THE SPIRIT IN QUESTION

by Cynthia Kuhn

  Also, with Jean Claude out of the way, he could take over as director. But could he have killed him?

  As far as I could tell, he had a motive: to see his vision realized. Jean Claude had been making a lot of cuts. I hadn’t heard the conversation where Jean Claude informed Tolliver what he’d taken out, but I could only imagine it hadn’t gone well.

  Still. Would Tolliver kill him for that?

  The skeleton seemed more ominous suddenly.

  I scooted past it and continued toward the Opera House. Okay, so he had motivation. And as the playwright, he certainly had opportunity to be anywhere in the theater that he needed to be.

  But did he have means? I had never seen him with a gun, nor had I heard him talk about one. The police hadn’t found anything in the theater as far as I knew–though they hadn’t shared much about the case with the public, other than that they were “on it” and, according to Lex, interested in someone.

  Something in my gut said that Tolliver wasn’t capable of murder. For which I was grateful since I had to spend time in close quarters with him. But perhaps being cautious was a good idea.

  When I arrived at the theater, I noted with satisfaction that there were only a few protestors, and they were trudging wearily in a circle. Perhaps they were getting tired of themselves too.

  My happiness subsided when I came upon Tolliver and Vance arguing in the lobby.

  “You have to get out. This is an artistic space. Where artists work. Your machinery is in the way!” Tolliver fluttered his hands at the cameras.

  “But we are out here, and your rehearsal is in there.” Vance pointed toward the auditorium. “We’ll close the door. You won’t even know we’re working.”

  “I already know you’re working. And simply having that information inside my head is compromising my ability to focus!”

  Zandra swept over to Vance. “Malcolm won’t perform for you here. He prefers the inner sanctum of the theater.” She raised her arms to gesture toward the stage, and the long sleeves of her sheer kimono created a dramatic look. Her acting background was evident.

  Vance gave her the side eye, then spoke directly to Tolliver. “We don’t need to film inside right now, and we’ll be quiet, I promise.”

  Tolliver, finally accepting that conversation was futile, turned and stormed down the aisle, slamming the door behind him.

  The film crew had the shot set up within minutes. Vance was positioned in front of the box office booth, ready to speak on camera when I felt a soft touch on my arm.

  “I think Tolly’s feeling the pressure,” Zandra said.

  “It’s understandable.”

  “I just want this play to go well for him. He deserves it.”

  “How long have you two been together?”

  “About a year.” She put her hand to her heart. “He’s very special to me.”

  “Oh, I thought you’d been together longer.”

  “We have known each other forever. But our romantic connection didn’t blossom until last year, when we both had a little too much punch at the chancellor’s Halloween party, and then, well, you know how it goes.” She waved the conclusion of that sentence away with her silver-ringed hand. Thank goodness.

  The chancellor’s annual event required faculty members to attend. Costumes were mandatory. No exceptions. With a chill, I remembered that the party was this weekend, and I hadn’t spent a single minute thinking about a costume. I whipped out my cell and typed in a reminder to get something, stat.

  “I relish attending that party as ex-faculty,” she said, winking at me. “Never imagined that would be the case, but it’s true.”

  “Were you teaching at Stonedale last year, Zandra? Or had you already left?”

  “Yes!” She said the word quite loudly. Some of the ghost hunters looked over at us. “I was teaching in the Theater department last year. But it was my find-somewhere-else-to-go year, the one they have to give you after they deny your tenure.”

  I felt a rush of empathy. “That must have been difficult.”

  “It was,” she nodded. “Every day, I could feel people looking at me. I knew many of them were genuinely sympathetic—I’d cleared the department with no problem, after all, so presumably they wanted me to stay. But still, they all withdrew, as if not getting tenure was something they could catch. And the people whom I’d thought were my friends, well, they just drifted away.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.” She readjusted the strap of her oversized bag.

  “Did you have any sign that there would be an issue?”

  “Not at all. I thought I had done everything they asked. Solid teaching evaluations, gobs of committee work, and an appropriate number of acting roles. But someone up the line didn’t like my otherworldly ways, I suppose.” She examined one of her long, black-lacquered fingernails. “I don’t know why I was surprised; I never really did fit in here.”

  I knew the feeling.

  “But,” she continued, “it was only when I thought I’d lost everything that I gained focus! My gifts, which had always been there, of course, increased dramatically in potency.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I knew I was psychic,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But,” she smiled widely, “last year I became aware that my powers as a medium were much stronger than I’d ever imagined. I attended a séance and during the middle of it, the spirits chose to come through me instead of the man leading it. He was absolutely furious, I can tell you,” she said, laughing. “Since then, I’ve put all of my energy into helping the living and the post-living communicate.”

  “Wow.” That was a lot to take in.

  “It was not an easy transition, though. Believe me, every time we were in the same room, everyone’s discomfort at having to deal with my presence was palpable. I made sure to go to the Halloween party because I knew it would make the administrators squirm.”

