Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “I wonder what kind of vitamin supplements she takes?” I mused.

  Lida Rose interrupted my ridiculous question with something more serious. “What about Don’s murder?”

  Rafe nodded. “Shirley was the one who put the bullets in Cyrus's gun fifty years ago. Same story as her father. Shirley supposedly loved Don. Who, by all accounts, really did love Noemi Trujillo. Apparently Noemi was pregnant with Don's child and made the mistake of confiding in our sweet Shirley. Who then persuaded her to leave town. At least that’s what she said. Noemi was alive last time Shirley saw her.”

  There was quiet for a moment until Lida Rose spat, “I'm so glad she wasn't able to fire that gun. And that you and Rafe are okay.”

  Rafe hugged her. “Thank you.” He turned back to me. “Neil was responsible for one other particular little accident. Which fortunately didn't end up in death. You didn't hear this since you were crying in the corner.”

  I raised both my brows at him. “Sorry. I don't deal well with getting shot at. So? What accident?”

  “My cousin. Your favorite chef. Joe Hernandez.”

  I sat up. “I knew it.”

  “Nasty Neil stole that dark-colored sedan you're so fond of, and ran Joe down that night. Ditched the car over in Plano in some junk yard.”

  “Reason being?”

  “Joe had those velvet paintings on the wall at El Diablo's. Remember?”

  I nodded.

  “The salesgirl at Mia Maya’s sold them, not knowing there were a few pre-Colombian gems embedded throughout.” He laughed. “Scattered throughout Elvis's white jacket. Looked like rhinestones. Smart.”

  I plopped my back up against the railing. “Talk about nervy. And useless. The accident, I mean. Joe never would have noticed.” I lifted my glass toward Lida Rose. “More, please. Did I tell you what she said as she was being led off in handcuffs?”

  Lida Rose perked up as she poured. “Yes? Yes?”

  “To quote Miss Shirley, ‘I'm tired. I want to go to the opening night party. I bought a new dress for it. It's pink.’”

  “Holy shit. Mad as the proverbial hatter.”

  I sighed and looked up at Rafe. “I wonder what did happen to Noemi Trujillo? If Shirley really didn't kill her.”

  A new voice called out from onstage. We looked up. Cyrus and Billie Boone were crossing over to the steps leading into the audience. Cyrus was grinning as though he'd won the lottery and waving something in the air. “I believe I can supply the answer. Pop the cork on a new bottle and start pouring.”

  “Cyrus?”

  The couple made themselves comfortable in the seats across from us. Cyrus handed Rafe what turned out to be an old Playbill program.

  “Take a look.”

  Rafe, Lida Rose, and I all peered down at a black-and-white cover photo of a ballerina costumed in swan attire.

  Rafe’s left brow shot up but he handed the photo back to Cyrus. “So? It's my mother. From before I was born. We've got an eight-by-ten framed in her studio here at my parents’ home. She did Swan Lake with New York City Ballet. She was barely seventeen at the time.”

  Cyrus smiled. “I know. I went backstage to tell her how great she was. Billie keeps every program from every show we've ever seen.”

  Rafe, Lida Rose, and I all waited. Nice to know Billie was a memorabilia addict, but there had to be a clincher.

  Billie took over for her chuckling husband. “We've been trying to figure out where we'd seen Rafe before. I was going through my old programs, found this, and remembered he'd said Angelique Mauro is his mother. And that she'd been adopted.”

  Rafe frowned. “And?”

  Cyrus stopped chuckling. “We heard Shirley Kincaid bragging about her murders and various shenanigans. She claimed Noemi had been pregnant with Don's child and she'd forced her to leave town.”

  Billie handed us a different program. It looked older. “This one was never distributed. We made others after Noemi disappeared. But take a look.”

  I gasped like our sappy melodrama heroine. The Bad Business cast from fifty years ago stood in posed positions in front of the Brazos Belle anchor. A softer-looking Fran, a handsome Nathaniel, a bubbly, curly-haired Shirley. Two gentlemen of differing heights I'd never had the chance to meet. The ranchers, I supposed. Standing between Cyrus Boone and Don Mueller was a woman who could have been Angelique Mauro's twin.

  Rafe grabbed the program. “This can't be my mother. She's barely fifty.”

  Cyrus sighed. “For a smart boy, you're really dense. That, Mr. Montez, is Noemi Trujillo. Look at her. Then look at Don. And if you still don't get it, look in a mirror. You're their grandson.”

  I could see it. The long lashes, the black hair. A carriage and grace that screamed Spanish royalty from Noemi, passed down through Angelique.

  But Rafe had something extra. A sparkle in those unique dark blue eyes and the funny quirk to the mouth. Plus, an expression I'd seen only in shadows, waving to me from the balcony as I danced on stage.

