by Cynthia Kuhn
She lifted the megaphone to her mouth and shouted, “And we must not anger our resident ghost!”
Chapter 2
Jean Claude and I hurried across “the green,” a lovely expanse of grass around which the campus buildings circled, toward Randsworth Hall. The largest of the bunch, Randsworth presided formidably over campus as did the administrators it housed. It was surrounded by fallen orange and yellow leaves, creating a postcard-perfect autumn scene. As we approached, I pointed out my favorite gargoyles on the roof—one of the more whimsical aspects of Stonedale architecture. He said they were very nice but not in the same league as those at Notre Dame, bien sûr.
Fair enough.
Inside, we crossed the polished floors to the elevator that whisked us to the uppermost level. We burst into the office, hoping the chancellor’s executive assistant would let us see him, though we knew it was unlikely. One does not simply pop in on the chancellor.
The woman with the steel-gray bun and tweed blazer was new—no one lasted long in that high-pressure position—and the nameplate on her tidy desk identified her as “Pearl Malden.” She listened to our pleas without comment, only moving once to set her Montblanc pen carefully down on the brown leather blotter in front of her. When she opened her pinched mouth to refuse us, I placed both of my hands on her desk and looked directly through the thick lenses of her glasses.
“Pearl, could you please at least try to see if he’ll speak to us?”
“He’s terribly busy, as you can imagine. And it’s Friday afternoon,” she said primly, as if that were the most precious time of the week. She looked pointedly at her watch.
“Yes, but this is an emergency. We’re scheduled to open our play in three weeks, and a crowd of people showed up today to picket us at the Opera House. Please tell him that we’ll only take up a minute of his time.”
“I’ll make the request.” Pearl pushed back her rolling chair and slipped inside the doors of the chancellor’s inner sanctum.
Jean Claude and I remained where we were. He twisted the script into a roll and tapped his leg with it repeatedly. I contemplated the office, noting the sense of luxury it evoked. The carefully curated art and elegant furniture screamed money, exactly what you’d expect from the office of the most powerful person at this private university.
It wasn’t exactly welcoming. Then again, neither was the chancellor.
Jean Claude could also come across as stern and impatient, and there were times that those descriptors certainly fit, but after having spent several months with him, I had seen his generous side. He went out of his way to help students struggling with lines after rehearsal. He regularly brought pastries and coffee for the company. He’d even contributed half of the money for the costumes himself, after swearing me to secrecy, when he learned that our budget was slimmer than the chance of our having a hit on our hands.
The double doors swept open simultaneously, and Chancellor Trawley Wellington strode toward us. He was about the same height as Jean Claude—both were over six feet—but that’s where the similarities ended. The director was solid, scruffy, and glowering; the chancellor was trim, neat, and inscrutable.
At least until the chancellor turned toward me and assumed a look I knew well. It was the what-have-you-done-now special. He ran a hand through his silver hair and waited for me to speak.
“Hello Chancellor,” I said. “Thank you very much for talking with us. We know you’re extremely busy.”
My proactive gratitude seemed to counter the presumed audacity of the interruption somewhat; he reduced the severity of his expression, pushed up his glasses and clasped his hands—the very picture of a patient administrator. “Hello, professors. What can I do for you?”
We filled him in on the events over at the Opera House.
“They said that even though the university owns the building, we need to check with them. That can’t be right, can it?”
He smoothed his silk paisley tie as he spoke. “Ever since we were given the theater in 1991, they’ve been insisting that we work with them in their efforts to preserve the place. We finally established a new permissions procedure at their request a while back—it’s not a legally binding arrangement, but it offered a good publicity opportunity.”
He was big on good publicity, I knew from past experiences.
“We simply agreed to fill out the paperwork they’ve provided and”—he used air quotes—“allow them to give us the green light. It doesn’t technically mean anything, and it’s been a way to keep our association civil more than anything else. I take it Clara Worthingham was leading things?” He chuckled. “You’ll find that she is quite tenacious when she sets her mind to something.”
“Was the paperwork not filled out this time? Could we do it now?”
“The Theater department takes care of that in the rare instances we stage something there. We haven’t had many performances at the Opera House since we have our own venue on campus. A few I could count on one hand in the past decade perhaps. We were letting the community theater rent it, but their budget dried up—a financial situation urged along, I might add, by the Worthinghams.”
“What do you mean?” I was getting lost in the details.
“The Historical Society has always been dedicated to preserving the Opera House, but recently, they seem to have upped their game. They didn’t want the community theater in the building, is the long and short of it, so they cut off their money.”
I must have looked confused because the chancellor sighed, then began to speak slowly, as if we were small children.
“Clara is distantly related to the mayor of Stonedale, and word is that the Worthinghams pressed him to”—out came the air quotes again—“redirect, let us say, the funding that paid for the community theater expenses, beginning with the artistic director. Therefore, in the past five years or so, there have not been any productions staged at the Opera House at all.”
