage and use the other door leading from the kitchen to get in. I grabbed the toy, then shivered. The barest hint of a draft blew on top of my shoulders, now clad only in my leotard top and tank top for the walk home in the heat. I looked back at the door where I’d entered. I'd closed it tightly behind me. I looked around the pit. In the far corner was a prop harp. It had obviously been discarded decades ago. I'd never noticed before. I hadn't even known it was there. But the sensation of air was coming from that direction. I moved it and found a door right behind it. I immediately inched away. If that door led to anything under the theatre, forget it.

  I turned away. Then I heard the voice.

  “Please, Elias! Please, don't! Please let me have my life!”

  It was a female voice; it was coming from the tunnel.

  And it was followed by screams of intense pain. Screams I couldn't ignore.

  I pushed the door open and found myself in a tunnel. A dark tunnel. I quickly backed up into the orchestra pit again. I stood beside the prop harp for a moment. Then the screams started again. I should have hauled it out of the pit and called 911. But when I saw the flashlight on the conductor's stand I felt guilty. I had to see what was wrong and if I could help.

  I tested the flashlight, and a beam the wattage of a police searchlight discharged. I could see clear to my apartment with the thing. I breathed out and my shoulders resumed a position under my neck, rather than by my ears. If someone was in trouble, I couldn't use the excuse of the dark to turn away.

  I pushed the door again and aimed the flashlight down the tunnel. Nothing. Nothing on the walls, nothing on the ceiling or the floor. No one yelling or moaning. I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to convince myself that I wouldn't be trapped forever under the theatre, and then I stepped farther inside. About a hundred yards down the tunnel from the orchestra pit was a round room. To my right was a door; to my left were shelves that seemed attached to the wall. Below them on the floor was a mass of rubble that stretched all the way across the room in piles at least six feet high. It appeared that a cave-in had sealed this end of the hall. There was no way of knowing when.

  I began to move toward the shelves, which were laden with boxes and what looked like old knick-knacks. More old props perhaps. Maybe this was where the rest of the hundred-year-old Bad Business production pieces had ended up? I aimed the light in that direction and was about to explore the goodies when I tripped over one of the bricks in the middle of the floor.

  The flashlight flew out my out hands as I tried to save myself from taking a direct header into a shelf. As I crashed, I heard it crash, tinkle, and roll away from me. I quickly crawled across the floor trying to grab it. The light went out.

  I was in total darkness. I'm not talking a dim light. I'm talking any light. Total, absolute darkness. For any human who has even a trace of claustrophobia the only thing that’s worse than being trapped in a tunnel below anywhere, is being trapped and unable to see a thng. I lay on the floor listening to my ragged breathing. I saw nothing. At least when I'd been shut inside the pantry at Fran's there'd been a nice steady source of electricity and I’d known on some level there were humans fairly near by.

  I couldn't see and I couldn't hear, except for my heart beating and fighting to break out of my chest. A scuffling reached my ears through the fog of fear. Yes! Life! I thanked whatever guardian angel had my name on their job list for the week and yelled, “Hey! Whoever’s out there. It's Kiely! I'm in the room where the rubble is. Yoo-hoo! Hey! My flashlight broke and I'm in the dark. Need some help here. Hellooo!”

  No answer. Not even an echo of my own oo's. I'd addressed my pleas to a rodent as scared as I.

  My skin prickled as my breathing grew louder. I reached out my arm to see if I could touch one of the shelves and get my bearings. It was like extending into a black hole of space. I felt completely disoriented. My arm didn't seem to belong to me. I crawled a few inches to where I thought the shelves should be. Nothing. I could have been as close as a foot away or as much as a yard.

  Sweat was now racing down my forehead, front, and back. I started to rip every shred of clothing I had off my body. I did remove my Grand Hotel tank shirt but felt awkward and unbalanced as I did so. All the blood in my body had rushed to my head. No rational thoughts penetrated. I would have knocked my head against the wall to render myself unconscious but I couldn't find a wall close by. My heart, my breath, and soon my sobs were sounding louder and coming in faster. I was screaming; yet I couldn't hear myself.

  Somewhere between panic and despair, I forced myself to calm down. Then inspiration hit. A stupid inspiration, but better than trying to knock myself out.
I would sing every song from The Music Man I could think of. The box office people might still be in the theatre. Maybe someone would hear me. Or maybe Lida Rose would use her so-called extrasensory perceptive skills from White Rock Lake, know I was singing about her, and come get me the hell out of here.

  I began inching toward any direction not blocked by stones and concrete, trying to find an exit. The hallway back to the pit had to be somewhere close by. I'd seen one other door in this room that hadn't been blocked by rubble before the lights had been extinguished. I stayed on my hands and knees and blindly crawled.

  “Ouch! Shit!”

  My knees were crunching down on the sharp stones and cracked bricks from what I assumed was that caved-in ceiling. I was going to end up with some terrific cuts and bruises. Assuming I made it out. I carefully avoided what seemed to be a very large chunk of concrete but put my hand down on something sharp. I ran my fingers over it. It felt like a pin, or perhaps a brooch. Whatever it was, it had punctured a small hole in my palm. I continued to hold it in my hand, needing something real to cling to. There was an object beside that pin. It felt solid, yet somehow wrong. I moved my hand over the hard surface. And screamed until the sound of my own terror frightened me more than what was under my hand.

  Bones. Bones and fabric. Not rodent bones, unless some demented phantom of the theatre had once kept a rat for a pet and clothed it. I instinctively knew that what was beside me had once been a person. Female. I felt the sadness again. And heard the whisper of her voice, crying, “Please Elias. Please, don't. Let me have my life.” Terror once more overtook me. Fear and a complete lack of fresh air. Not a great combination.

  I began sobbing, praying, and yelling. That took up ten minutes. Then I got angry. It was time to get out. Now.

  I inched forward again. Those inches turned to perhaps three feet. I extended my hand down to see if I could feel a door. Instead, I felt a space that had an airy quality to it.

  “Thank God. Air. I'll give it a shot.”