  I grinned. “Hot damn! I knew there was a reason Don and I got along so well. He's so much like you. The impish tilt to the mouth. The way the villain's stovepipe hat sits on your head. Even the sense of humor.”

  As if he'd been waiting for a cue, Don Mueller appeared in the chair next to his grandson.

  I couldn't help but stare. The resemblance was clear once one knew to look for it.

  Don smiled at me, then grabbed a huge handful of popcorn from the ever-present bag. I smiled back.

  “Hey, Don.”

  The necks that whipped around on hearing that innocent greeting would need chiropractic work for weeks.

  Rafe groaned. “Kiely. Don't start that.”

  “I didn't. Don did. He's here. I swear. Can't you see him?”

  His left eyebrow rose. Simultaneously, so did Don's. Damn. Ambidextrous movable brows from them both. Must be a genetic trait.

  Rafe frowned, then let loose with a baritone laugh that sounded exactly like his grandfather's. “No. I don't see him and that's not fair. He's my grandfather and if anyone should be able to it's me. I mean I. I mean. Oh, forget it. I don't know what I'm saying. People are telling me I have a ghost for a grandfather and my grandmother is MIA somewhere in New York. And Kiely Davlin is over here flirting with the former.” Rafe cautiously checked the area around me. “Precisely where is he supposed to be?”

  “He's currently snarfing down popcorn. Laughing and very happy. Whether you want to believe it or not, Rafe Montez, Don did save our lives tonight. First by warning me that the bullets were real, then by grabbing that gun from Shirley.”

  Rafe scowled again. “Nuts. You're nuts. Shirley dropped the gun. And you had a really good instinct that told you about the live ammunition. All the rest you imagined, my loony Irish love.”

  Lida Rose squealed as Cyrus and Billie shifted their eyes to her, then to Rafe, then to me. “I knew it! I knew it! For once my matchmaking worked.”

  The eyes shifted back to Lida Rose. I felt like I was watching a manic Ping-Pong match.

  “Don't go there, Madam.”

  Her tone turned serene and confident. “Honey, I'm already there.”

  I glanced at Rafe. He absently sniffed, then stuck his hand into the invisible (to him) bag of popcorn Don held. He pulled out a fistful, and then turned as pale as a conquistadorian hero could get.

  He moaned. “I'm going insane. Where did this come from?”

  “Him. Don. Loves popcorn.”

  Rafe made no response. He stared at the chair, then at the popcorn. He shrugged, raised his right brow, then took a bite and crunched.

  Don slowly rose from the chair. When he stood, so did Rafe. Their movements were identical.

  I let my eyes follow Don as he strolled down the aisle toward the back of the theatre. When Don reached the double doors under the balcony, he turned and waved. I waved back. He tipped his hat to me.

  I called out, “Thank you!”

  Don winked. Then he vanished. My eyes cont
inued to stare into the vacant space. I teared up a little. “I don't think he'll be haunting East Ellum anymore.”

  I turned back to Rafe and Lida Rose. “Of course, I may be wrong.”

  Lida Rose had stayed quiet for the last few minutes. I was about to ask her where her inventive, sneaky mind had gone, when she turned to me with a distinct gleam in her eye. I stiffened, then closed my eyes as she spoke four little words.

  “Kiely! This is perfect! You know, I hate to admit this, but Shirley's antics really resulted in a much better ending than the original for Bad Business. Such exciting action. I wonder if we could restage it? Do you remember your dance steps?”

  I nearly threw my glass at her but decided simply to drink the contents instead. The woman was soused. Blotto. She'd forget soon enough.

  Then again . . . Lida Rose. Trouble. The words go together like train and wreck. Like panic and stricken. Like . . .

  I needed popcorn.

  END

  In loving memory of Bob Schmidt, the best villain I ever knew.

  About the Author:

  Flo Fitzpatrick spent her first years traveling across oceans and countries as an Army brat. She has very little memory of living in a chateau outside of Orléans, France but is certain the Gothic nature of the castle inspired her to write. After earning degrees in dance and theatre Flo shuttled from Texas to New York City, performing, choreographing and teaching. She still loves both states for spawning wacky and diverse characters who tweak her writer’s imagination. Flo’s website is www.flofitzpatrick.com

  Flo’s Books:

  Mystery/ Romance/Paranormal

  It’s a Marvelous Night for a Moondance

  Haunting Melody

  Scarecrow’s Dream

  Abby Fouchet Mysteries

  Blackout Over Broadway (formerly Sweet Dreams)

  Aria in Ice

  Cold Wind to Valhalla

  Mystery

  Serenade to a Cuckoo

  Sweet Cream Ladies, Ltd.

  Pick Up the Pieces

  Romance/Romantic Suspense

  Legacy of Silence

  Hot Stuff

  Short Stories

  Four for Texas