Jean Claude and I exchanged glances. I willed him to say something, but he remained silent.
The chancellor addressed Pearl. “Please call the Theater department chair and see what has been done with the paperwork.”
As she picked up the phone, he continued. “But if Clara says it wasn’t filed, then it wasn’t. She has an eagle eye for the process, I can assure you.”
“Would you be able to speak with her on our behalf?” I threw that one out there as a Hail Mary pass.
He looked as taken aback as I’d expected him to.
Jean Claude finally spoke up. “Chancellor, I appreciate any assistance you could provide to us. This is a very important, even significant, play—”
I thought that might be an overstatement, but I kept my opinion to myself.
“—and to cancel it at this late date would surely cause problems for many people. Especially the students.”
The chancellor smiled at him. “I will take it under advisement. Let’s discuss future actions tomorrow night.”
Jean Claude’s eyebrows shot up. “What is happening tomorrow night?”
Now the chancellor’s eyebrows shot up too. In disbelief. “The reception we’re hosting in your honor?”
Awkward.
I didn’t know how Jean Claude could have forgotten. There had been email invitations streaming into Stonedale University in-boxes for weeks—faculty members were all abuzz about meeting the famous director in person.
I could hear Pearl saying goodbye to someone on the phone.
We all turned to face her.
She referred to her notepad. “Clara already called him and said that since production has begun without permission, they’re going to picket every single day until the play is closed for good.”
The chancellor frowned. “Did he say anything else?”
Pearl paused. “Yes. He said he’d send the paperwork over to her, but he didn’t know if would make a diff
erence since Clara is,” she scanned her notes and winced, “as stubborn as a dandelion in springtime.”
The chancellor smoothed his tie again. “That’s an accurate assessment.”
“Do you think you could call her now?” I couldn’t help asking.
“I don’t think that’s going to accomplish anything today.” He took a step backwards to signal the end of our discussion.
I remembered Clara’s parting words. “One more thing please, Chancellor. Is there anything you can tell us about a ghost at the Opera House?”
He froze, a smile playing over his lips. “Clara brought that up, did she?”
“What is she talking about?”
“It’s just an old legend. Pay no mind.”
Easier said than done.
As we walked away from Randsworth Hall, Jean Claude vented. First, he raged about the protestors. Then he fumed about the university (a) dropping the ball and (b) acting like their hands were tied and (c) expecting him to show up like a trained monkey and dance for the people.
I wondered where some of that bottled-up fury was when we were speaking to the chancellor. It might have done some good. As a visiting professor, Jean Claude could afford to show his emotions—he was leaving at the end of the semester, after all. I, on the other hand, had a few years to go until I went up for tenure, and I couldn’t risk taking on the most important person at the university.
On purpose at least.
Then again, I felt compelled to do whatever was necessary to see that Puzzled went forward as planned. The students had worked very hard on the production, and despite my reservations about the script, I wasn’t about to let anyone deprive the cast of a chance to perform if I could help it.
Jean Claude kicked at some stray leaves. “Your chancellor means to get his money’s worth from my presence.”
“I hear you. The reception, at least, is intended to honor you. People are very excited to meet you.”
He rolled his eyes. “More performing on demand.” After a beat, he went on, somewhat subdued. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, you understand. The work I’ll be doing here will be of genuine value—it’s just that although I’ve been to the library a few times, I haven’t been able to immerse myself yet the way I need to.”
It must be frustrating to come all the way to America to do specific work and be near the research files you need but unable to get to them because your schedule has been packed solid by the hosting institution. “Will you be able to focus on it after the play closes, I hope?”
“Yes,” he said. “And I will simply move in to the library then. Please visit and bring wine. A lot of wine.”
I laughed and said I’d do my best.
“By the way, Lila, I’m grateful for the work you’ve been doing. I’m promoting you to assistant director.”
That took me by surprise. He wasn’t one to dole out the praise.
“That’s very kind of you, but—”
He raised his palm to end any debate. “I insist.”
“Thank you.” It certainly wouldn’t hurt to add a new title to my curriculum vitae.
We passed the fountain at the center of the green, featuring a statue of the university founder Jeremiah Randsworth forever clutching a book in one hand and a rifle in the other. Jean Claude gave the statue a thorough once-over but didn’t comment on it.
I touched his arm lightly. “We haven’t talked about the ghost thing yet. What do you think?”
He snorted. “I do not care if there are a hundred ghosts sharing space with us at the theater. I just don’t want that Clara woman there ever again.”
“Surely we can sort this out with the Historical Society.”
“I intend to go forward no matter what. And as long as the ghosts don’t have megaphones, they are welcome.”
Chapter 3
The party was in full swing when I arrived Saturday night at The Peak House, a popular local brewery, and handed the valet my keys. The best part about driving an ancient Honda was that you didn’t have to worry about the parking situation. If it happened to obtain any additional dents, so be it.
