Dannel grabbed another slice of pizza. “What about the Evelyn Lavelle specifically? And search in the last six months? Ian’s been working at the theatre on his project for a little longer than that. We know how gossip travels in the community. Someone has to have talked about it.”
And they had.
It didn’t require much finessing to find results from his search. Several theatre employees, cast, and visitors to the Evelyn Lavelle had posted on social media about their experiences. Hearing voices, seeing strange lights, or merely having the lights flickering. One person had gotten locked in one of the dressing rooms.
“Which dressing room?”
“The one supposedly used by Evelyn Lavelle, according to theatre lore.” Osian twisted his laptop around to show him one of the videos of lights flickering. “The one where she died.”
“Just looks like someone’s playing with the circuit breaker.” Dannel tended to be highly suspicious of anything claiming to be paranormal. Osian had a more open mind. “Think Ian could get us backstage to poke around?”
“What about the ghost light?” Osian loved teasing Dannel about all things superstition. His literal way of thinking tended to pick apart anything paranormal. “Maybe it’s the spirits of past actors.”
Ghost lights.
There was a belief in the theatre community that the spirits of former performers lingered behind on stage. Superstition led to most companies leaving a light on to guide them. Or to appease them, depending on who one asked.
“Ossie.” Dannel rubbed his fingers roughly across his head, glowering at Osian, who grinned unrepentantly. “Just because they leave a light on, doesn’t mean ghosts are actually there.”
The superstition of the ghost light had always intrigued Osian. He knew, practically speaking, it probably evolved for safety reasons, allowing people to walk through a darkened theatre without injuring themselves. It was unlikely spirits cursed productions if they weren’t appeased.
It was like most verbal histories. Somewhere along the line, the light left on stage had transformed into something mystically mysterious. The theatre did enjoy such things, after all.
“Doesn’t the Palace keep two seats for any ghosts who attend performances?” Osian had read up on a number of London theatre ghostly superstitions.
“I haven’t a clue.” Dannel had not read anything on the paranormal secrets of stage. “Why?”
“If we do have someone faking a ghostly apparition at the Evelyn Lavelle, maybe they’re trying to draw attention to Ian’s play?”
“Or drawing attention away from the murder?” Dannel countered.
“True. Why don’t we visit the theatre in the morning? After we get this sodding podcast episode up— Wait, don’t you have a cheese shield to finish?” Osian had forgotten about the outstanding commission. “Do you need a hand?”
They often worked together on the painting aspect of cosplay. Dannel was far more gifted with fabrication than he. Osian didn’t even pretend to have any skills with manipulating fabric and leather.
He did, however, have the patience required to glue googly eyes to armour when needed, an odd cosplay hack that made him laugh every time. They’d spray painted the round plastic bits, transforming them into perfect little rivets.
“So, I’ll head to the theatre tomorrow morning while you work on the Alistair shield. We can have lunch, then try to track down Ms Lewis.” Osian had quite a few questions for the woman. “Maybe Ian can help us with where she might be.”
“Or confuse the situation further.”
“He wouldn’t be Ian if a few dramatics weren’t thrown into the situation.” Osian adored their older neighbour. He knew, at times, Dannel struggled to deal with the high level of enthusiastic energy Ian had. “We should definitely avoid the detectives.”
Haider’s going to read us the riot act if he finds out we’re investigating.
“You’re scared of Haider.”
“Obi-Khan might arrest me again.”
“Pretty sure he didn’t actually arrest you the first time.” Dannel, of course, had to throw logic into the conversation. “We’ll be fine.”
Six
Dannel
The day had not gone to plan by any stretch of the imagination. Dannel had gotten five minutes to work on his commission. Osian had left early with Ian, walking to the theatre together; he’d taken an hour to focus his mind.
And then the doorbell had rung.
Dannel answered the door wearing his ratty T-shirt and ripped jeans. He wore them to paint since ruining them didn’t matter. “Myron.”
