THE SPIRIT IN QUESTION

by Cynthia Kuhn

  “I can assure you, Mrs. Worthingham, no damage is being done.”

  She tittered. “Fine, but we need to see that for ourselves, Dr. Maclean.”

  I imagined what Tolliver’s face might look like when he heard the news. I’d have to deal with that later.

  “How about next Friday?” I asked. That would give us a week to prepare. “And could the protests at least be suspended in the meantime?”

  She pulled her desk calendar over and perused every hour of the day, again sliding her finger down the list, before agreeing to the appointment—but not the suspension.

  “Well, it’s your right to protest, but honestly, we don’t need to be at odds.”

  She visibly recoiled. “We most certainly do.”

  “In light of recent events—”

  She affected a puzzled expression. “To what are you referring?”

  She would have known if she’d let me finish my sentence. But pointing that out wouldn’t help the cause. “Jean Claude.”

  She nodded, slightly.

  “Well, the students—all of us, really—are grieving. The tweet about Jean Claude and tone on your blog, when you write about the Opera House, is...” I put it as delicately as I could, “very upsetting.”

  Clara pursed her lips. “Well, the whole situation is very upsetting to us too.”

  “I understand that you have a goal. But a life has been lost. The life of someone we cared for. Do you think it would be possible to please soften the tone?”

  She blinked rapidly.

  “Even temporarily?”

  “I’ll speak to our team.” Unsurprisingly, she made it sound as if she wasn’t the one responsible, even though I’d seen her out there waving the megaphone and leading the charge.

  “Thank you. By the way, did you talk to Jean Claude again after the rehearsal?”

  She bristled. “I should think not. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “What would we have to talk about?”

  “Well, you did seem angry. And your social media posts suggested—”

  Her eyes widened. “You don’t think I had anything to do with...no. How preposterous! I am not a murderer.”

  “I didn’t say you were,” I said calmly. “I was just wondering how often you’d spoken.”

  “Are we done? I do need to return to my work.” She stood and before I knew what was happening, she had shepherded me out of the office and halfway down the hallway. She paused in front of a closed door and knocked. “Brax? It’s almost time for our meeting with the mayor.”

  “Hi, Mr. Worthingham,” I heard myself say to the door. I don’t know why.

  Clara shushed me. “Don’t disturb him. He’s an absolute beast when he gets angry.”

  Remembering his general demeanor in the lobby, I doubted that very much.

  “One more thing,” I said. “Circling back to the protestors, will you be calling them off now that we’re following procedure?”

  She frowned.

  “Please think of the students.” I smiled at her.

  “I am thinking of the students,” she snapped. “They’re the ones doing all the damage to our cherished Opera House right now. Even P.T. Barnum’s circus did less harm!”

  I ignored the dig. “I hope you’ll see during the inspection that everything is as it should be. We’re being careful, I assure you.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  It took all of my willpower not to do the same.

  “Good afternoon, then,” she said, as she practically pushed me out the front door and slammed it behind me.

  I’m no etiquette expert, but I’m fairly sure that’s not how one says goodbye properly.

  Chapter 8

  “Come in at once! We’re having drinks.” Francisco de Francisco, a tall African-American man with short dreadlocks, waved from the front door of Calista’s bungalow, a cocktail in hand. My cousin had texted an invitation as I’d been walking home—just the antidote I needed after the frustrating conversation with Clara.

  Calista, Francisco, Nate, and I, along with my next-door neighbor Tad Ruthersford—who was currently out of town visiting his boyfriend— were all thirty-something professors of English who had become great friends.

  “I’m getting an earful about your play from Nate and Cal,” Francisco said. “Need you to fill in the blanks.”

  As tired as I was, his good spirits were infectious, and I waded quickly through the crackling leaves toward him. The smell of cinnamon greeted me as I walked into her lovely house—decorated with numerous art prints and brightly colorful furniture.

  Francisco gave me a hug and studied me with his kind blue eyes. “You doing okay?” he murmured. “Hear you’ve got a lot on your plate.”

  I nodded, grateful for the check-in, and asked about his trip. He’d been on quite a roller coaster during the past few years. He was finishing up a long and complex scholarly study when a scandal involving the author broke out, which he’d worried would render all of his work useless. On the contrary, though—it went mainstream, became a bestseller, and Ivy League schools had come courting. So far, he’d decided to stay at Stonedale, but he was in demand as a speaker and traveled often. Also, since the administration knew he was being wooed, they had given him a raise as incentive to stay. It was like an academic fairy tale happy ending.

  After he’d covered the highlights of his most recent presentation, he led me to the front room where Calista and Nate were waiting.

  “Cheers!” said Nate, lifting a bottle of Peak House Ale.

  “Nice to see you’re supporting the chancellor’s brand.”

  Nate winked and waved me over, moving sideways on the purple sofa. I plunked down, glad to let my heavy satchel rest on the floor instead of my shoulder.

  Without a word, Calista picked up a glass from the lacquered tray next to the sofa and handed it to me: she’d made me a cabernet with ice. I leaned back against the soft cushion, spinning the glass slightly to get my wine slushie down to the arctic temperature I preferred.

