by Cynthia Kuhn
“Of course you saw him.” Zandra walked out onto the stage. “It’s Malcolm Gaines, the previous owner of the Opera House. He’s been talking to me.”
Here we go again.
“I didn’t want to scare anyone,” Zandra continued. “I have to be careful with my gift.” She bowed her head for a moment, then addressed the group. “You read about his demise in the paper, right?” The students indicated that they had. “Well, Malcolm has feelings about us being here.”
“What kind of feelings?” I didn’t know if I wanted to hear the answer.
Zandra glanced up at the ceiling, either thinking or conferring with Malcolm. “It’s complicated,” she said finally. “Hard to put into words.”
“Are they positive feelings or negative feelings?” Parker was the one who pressed her, but we all wanted to hear the answer.
Her smile was enigmatic. “Both.”
I was just about to leave when Bella walked down the auditorium aisle. She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and asked if Clara had left her bag anywhere. Apparently, her dramatic exit hadn’t involved picking up her things.
“I haven’t seen it,” I said. “Do you want to do a quick scan in the wings?”
“Or maybe downstairs? She thinks she left it in the room where the lights went out.”
I nodded and went through the door on the side that led more directly to the lower level. The Opera House had a kooky layout and it was not particularly helpful to have to go up and down stairs all day long, but at least we got a workout.
When we reached the prop room, she poked around for a few minutes until finally locating what she was looking for. Straightening up, she popped the short handle of the small purse over her arm and patted it. “Thank you so much. I was afraid to go back to the office without it. She’s already so upset.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Better, now that she’s had some tea and time to rest.” She cocked her head and smiled. “I know she seems...”
“Committed?”
Bella laughed, her white teeth flashing and her nose wrinkling up in a charming way. “That was very diplomatic of you. Yes. She just really loves this place.”
As we moved down the corridor, she stopped by the large corner room and peered inside.
“Do you want to go in?” I remembered her wistful look from earlier.
Her brown eyes widened and she clasped her hands together. “May I?”
“Absolutely.” I switched the light on and gestured for her to go first. As she walked inside, I glanced at the secret staircase. The closed door blended seamlessly into the wallpaper. I wondered how many people knew about it.
She walked around the room slowly, taking everything in. As she passed the dressing table with the mirror, she trailed her fingertips along the top slowly. Something emanated from her—a sadness, perhaps. Or a longing for something. I didn’t know what.
“Why don’t you sit down at the table?” I invited her.
She froze, her back to me, then twisted around so that she could lower herself into the velvet chair facing the mirror. Staring at herself in the glass, she burst into tears.
“Bella, what’s wrong?”
She put her hands over her face and sobbed. I patted her on the back, unsure what else to do. Finally, when the storm had passed, she looked up and delicately wiped her face. “I’m so sorry, Lila. It’s just—” She paused and sniffed and took a deep breath before continuing. “This was my mother’s dressing room.”
Our eyes met in the mirror as she spoke.
“Althea Gaines is your mother?”
“Yes.” Her shoulders sagged. “I never met her. She left right after I was born, to be with the man everyone believes is my father.”
“Camden Drake.”
“Yes.” Another tear ran down her cheek.
I knelt and put my arm around her shoulders. “I’m so very sorry.”
“I just wish I had known them. And I wish I knew why they left me behind. They’ve never even tried to reach out to me. I can’t find them online, either. Clara said they probably changed their names to avoid being connected to the scandal. She also believes that all they care about is themselves. And she knew them, so she may have some genuine insight about it all, but still...it hurts.”
She cried a little more, then eventually calmed down. I pulled a tissue from a box on the table and offered it to her.
Bella dabbed at her face. “Maybe we could go back upstairs.”
“Of course.”
I followed her out of the room and turned the light off.
“To be around the places where my parents were makes me feel closer to them,” she said as we walked.
It occurred to me that Malcolm Gaines, the man married to her mother who could also be her father, had died here by his own hand. I wasn’t going to bring it up right now, though. “How long have you been connected to the Opera House?”
“Since as far back as I can remember. The Worthinghams have been involved with it since Malcolm Gaines gave it to the university. And they raised me.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize that. I wondered why you called Clara by her first name if she was your mother.”
“Yes, that throws people sometimes. They adopted me, and I took their last name, but her preference was that I call her Mrs. Worthingham when I was growing up. She may have wanted to distance herself from the scandal or something. I don’t know. I can’t complain. She’s a complicated person—”
That’s putting it nicely.
“—and it was incredibly kind of them to take me in after finding me on their doorstep. They lived next door to my father, you know. Or perhaps I should say next door to my mother’s husband.” She paused on the top step and turned around, looking into my eyes. “It’s very difficult to tell a story when you don’t know if your father is one man or the other. Though I think of them both as my father in some ways. That probably doesn’t make sense.”
The lights flickered briefly.