“Son.” His father stood side by side with Chief Wilson, Dannel’s former boss at the fire station. “Can we chat with you?”
No.
Is no appropriate?
No should be appropriate.
“I’m busy with cheese.” Dannel held up the glue in his hand. “Did you bring any cake?”
“Cake?” Myron stared at the pot of glue.
Chief Wilson pulled a Tupperware container out from behind his back. “My Martha missed you at the station supper this past weekend. She always appreciates how quiet you are compared to the riot of the other rabble. Insisted I bring you some of her sticky toffee apple and ginger cake.”
“Cake.” Dannel eyed the container suspiciously. He sighed and stepped back, allowing them inside the flat. “I don’t do drugs.”
“What the hell?” Myron stumbled over the edge of the carpet, obviously surprised by Dannel’s statement. “Drugs? Why do you think we’re here?”
“This is an intervention, right?” Dannel had watched an American show on the telly all about them. They always seemed to start with family members confronting someone. “What are you two doing together?”
“I wanted to talk,” Myron admitted uncomfortably. “Your mum suggested your former chief might work as a mediator. Our conversations always go off the rails.”
“Mum?” Dannel stared down at the Tupperware container in his hands. He didn’t want to deal with Myron even with the filter of Fire Chief Harry Wilson. “So, indigestion is guaranteed.”
It didn’t surprise Dannel that his mum had suggested they talk. She’d long wanted to repair the relationship between father and son. It was hard to reconcile when stubbornness and miscommunication had been their foundation.
Make tea.
People always make tea when guests come over in movies.
I’m not sharing the cake. Do I have to share it? It’s mine.
“Tea?” Dannel didn’t wait for a response. He went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. “Or coffee?”
“Why don’t we sit down, son?” Myron motioned toward the kitchen table. “We can chat without tea.”
I don’t want to have this conversation.
As a kid, Dannel hadn’t grasped how adults might grow apart or fall out of love. He’d seen his dad abandoning his mum, not two people deciding to be happy separate instead of miserable together. His relationship with Myron hadn’t completely recovered.
And Myron’s vocal distaste for Osian and his constant poking at Dannel to step outside of his comfort zone hadn’t helped matters.
“Coffee’s fine. I’ve a long evening at the station ahead of me.” Chief Wilson helped break the silence. “Are you going to share the cake?”
Dannel grabbed a tin from the counter to set on the table. “Biscuits.”
“I see where we rate.”
Three coffees and a fair portion of the biscuits hadn’t eased the tension in the room. Dannel had a pile of crumbled Bourbons in front of him. He’d yet to consume one.
Why doesn’t he just get to the point? Why do non-autistics always have to dance around a subject? It’s so much simpler to be direct.
“For someone anxious to talk to me, you’ve said sod all so far.” Dannel had a feeling his voice had risen louder than he’d wanted based on the raised eyebrows from his old fire chief. He missed Osian. Why had they decided to ambush him when Osian was out? “What
did you want?”
“I never know how to talk to you.” Myron shoved his mug away from him.
“You just did.” Dannel thought Myron had been relatively free in his ability to say what he wanted to his son. “A whole sentence. I heard you.”
“Don’t be a smart arse.”
“I’m not.” Dannel scraped the mountain of crumbs into his coffee mug. “How do you not know how to talk when you’re steadily chatting up a storm while I crush Bourbons onto the table?”
“I want us to have the father-son relationship we should’ve all along,” Myron insisted.
Dannel moved away from the table over to the sink. He set the mug down and tried to gather his thoughts. “You’re not sick, are you? Why push now? We’ve been making progress. Talking without me slamming the door in your face. Why the sudden need for an intervention or mediation or whatever you’re calling this?”
“I’m not sick.”
Dannel waited while Myron continued staring down at his coffee mug. “I’m not adept at reading between the things. Something you’d know if you’d ever bothered to listen to me instead of talking at me or over me. I can’t have this conversation with you.”