  I never claimed to be fancy.

  After thanking her, I took a sip, savoring the blackberry and vanilla tones. Heavenly.

  Francisco sat down next to Calista on the loveseat. “So Nate was just recounting some tale about a play that you’re involved with, Lila. Written by Tolliver?”

  I glanced at Nate, who did his best to keep a straight face. “And what has Nate been telling you?”

  “That it’s the worst play ever written and that you’re a consultant on it.”

  I elbowed Nate. “Seriously? That’s how you described it?”

  He laughed. “I may have said something to that effect.”

  “It might end up being entertaining, when everything’s said and done.” I sighed. “Or it could be terrible.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Why are you consulting on it?” Francisco asked.

  “Jean Claude—” A sudden lump in my throat cut off the rest of my words.

  Calista came over and gave me a hug, during which I tried valiantly to keep the wine glass in my hand from tipping. “We’re all so sorry, Lila. We were talking about it before you got here. I know you cared about him. Are you okay?”

  “Not really.”

  She regarded me for a long moment, then hugged me again. “Anything you need, you just ask.”

  Nate and Francisco nodded.

  I blinked back tears and swallowed hard. “Thank you. Anyway, Jean Claude heard that I taught the mystery class—Puzzled is a postmodern murder mystery—and hired me. He also promoted me to assistant director.”

  Calista moved back to her seat. “You didn’t tell me that. Congratulations!”

  “Thanks, and I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been in touch very much. I miss you all. The rehearsals are keeping me so busy—�
��

  “No worries, Lil. You mentioned that you were feeling overwhelmed by the play. And now there’s the rest of it too.” She bit her lip, and her expression softened. “But soon, when the play is done, you can get back to being overwhelmed by the usual things. With us, where you belong.”

  “Looking forward to that.” I smiled at her.

  Francisco set down his glass. “How did Jean Claude become involved with the university’s production?”

  “I know this one,” Nate jumped in. “He’s on sabbatical, doing some research in our library collection.” Pennington Library had a vast collection of materials related to American theater productions. “His primary focus is on Damon Runyon.”

  “The one whose stories were the basis for Guys and Dolls?” Calista asked.

  “Among other things.”

  “But,” I thought back to the reading I’d done in preparation for teaching Runyon’s true-crime piece “The Eternal Blonde” in my mystery class. “His papers are collected elsewhere...one of the Ivy League schools, I think.”

  “Well, there’s something here from when Runyon lived in Colorado. Jean Claude gave a terrific lecture when he first arrived, explaining what he hoped to accomplish.” Nate took a swig of his beer and set it down on a coaster. “But I wouldn’t do it justice if I tried to paraphrase.”

  “That was before he asked me to work on the play, so I missed the lecture, and I’m sorry now. I bet it was fascinating.” Another wave of grief ran through me, and I tightened my grip on the wine glass.

  “He also had quite a reputation,” said Francisco. “I always wondered about that.”

  “Tolliver said so too,” I confirmed. “But he didn’t elaborate. What kind of reputation?”

  “For being controlling,” added Nate.

  “Rather an understatement,” said Francisco.

  “Okay, for being a monster control freak.” Nate turned to me. “Google him, Lila. There are all kinds of stories about how he lost his temper and threw furniture around the stage, or shredded peoples’ scripts, fired the whole cast. Stuff like that.”

  Wow. I did not recognize the Jean Claude I knew at all.

  “How did he and Tolliver get along?” asked Calista.

  I hesitated. But just for a second. This was my third year at Stonedale, and my friends had proven themselves to be trustworthy.

  “Just between us...” They all nodded eagerly. “I think Tolliver wasn’t exactly thrilled about the direction Jean Claude was going in.”

  “Why?” asked Calista, her gray eyes alight with curiosity.

  “He just mentioned in passing that he didn’t think the production was fulfilling his vision.”

  I took another sip of wine.

  They seemed vaguely disappointed. Then Nate raised one finger. “At least you’ve got the Opera House ghost thing to keep you entertained.”

  “What?” I stared at him.

  His eyes grew rounder. “You don’t know the legend?”

  “I’d forgotten about the ghost. I only heard it mentioned by Clara the day they started protesting.”

  He pointed at Francisco. “You tell it. You’re the one who told me.”

  A slow smile blossomed on Francisco’s handsome face. He settled back in the chair and took a long sip from his glass, gearing up to tell the story.

  “Back in the early 1990s, there was a Theater professor at Stonedale University named Camden Drake. He was a playwright as well as a composer, both attractive and brilliant. Students adored him. His classes were so popular that they were moved from the classroom to the lecture hall. His office hours overflowed with students lined up, eager to be able to say they’d had a conversation with him. He—”

  “You’re making him sound like a magical unicorn,” Nate laughed.

  “Are you done?” Francisco asked Nate, who grinned at him. “I’m just telling the story how I heard it. He was a remarkably popular professor, okay?”

  “I’m sorry.” Nate put his hands up in acquiescence. “Go on, Professor.”