“I don’t know who my father is either,” I admitted.
“Really?”
I nodded. “My mother never told me.”
“I’m sorry, Lila.” She put her arm around my shoulders and pulled me in for a side squeeze.
The simplicity of her statement could only have come from someone who understood how complicated it was not to have an answer for something so many took for granted. Most people peppered me with questions, and I had no answers for them. No, I didn’t know why my mother wouldn’t tell me his name. No, I didn’t know who he was. No, I hadn’t tried to find him. No, I didn’t want to explain why. And so on.
“We’re more alike than I thought,” she said, regarding me thoughtfully. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here. Not to be pushy. Just an invitation. I have certainly had my share of emotional turmoil related to daddy drama.”
The lights flickered again. I didn’t want another blackout experience, especially when we were the only two people in the whole place. I hurried us both up the aisle and into the lobby.
She stopped at the wall across from the box office, which had a number of framed pictures of actors and guests of the Opera House, and pointed to one right in the middle.
“There are lots of pictures of her on this wall, but this one is my favorite. The costumes are gorgeous, and they both look so happy.”
I stepped closer to take in the color photo of a woman in a dark red gown with a fitted bodice and full skirt. Her hair, pinned up in an intricate manner, was a caramel shade identical to Bella’s, and her generous mouth was stretched into a radiant smile. Her left hand rested on the shoulder of a man with black hair who was seated at the piano.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Bella’s face was aglow.
“She’s lovely,” I agreed.
“That’s Camden,” she said, pointing to the pi
ano player in a dark suit. His back was perfectly straight, and his hands were poised gracefully over the keys. He was only visible in profile, but they made an attractive couple nonetheless.
“He looks very elegant.”
She gazed at the image for a long moment, smiling, before pointing at another picture below. “And that’s Malcolm.”
The blond man in the photo leaned against the box office door, arms crossed over his chest. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing strong, muscular arms, and he was laughing. He wasn’t at all what I’d been imagining. Probably because I knew the end of the story.
“He looks like he has the kind of personality that would fill up a room.”
“Clara and Braxton said he loved to laugh. At least until my mother left.” Bella took a step closer and peered at it. “I don’t know why he had to leave me too, though. I would have laughed with him.”
Words failed me in that moment. What does someone say to that?
She turned to me and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
Best idea I’d heard all day.
Chapter 12
We were hard at work the next day on the penultimate number, “Curtains for the Culprits,” where Oliver gathered all of the suspects into the drawing room of the country manor house for the big reveal. The script called for Oliver to have a spirited debate with the various sleuths over the identification of the murderer and then to prove them wrong using information he’d collected through an instance of time travel. To cement his case, he introduced an alien, a self-proclaimed “interstellar sleuth,” to bear witness.
It was hilarious, though I didn’t know if that was intentional.
Tolliver was giving adjustment notes to the lighting crew, and I was chatting with Luciana Trevalti, the costume designer, about how to correct an issue with Sherlock’s hat. She had just come up with the solution when I noticed the actors on stage staring at something behind me.
Spinning around, I saw six men walking down the aisle with all manner of gadgetry and cameras. I excused myself from the conversation and headed their way.
The man leading them had a surfer vibe—a shock of blond hair falling over his temple, a dazzling smile, and a deep tan. When he reached us, he extended a hand. “Are you Tolliver Ingersoll?”
I shook his hand and pointed to the director. “That’s Tolliver. I’m Lila Maclean, the assistant director. May I help you?”
“I’m Vance Myers, and this is my crew. We’re from Spirit Wranglers, and we’re here to do some filming.”
Spirit Wranglers was one of the more famous paranormal reality shows. It typically featured an intrepid group of people who went into locations that were said to be haunted. They used different kinds of equipment to prove, or more often to disprove, the legends.
Tolliver bounded down the stage steps, waving his hands wildly. “Who gave you permission to film? It’s absolutely unthinkable. We’re in the middle of rehearsal here.” He came to stand next to me, radiating fury.
Vance smiled widely at him. “Mr. Ingersoll, I’m so thrilled to meet you. A Tale of Three Swords is one of my favorite plays. When I was out here visiting family, we went to see it four times.”
The fury dissipated instantly. Tolliver clapped him on the back. “Four times? How splendid.”
“Yes. I thought it was brilliant. Perhaps one of the best plays in the current century.”
“How kind.” He bowed slightly. “Though why limit it to the current century?”
Vance released a surprisingly loud bray of a laugh.
“I’m joking, of course,” Tolliver said, reaching for modest but failing.
“No need. I revise my assessment, sir. One of the best plays of all the centuries.”
There was another round of back clapping, this time by both men.
I looked rapidly back and forth between them, engaged by the confluence of fawning and narcissism.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Tolliver. Listen, we’ve been given permission by Dr. Frinkle in the parapsychology department at Stonedale. We ran into him while we finished up some reshoots in Estes Park, and he sent us here.”