“Why don’t we come back when your Osian is here?” Chief Wilson showed how much better he knew Dannel compared to his own father. “Enjoy the cake. We’ll text you to set up a meeting. Probably wiser than showing up unexpected.”
Probably?
Definitely.
Don’t be rude. They’re going to leave. Don’t be rude. I can blast whatever cast album I want once they’re gone.
Despite Myron’s protest, Chief Wilson practically strong-armed the man out of the flat. Dannel closed the door behind them, locking it and resting his head against hardwood with a tired groan. What the hell was even the point of their showing up?
Nothing.
His drive to be productive vanished, Dannel grabbed a slice of cake and a bottle of beer from the fridge. Why bother? The rest of the commission could wait; his energy had evaporated on him.
Right.
This isn’t helping me at all.
Time to go for a workout.
After changing into his running gear, Dannel slid his trainers on and shoved in his earbuds. He ran the few blocks over to his favourite gym, one frequented by many of the firefighters who he’d worked with.
Please don’t talk to me.
Please don’t talk to me.
Please don’t talk to me.
The pleasant young lad staffing the front desk waved him through with a smile. Earbuds were the greatest invention for anyone wanting to avoid conversation and not seem anti-social. Dannel managed to vent his frustration at everything by pummelling a punching bag and running his angst out on the treadmill.
An hour and a half made a vast improvement in his mood. He returned home in a better frame of mind, ready to at least attempt to craft. Costumes weren’t going to make themselves.
Next time, I’m not answering the sodding door unless it’s a food delivery I’ve ordered.
Seven
Osian
“Abandoned. Thrown away in the prime of my youth. Why are you laughing?” Ian draped himself against the ticket counter in the theatre lobby. “You’re leaving me alone.”
Osian simply raised his eyebrows, watching Ian’s dramatics. “You asked me to poke around backstage since the police are gone. So, I’m going to head back there now.”
“But who will bask in the glow of my brilliance?” Ian chuckled when Osian shook his head. “You’ve no sense of the dramatic.”
“And you’ve got too much of it.” Osian left Ian to sputter indignantly, making his way down the narrow passage into the guts of the building. He heard an odd sound in the distance beyond the main dressing rooms. “Don’t get distracted. One place at a time.”
With no evidence of a ghost in the hallway, whether real or pretend, Osian continued on to Birdie’s costume design sanctuary. Police tape ran across the frame. He eased the door open and ducked underneath it.
The scent of bleach hit him almost immediately. Someone had been cleaning. I wonder if Haider’s aware his crime scene has been compromised. Or did the police release the scene back to the theatre?
I’ll text him later, much later, when he can’t ask me pointed questions about why I want to know.
Or I could ask Ian.
With his first cursory glance, Osian thought the room looked like any theatre designer’s sewing space. Completed costumes and works-in-progress littered the room, some hanging from cloth hangers on multiple racks. For a stabbing, there was no blood spatter to be seen on the fabric.
Osian knelt beside one of the more glamorous gowns for the show. He spotted several green spots on the silk. “What are you?”
Is that ink?
Why is ink splattered on the costume? Birdie surely would’ve noticed. She was nothing if not meticulous about her artistry.
Using his phone to snap a few photos, Osian continued on with his inspection. He tried not to touch anything. The police were probably finished but no need to leave his fingerprints all over the place.
He’d learnt his lesson in the past month or so. Though, not enough, obviously, to keep himself from playing detective. A slamming door jolted him out of his inspection of Birdie’s desk.
“What the—” Osian spun around to find the door had been pulled shut. He wandered over and tested the handle, only to find it impossible to open. “I do not believe in ghosts.”
Yanking with all his strength, Osian fell on the floor when the door swung open. He jumped to his feet, rushing into the empty hallway. Nothing. What on earth? A low, scratchy laugh in the distance sent shivers up his spine.
Right. No more investigating on my own. Just in case ghosts do exist.
Well, maybe a little investigating.