There was a sign on the glass door reading Closed for Special Event. Please Visit Us Again. Since the chancellor was the owner of the pub, he could do whatever he wanted. He often hosted these sorts of things at his estate, which was the kind of place featured in architectural magazines and tucked away behind high gates, but perhaps he was tired of faculty members running amok in his home. Last time we’d been there, someone had broken an expensive bust.
Not me. Thank goodness.
Inside, I found myself surrounded by people with glasses and plates in hand, chattering in small clumps around the long wooden bar to the left. The restaurant was warm and inviting, heavy on the rustic decor. I waved at Jean Claude, who was encircled by doting fans, and said hello to several colleagues, all of whom raved about the fondue and pointed me toward the source. I made my way through the enormous dining area to the party room, where a table with vats of cheese and chocolate awaited along the back wall. It had been a long day at rehearsal, and first and foremost, I needed sustenance. The variety of fruits and breads available to be dipped were almost overwhelming, in the best possible way.
As I happily picked up a plate, Chancellor Wellington entered the front door and faculty members converged immediately to fawn over him. The cluster of people grew as he crossed the room, though he eventually disentangled himself and took the last spot on an oversized leather banquette nearby. Professors continued to pay tribute, and now that he was closer, I could hear that they were also taking the opportunity to brag about their current projects. I watched from beside the fondue table, wondering if getting tenure required such nimble self-promotional gymnastics.
Finally, the last person in line stepped forward.
“Hello, Chancellor,” said Tolliver, extending his hand. He was almost swallowed by the threadbare blazer that dangled helplessly and shapelessly over his extremely thin frame. His white woolen scarf, wound multiple times around his neck and draping down the front, resembled a carefully dispensed but melting stack of soft-serve vanilla. The red-framed glasses perched on his slightly pointed gray head provided the cherry on top. “Tolliver Ingersoll, as you know. Playwright.” He exaggerated the last word carefully and leaned closer to the administrator. “I hope you were able to attend the final performance of A Tale of Three Swords last spring. It got raves.”
The chancellor didn’t respond.
“It was tremendous,” gushed a middle-aged woman sitting next to the chancellor, who, until that moment, had been deeply engaged in her knitting project. She had long black hair with a thick stripe of white in the front, and she was beautifully dressed in layers of richly colored, delicate materials. “I absolutely adored it,” she said in a loud voice to Tolliver.
“This is my lovely companion,” Tolliver said proudly.
“Oh, he knows who I am.”
The chancellor crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her quizzically.
“Really?” she asked, shaking her head. “You only ruined my life.”
His jaw dropped open. “I—I don’t—”
“Well, this is very disappointing,” she said, starting to knit again. “Something so momentous to me yet so meaningless to you.”
Had to admit, I was enjoying the sight of the chancellor squirming. I’d never seen him so uncomfortable before.
“Zandra Delacroix,” she said, waving a needle, then pausing—with a barely audible “oops”—to unravel the mauve yarn that had become entangled with the fringe on Tolliver’s scarf. “Previously of the Stonedale Theater Department.”
He stared at her, his confusion palpable.
She let out an exasperated sigh and yanked the yarn back into her lap. “You didn’t give me tenure.”
The chancellor appeared to be at a loss for
words.
She began to rewind the yarn. “Let me take this opportunity to remind you that there are real people behind those tenure dossiers. You are affecting their lives forever. Don’t forget that.”
He murmured something that I couldn’t hear.
She bowed her head slightly in acknowledgment. “I will say, though, that the whole experience—although it was exceedingly painful—did allow me to focus on my gifts, which I’m now using to their fullest.”
“That’s good to hear—”
“I am a psychic. A medium. A ghost-talker, if you will.”
The chancellor did not respond, though it was obvious that the wheels were spinning hard behind that patrician brow. He cleared his throat and returned his attention to Tolliver, trying to regain direction of the situation. “I did attend the play,” he said. “It was...”
Tolliver leaned forward, ready to soak up additional praise.
“Interesting.”
The playwright was almost able to hide his disappointment at the curt review, but not quite. He quickly plastered on a smile. “We’re putting together the next one now. It’s called Puzzled: The Musical!” His hands bracketed the play title in the air as though it were written in lights.
“So I’ve heard,” the chancellor responded, noncommittally. “How’s it going?”
Tolliver twisted both hands up in the air, in a sort of a “ta da” motion.
The chancellor’s eyebrows rose.
“It’s been quite a thrill to work in the old Opera House,” the playwright eventually said. “Quite the thrill indeed. Filled with such history!”
Zandra, knitting away, spoke loudly. “It’s going to be a huge success.”
The chancellor didn’t look so sure.
“I’m not just saying that,” she said, putting her knitting needles down and pointing a finger at him. “I know it. I can see the future.”
Tolliver beamed at Zandra.
After an awkward silence, the chancellor stood up, strenuously brushing off the sleeves of his expensive suit, like he’d just emerged from a plate of crumbs. “Won’t you excuse me, please?”