  “Camden was one of those people who oozed charisma. One of his musicals was staged at the Opera House, and Althea Gaines was cast as the star. On opening night, the audience was too large to fit inside the building. People flooded the streets, hoping to hear the new melodies from outside. It swelled into such a large crowd that eventually some windows were broken. At this point, the owner of the theater, Malcolm Gaines, who was also Althea’s husband, became enraged. He came out to address the audience and cancelled the performance altogether. They complained, but he had his ushers move the crowd.”

  “But it gets better,” interjected Nate enthusiastically.

  “Yes, it does,” Francisco agreed. “When Camden stormed offstage, Althea left with him. They walked down the street followed by the townspeople, went into Brynson Hall, and held an impromptu concert. Camden played the songs from his play, Althea sang, and it was, by all accounts, an unforgettable evening.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Malcolm heard about how glorious that was for weeks afterwards. He was the Theater department chair at Stonedale, and you know how campus gossip works.” Nate looked thoughtful. “That must have stung.”

  Francisco nodded in agreement. “Especially since Camden was one of his colleagues. Malcolm had pushed everyone to hire him, in fact. Afterwards, Camden offered to pay for the broken windows, but Malcolm wasn’t having any of it. He banned Camden from ever setting foot in the Opera House again, and he took to wearing a gun as a warning.”

  “A gun?” I shook my head.

  “What was the point of that?” Calista asked. “Seems kind of extreme.”

  “Probably just pride,” said Francisco. “He’d lost face with the entire community, and his wife had contributed. He didn’t want Althea and Camden to work together again, and her work was in the Opera House.”

  “But there’s more!” Nate said, patting the arm of the sofa rapidly in anticipation.

  Francisco resumed the story. “Weeks went by without further incident. But, one day, Malcolm found Althea and Camden in a compromising position. The most compromising position, in fact. In the Opera House, no less, where Camden had been banned. It pushed Malcolm over the edge. He struck Camden, which turned into a brawl and Camden left town, never stepping foot in Stonedale again. Much to the disappointment of both students and townspeople.”

  “He just left Althea behind?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “And she had a baby.”

  I found myself leaning toward Francisco.

  “But then Althea disappeared too.”

  My mouth fell open. “What do you mean ‘disappeared?’”

  “She left to be with Camden,” he said, matter-of-factly. “But she didn’t announce it to anyone, so the town thought for awhile that she went missing.”

  “They were in love,” Calista added, dreamily.

  “What about the baby though?” I asked.

  “Okay, well, this part riles me up.” My cousin shook her head.

  “Well, that’s another sad turn. Malcolm dropped off the baby at the neighbors—”

  “Literally in a basket,” Calista interjected. “Like in the movies.”

  “—then hung himself in the Opera House.”

  “Right on the stage,” she said, then stopped when she caught sight of Francisco’s expression. “I want to make sure she has all the details. Sorry I interrupted, babe.”

  He acknowledged her apology and took a long drink.

  “Oh, how tragic,” I said.

  “And now...” Nate said, waving his hand in the air to urge Francisco to continue.

  “There’s more? I don’t think I can take it,” I murmured.

  “Yes.” Francisco set his glass down carefully on the coffee table. “There’s more. Now, Malcolm’s ghost is said to haunt the Opera Ho
use.”

  “Wait, what? For real?” I took a sip of wine for fortitude.

  “Ever since that day, people in the Opera House have reported all sorts of events—” Nate said.

  “Supernatural events,” clarified Francisco.

  Nate picked up the thread, affecting a deep voice and wiggling his fingers. “Lights flickering, doors opening and closing by themselves, inexplicable sounds.”

  “Well, couldn’t those be explained by—” I began.

  “Also, objects moved from room to room overnight, air so cold that no one can stand in that spot, and a piano that plays music even when no one is in the room,” Nate finished gleefully.

  “Yeah, that’s a little harder to explain,” I admitted.

  “Plus, there have been sightings,” he added, just as I took another sip.

  I choked. “Sightings? As in full-body-manifestation kind of thing?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding vigorously. “I can’t remember where I saw this, but there were even some photos that claimed to have captured him on film.”

  I sat back, stunned. “Why is no one talking about this? Not a single person involved with the play has mentioned anything.”

  “Probably because it happened such a long time ago,” Francisco said. “It’s very old news.”

  “It’s new to me,” I said. “You’d think there would be at least a mention of it somewhere in the theater proper. A framed newspaper article or something next to all of those pictures of performers in the lobby—”

  “Those photos were already on the wall. The theater itself is exactly as it was when Malcolm left it to the university,” Nate said. “The school hasn’t done anything to it. It was viewed by the board of trustees as an annoyance.” At my confused expression, he continued. “You know, like when someone gives you a gift that’s quite valuable but is not anything you ever wanted? You would feel guilty giving it away, so it just sits there and collects dust.”

  “It’s not been loved the way it deserves.” Calista sighed.

  “That’s exactly what the Historical Society would argue. Why didn’t the school just give it to them?” I looked around the group.