Osian crept down the passageway, peering around the corner and into the stairwell. Someone’s taking the mickey. There can’t be an actual ghost, can there?
Retracing his steps to Birdie’s sewing room; Osian continued his inspection of her desk. The police had likely removed anything pertinent to the murder. He hoped.
Haider was a thorough detective.
“Now, you’re interesting.” Osian spotted bottles of ink lined along the wall at the back of the desk. “Blue, black, red. No green. And no giant arrow pointing to a clue with a flashing neon sign of the killer’s name. Rude. And inconvenient.”
After making sure to seal the door without dislodging the caution tape, Osian went out into the theatre where Ian was running his rehearsals. Murder hadn’t put a stop on the show. Ticket sales had gone up as predicted.
Londoners. We can be a macabre bunch when we want.
“Hello, darling. Finished poking around?”
“Yes. I’ve seen what I can for now, and I wouldn’t want to get in anyone’s way.” Osian leaned in to whisper to Ian to avoid disturbing the rehearsal. “I’ll be back tomorrow with Dannel, hopefully. Two heads are better than one.”
“I’ve always thought so.”
“Ian.” Osian ignored the salacious grin from the man and said his goodbyes.
Maybe I can surprise Dannel with an early tea.
Stopping by Meatliquor, Osian picked up onion rings, two cheeseburgers, and two of their biscoff shakes. Nothing said “I love you” like a greasy heart attack in a takeaway container. He was proud of himself for not grabbing deep-fried mac’n’cheese or more chicken wings than he could carry.
I am the epitome of restraint.
And a terrible liar.
“Hello, duckie.”
Osian nodded to Adelle, who had her jaunty Thames on his leash. “Off for his afternoon walk, are you?”
“We are. Did Dannel’s visit with his dad go well?” Adelle and Stanley had lived in the building for ages. They remembered back when Osian and Dannel were young lads living across the hall from one another. “We haven’t seen Myron in ages. It’s always a pleasant surprise.”
Is
it?
Poor Dannel, left alone to deal with Myron.
“I’m sure it went well.” Osian wasn’t completely confident of the opposite. He crouched down to pat Thames on the head, resisting his urge to rush upstairs. No need to be rude. “You two enjoy your walk. It’s a lovely summer day.”
“You take good care of your young man, duckie.” Adelle patted him on the shoulder. “Go on, up to your Dannel.”
Watching her meander down the pavement with Thames by her side, Osian couldn’t help thinking he’d gotten so lucky. Both Dannel and he had been surrounded by supportive friends, family, and neighbours throughout their lives. Not idyllic; nothing in the real world could ever be perfectly pastoral perfection.
And certainly not in London.
It had, however, been almost magical.
Osian opened the front door, jogged up the stairs, and made his way into their flat. He slowed his step when he realised the curtains were pulled shut and all the lights had been turned out except for the glow of the telly. “Dannel?”
Silence.
Finding Dannel fast asleep on the couch, Osian left him to rest. Sometimes, nothing helped more than a nap. And cake. He spotted a Tupperware container on the coffee table.
At least we have the cake covered.
Of course, when do we ever not have cake handled.
Priorities.
Gathering up the mugs from the table, Osian set the food to one side and washed up the few dishes in the sink. He carried a stack of folded towels down the hall into the bedroom, checking on the drying shield. Dannel had finished up the paint and begun wrapping up the final embellishments.
Right.
Okay.
What do we need? Pyjamas, soft blankets, and comfort food.
“Ossie?”
Osian finished changing and grabbed Dannel’s pyjamas and two blankets. He returned to the living room to find his boyfriend had followed his nose into the kitchen. “Good nap?”
Dannel shrugged.
Still waking up.
I can work with that.
“Here’s your pj’s.” He held them out for Dannel. “We’ll do a cosy video game day. Comfort food, lights down, blankets, and whatever game you want. The perfect way to wash the angst away.”
Ghost Light Killer Page 4