  “You’re braver than I am,” I said with a smile. “What was it like to sit next to the chancellor at the reception?”

  “Surreal. But it was an opportunity to remind him to be mindful of his power.”

  “Seems like you’re in a better space now.”

  “I am. I feel free. It’s quite empowering to be able to be myself, without tenure and promotion and judgments hanging over my head.”

  I could see the upside: professors are evaluated constantly—by students, colleagues, the chair, the dean, and beyond. It could be exhausting.

  “Have you continued acting?”

  She smiled and smoothed the white streak at the front of her dark tresses. “Numerous roles. Smaller things than I’m used to. But when you get to be a certain age...” she trailed off.

  “Seems unfair,” I said.

  “But there are still a few juicy roles to be had. I’m under consideration for the lead in a new production of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.”

  “Martha? What an excellent part.”

  She ducked her head. “It’s still in the early stages.”

  “Hope it works out.”

  “Appreciate the good wishes. Are you going to talk to the spirit squad?” She jerked her head toward the wranglers.

  “I think I’ll touch base.”

  “Please let me know if they need any help from me. We’re both engaged in the same project, if you think about it. We just use different equipment.” She tapped the side of her head.

  “Good point. I will.”

  “Nice talking to you, Lila,” she said, giving me a warm smile.

  “And to you, Zandra.” I smiled back.

  She spun around to go to rehearsal, and I went over to where Vance and the crew were working. He was speaking animatedly to the camera. As I drew nearer, I could hear his words.

  “If you’re ever in Colorado, be sure that you make time to check out
the Stonedale Opera House, where a ghost roams the hallways and the line between this world and the next seems very, very thin. Thanks for joining us for another episode of Spirit Wranglers.”

  He held his position until the red light on the camera went out and the operator gave him the thumbs up. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and grinned at me. “Got it.”

  The slam of the front door made us both jump.

  Chancellor Trawley Wellington strode through, his long wool coat flying out behind him. When he caught sight of me, his eyes narrowed.

  “Why am I not surprised? Whenever there’s something disagreeable happening, you are right in the middle of it, Dr. Maclean.”

  As my mother would say, that’s a fine how-do-you-do.

  “Hello, Chancellor.” Really, what else was there to say to such a greeting?

  “Explain to me, please, why there’s a film crew here?” His eyebrows drew together.

  I stared at him. Then I stared at Vance. “You said you had permission from the university.”

  Vance stuck his hand out. “Hello, Mr. Chancellor.”

  The chancellor pursed his lips in dissatisfaction at having his title used as a last name. I hurried to perform the necessary introductions.

  After the men shook hands, Vance continued merrily on. “We’re Spirit Wranglers, and we do have written permission.”

  “Explain that, please.”

  “We have written permission from your parapsychology department—”

  “No such thing,” the chancellor murmured.

  Vance’s eyebrows shot up. “What do you mean, no such thing?”

  “We do not have a parapsychology department.” His voice had risen slightly. “We have one professor in our psychology department with an interest in the paranormal. Who has, apparently, gone rogue.”

  Vance paled.

  “Let me guess: are you speaking of Dr. Gavin Frinkle?”

  The ghost buster nodded.

  “Well, Dr. Frinkle does not have the authority to give permission. He is not the owner of the building. The university is. And we cannot allow our university to be connected with such...” he paused, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, “nonsense.”

  The word was delivered with such contempt that Vance took a step backwards. After a moment lost in thought, he rallied. “I can understand your reservations, Chancellor. It’s certainly not everyone’s cup of tea. But there is no mention of the university, other than the fact that the ghost was a professor—”

  The chancellor winced.

  “—who got in a fight with another professor who once worked there. Long ago. We don’t mention that the building is currently owned by the university.”

  When the chancellor began to shake his head, Vance rushed on. “This is how we make our living, sir. I would be very grateful if you’d allow us to complete the episode.”

  The chancellor liked being in the position of allowing things. Also of cancelling things on the people who had displeased him. He tapped his lip with one finger thoughtfully, deciding which way to go.

  Then Vance brought it home. “And hey, if you’d like us to promote the school separately, we’d certainly be glad to pay for an advertisement to run during the show. Then it wouldn’t be connected with you, but you’d receive some good publicity from it.”

  Good publicity? That was a winner. I felt the chancellor change his mind even before he agreed and told Vance to send over the paperwork.

  If Vance ever wanted a position in politics, he was suited for the job. Many had tried to affect the chancellor’s decisions before, and many had failed.

  The two of them walked off together, making arrangements.

  You never know what a day will bring.

  At the end of rehearsal, I asked Tolliver if he’d like to get a drink or some food. I was troubled about the things I’d realized on the way over. Mostly, I wanted to try and cross him off my list of potential suspects.

  “Petal, you read my mind. Shall we go to the Gold Rush?” The bar was quite popular for their specials featuring fishbowl-sized glasses of beer. Since it was happy hour, the place would be packed with undergrads.