“Were you at the Stanley Hotel?” I took a guess. It was famous for being the inspiration for the Overlook in Stephen King’s The Shining. The hotel offered ghost tours and so forth.
Vance nodded gleefully. “We got some great stuff on tape.”
“And now you’re going to film here? I don’t know how that will work since we’re using this theater.” I turned to see what Tolliver’s reaction was.
“We won’t interfere with your rehearsals,” Vance said quickly. “We shoot mostly at night after you’ve gone home. And we only have a few days to do this, so we will be in and out before you know it. We were hoping to get set up now, though, if you don’t mind.”
“Well, as long as you won’t be in our way,” Tolliver said. “Carry on.”
An hour later, it was clear that they would very much be in our way. There were cables here and cords there and cameras everywhere. Although they weren’t technically shooting while we were rehearsing, they were definitely here.
Tolliver, despite having given permission, was regretting it. Clara was going to pitch a fit if she found out, which I prayed she didn’t.
At least not before she signed off on the paperwork.
The students, however, were extremely excited. When they weren’t onstage, they hovered on the edge of the Spirit Wranglers’ central location, set up in the back of the theater, where three guys were fidgeting with video equipment and other devices.
“Do you need anyone to be in your show, like for interviews?” I heard Parker asking Vance.
“We might. Go talk to Joe—he’s the one who coordinates talent.” He pointed to a man with curly brown hair speaking into a headset.
Parker, followed by every single actor within hearing distance, zoomed over.
Tolliver called for a dinner break and faced me. “I know I told him to carry on, but you have to find a way to shut this down. It’s intolerable.”
“I understand, Tolliver. It’s frustrating. But if the university already gave permission, we need to make our peace with it. They’re only going to shoot at night.”
“You might be right,” Tolliver said begrudgingly.
“Maybe you could even participate. Be on television.”
He perked up at that thought.
Zandra joined us. She flung an arm over the director’s shoulder. “Tolly, I have a message. Our ghost wants Spirit Wranglers to be here. He has much to tell us.”
“Is that so, Z?” Tolliver looked fondly at her.
Zandra curved her lips into a mysterious smile. “It is so.”
I began to ask for more details but broke off at the sounds of shouts and thumps.
Students surrounded Chip Turner and Vance Myers, who were crouched and circling each other onstage as if they were at an impromptu wrestling match.
“What in the world are you doing?” Tolliver bellowed at them.
“The ghost chasers need to leave!” Chip said angrily, jabbing his fist forward, though Vance was safely out of reach. “This is my private property.”
“It’s not your private property yet,” I reminded him.
“We have written permission from the college to be here,” Vance retorted, angrily swiping at his hair, which kept falling into his eyes. “It doesn’t matter if it’s private or not. And who are you to come in here and start insulting our show, man?”
“I was just joking around,” Chip muttered.
“It wasn’t funny.” Vance lurched at him, but Chip skittered out of the way.
I marched into the space between them and put my hands out on either side. “Guys, you have to stop.”
Tolliver joined me. “Yes. This ends now. Mr. Turner, please leave.”
Chip’s head snapp
ed back in surprise. “Me? I have to leave? But I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“You are, actually. Please leave,” Tolliver repeated.
I wondered why Chip kept showing up here. It was true that the theater wasn’t locked during rehearsals, but doesn’t a potential buyer need to be accompanied by a realtor? What made him so entitled?
Come to think of it, maybe the fact that anyone could stroll right in was a problem. The police were no longer stationed anywhere at the theater, having ended their promised week of coverage.
Chip finally straightened up, jumped off the edge of the stage, and left the theater.
Vance flashed a wide smile at the students. “How’d you like that?”
They laughed and applauded.
He flexed his muscles and made a playful roaring sound.
“You didn’t win anything, you know,” Tolliver said.
“Feels like it.” Vance winked and sauntered away, whistling.
We were almost done with the second act when Tolliver leaned over to me. “Where are the ghost busters?”
“They’re below stage.”
“Will you go check on them?” he asked. I slipped out of the row while he grumbled and Zandra listened sympathetically. Now that the delight at Vance’s flattery had worn off, the presence of the spirit wranglers was aggravating him.
I made my way down to the lower level and through the cold spot. It was always just as abrupt and startling as it had been the very first time. As I entered the prop room, I bumped into Vance.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t see you there.”
“It’s all right, Lila. I’m looking at shot angles. What can I do for you?”
Another crew member came up to him with a confused look and pointed to the digital screen on a small box. Vance moved a switch and regular numbers appeared.
“Okay, we are go for tape, everyone,” said Vance. “You can watch if you want, Lila. We’re going to shoot the first segment.” The crew members took their positions behind the cameras. Vance moved to the center of the room, beneath the trap door. They’d moved the mattresses to the outer perimeter. Tolliver wasn’t going to like that.