  “How about the Hideout? Perhaps it would be quieter.”

  He agreed and we walked the few blocks over.

  The Hideout was comfortably shabby, relying on low lighting and candles to camouflage the signs of age. But the restaurant was charming in its own way, plus they projected silent black-and-white movies on the back wall nonstop and served free popcorn. Once we’d settled onto the red vinyl seats of the rounded booth and ordered, Tolliver sighed.

  “I can’t believe it’s dress rehearsal tomorrow.”

  “We made it!”

  “Don’t say that!” He looked aghast. “We still have so far to go.”

  “But we’re rounding the final...uh...base, right?”

  “You mean we’re in the home stretch?” He smiled. “Indeed. Still, let’s not say that aloud and jinx it. We theater folk are superstitious, you know.”

  The waiter brought our drinks—whiskey for him, diet soda for me—and a basket of fresh popcorn. We both took a handful.

  “So Tolliver, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you have any thoughts on what happened to Jean Claude?”

  He stopped chewing for a moment, his eyes wandering somewhere over my shoulder, then swallowed. “I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, but I can’t imagine a single soul in our company who would want to see him dead.” He lowered his voice. “I think it was an outside job.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I can’t imagine one of us doing it.”

  I didn’t want to imagine it either, but it was a possibility.

  “Unless...”

  I waited.

  “You know that Jean Claude has a reputation.” He readjusted his red glasses as he spoke.

  “You started to tell me something about that at the reception. What was it?”

  He picked up his glass, slammed the whiskey in one shot, and leaned forward. “He’s known for ripping apart the playwright’s work. Ferociously. He was even chased down the street by an angry dramatist at his last school.”

  “Really?” He’d been tough on Tolliver’s script, but that seemed like part of the job. Perhaps the stories were really about clashing egos.

  “Yes.” He sat back against the booth, appearing rather pleased with himself for having discharged the gossip. “I don’t typically concern myself with that kind of idle talk, you know, but it’s difficult to ignore when everyone is repeating it.”

  “Do you feel that he did that to you?”

  Tolliver drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. “I suppose I did, at times. But he isn’t the worst I’ve encountered, let’s put it that way.”

  “Have you ever worked with him before?”

  “Many years ago.” His eyes shone as he thought back to an apparently happier time. “In New York City, when we were all young and struggling desperately to make it big.”

  That was news.

  “Your mother, Violet, was part of our circle, you know,” he said coyly.

  I hadn’t known. “Really?”

  “Oh yes. She’s quite a character.”

  That bit I knew. Try growing up in her shadow.

  “Most of us were in love with her, but she was in a whole different league—absolutely bewitching, with that long red curly hair and her striking green eyes. You have her eyes, Petal, though you must get your dark hair from your father.”

  I fidgeted with a salt shaker. “Did you know my father?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  I shrugged.

  He seemed perplexed, then light dawned. “Oh. I’m sorry. I wish I did.”

  “Anyway, what did you work on with Jean Claude?”

  “We were always trying to p
ut various things together. We failed a lot. None of us knew that we’d eventually reach any sort of status in the world, but we have gotten somewhere, haven’t we? Especially Violet. She was always such a talented artist. Do you have any artistic dreams yourself?”

  I’d always wanted to write mysteries. But I had never said it out loud.

  “There’s only room for one artist in our family. Make that two, actually. Calista’s a poet.”

  “She’s quite good,” he said approvingly. “And I think everyone should pursue their own artistic visions instead of denying them. The world would be a better place if we could just prioritize and appreciate the beauty in each other.”

  This did not sound like the mantra of a potential killer, but I had to press on.

  “Have you ever owned a gun?” Oh, so clunky. I wished I could take it back the instant I said it.

  “Petal! You don’t actually think that I shot Jean Claude, do you?” He put his hands on either side of his face in distress. “I will admit that there may have been some jealousy there.” He reached for his glass, frowning when he discovered it empty. “I’m not going to say that I haven’t been recognized at all...as you know, I do have my fans. But it was nothing like Jean Claude. He was on a completely different level. The level to which we all aspire.”

  I nodded.

  “But I would never kill any living thing.” He looked at me sadly.

  “I’m sorry.” I regretted my directness. I hadn’t meant to upset him.

  His cell phone binged softly. He looked down at the screen and then jolted upright. “Oh my. Oh my, my, my.” His bony hand reached across the table and squeezed mine with surprising force. “Jermaine Banister is coming.”

  “Who?”

  “The critic?” At my blank look, he fluttered his hands sideways as if to wipe away my ignorance. “He’s very big, very important. I’ve got a tip here from someone at the Stonedale Scout saying that Jermaine intends to do a review of Puzzled. Oh, happy day! I’m sorry, but I need to make a call immediately.”

  With that, he scampered out of the booth and out of the restaurant.