Another sip of coffee and Shane was on to Derek Fergus, who’d been the producer. Derek’s photo appeared along with a short biography, an extensive list of shows he’d produced over the years, and equally impressive awards won. Seeing the images was like sifting through an old photo album depicting the passage of time in leaps.
There was a great photo of Derek in his early thirties, looking young and handsome and a little overwhelmed. The images ended with the most current photo of the man, now in his late seventies. He appeared distinguished, confident, and still a bit overwhelmed, as though he couldn’t believe he’d had the career he’d wanted and never been arrogant enough to take for granted. He’d been married since 1975 to a woman named Jennifer who had nothing to do with theatre.
I’d met Derek’s first wife Angela the day Rob had been mugged and rehearsal was canceled and remembered hoping her rich family would be helping with the backing.
Shane jotted down a few notes while mumbling, “Couldn’t have been Derek. If he’d wanted the play stopped he never would have produced it in the first place. If one supposes all this was about the bloody play anyway. Plus he was the kindest bloke on the planet.”
I silently agreed. There didn’t appear to be much motive there unless his background was bogus and he’d been the inspiration for one of the seamier characters in the play. But that made no sense either. Rob knew Derek. Had known him before he went to Vietnam. He didn’t run into him in the street one day and suddenly recognize a traitor.
Shane and I were of one mind. Shane shook his head and said, “Derek and Rob were good friends. So that doesn’t track for killing Rob…unless I’m totally wrong about the play as the motive.”
Shane sat back and ate a few bites of a veggie wrap before returning to his task, typing in Chandra Petrie. I tensed. What was the actress was doing these days? She’d be in her sixties, which often limited roles for women. I honestly couldn’t imagine her killing Rob…not unless he was a “decoy” murder, planned so her real objective—me—wouldn’t be noticed. Chandra was cunning enough to come up with such a plan, but murdering a playwright who’d written a great part for her seemed an extreme way to get rid of a rival.
Then again, I did recall Chandra had been pretty nasty to me and, after watching and writing some daytime dramas, I wouldn’t be shocked if Shane turned up something to indicate she was our villainess.
The online information was pretty interesting but missing any “Aha” moments. Chandra was still acting. In fact, she was on a cable series with the very soap-opera-ish name of Passion’s Place. I had to stifle my laughter when I read the blurb for the show since “Passion” was the name of a girl who owned an artist’s gallery. Chandra played (and this is where I almost ran out the door to avoid dissolving in laughter) Passion’s racy grandmother, who apparently was always on the lookout for another man.
Chandra Petrie was still gorgeous and it seemed, like her soap counterpart, she’d never lacked for male company. She’d been married four times, currently divorced and dating a possible number five. Again, the horrible thought hit me that she’d wanted me out of the way so she could have had a clear field with Shane, but ended up with a dead Holly and a vanished Shane. I could still see her eyes—beautiful, but cold. Jealousy shining to the Nth degree. I clearly remembered Chandra had despised me. Odd, but it seemed some memories of hatred could remain after death and hold the power to wound a soul.
Shane next pulled up the information for Crimson Cloverly. I recalled something about her being offered a film in Europe, so she wasn’t around when we were working on the play. I hadn’t had any recollections about meeting her. Not yet. Shane must have gotten curious about the timeline of the movie following his conversation with Frannie Stutzgraft.
It didn’t matter. Crimson Cloverly’s obituary was the first thing listed under her name. She’d died six weeks ago. I shivered and squinted over Shane’s shoulder at the page, hoping it would reveal natural causes. I inhaled and hoped Shane hadn’t heard me when I saw the phrase, “car accident”.
From my days catching up on popular culture, I’d noticed every forensic drama or soap opera sneaks in a car accident as a convenient way to make a murder harder to prove. The article noted the accident occurred in Fort Lee, New Jersey and seemed a bit iffy as to whether or not the case was still open.
The last name Shane typed in was Wynn Davenport III. I was shocked when Wynn’s bio showed he was younger than Shane—by four years. He’d always seemed so much older, but perhaps the stress of his job and his crummy attitude had aged him. Wynn was very much alive and representing some pretty high-profile talents.
Every one of them was white.
Shane shook his head. “This is stupid. What am I doing? Trying to find a killer by piecing together bits of information? How many times have I done this? It still makes no sense. I should never have come back to the city. Why should anything I do now be any different?”
“Because I’m here now.”
I’d whispered it far enough away to keep Shane from hearing me over the hum of the espresso machines, but Shane whipped his head around and stared straight at me—through me.
This was why I’d popped into the year 2016. Why Shane had been drawn back to America. The task was clear. Find the devil who’d taken Rob’s life and mine. Bring him to justice. Stop anyone else from dying. Brave, extraordinary, determined words. With one small glitch.
Neither of us had any idea who the killer might be.
Chapter Sixteen
Shane sat in silence the entire train ride back to Inwood, unaware I was sitting across from him. He kept flipping through the small notebook he’d used in the café. I assumed he was still trying to determine motive and opportunity for the suspects.
I wanted to reach over and take his hand in mine and tell him we’d work it out together. Instead I remained where I was. I couldn’t provide answers. I had no recollection of the night someone had chased us through the city, only how it had ended.
I’d planned to follow Shane right into his apartment but had to dodge a couple of courteous tenants who’d opened the lobby door for him, then unintentionally blocked my way when I tried to slip past. The door shut. Unless I wanted to shout or ring the buzzer, I was out of luck in staying with Shane. Shame Addie was wrong about my ability to pass through solid objects. It could have come in handy right about now.
It was long past noon. There was nothing to be gained from hanging out on the stoop of Shane’s building and I needed to work on the script for Salacity City for Addie’s friend Jeff so I went back to my aunt’s. Hopefully writing would keep my mind off Rob’s murder, not to mention my own, although I shied away from using “Holly” and “murder” in the same sentence. Addie called it denial. I called it intelligent, emotional preservation.
Addie wasn’t home, but there was leftover Chinese food in the fridge and one fortune cookie, still wrapped and sitting on the kitchen counter.
I read aloud, “‘You Save Today!’” It appeared Master Wong’s Hunan Delights was reminding me to email Addie and include an attachment of the pages for the soap. Well, once I’d actually finished them. Then again, maybe Master Wong was just advising me to drop some coins into the ceramic elephant Addie used for petty cash.
I completed a scene for Salacity City and was about to send it—but my mind wasn’t on task so I had to do a quick edit. In the middle of having Sierra Blackwell, the town’s librarian, cross-examined for her lover’s murder, I began imagining the prosecutor asking questions like, “What did you hope to gain by throwing Rob off the catwalk?” followed by “Did you arrange a car accident for Crimson Cloverly and if so, why did it take you forty-three years to decide she needed to die?”
I also found I had a sudden, burning desire to find out Crimson’s real name. But that was merely giving in to my insatiable curiosity. I seriously doubted it meant much in the greater scheme of murder.
There were references to the song “Crimson and Clover” by Tommy James and the Shondells (perhaps how she had latched on to her stage name?) and several articles about the car crash from six weeks ago. I found her bio in IMDB and giggled when I noticed Ms. Cloverly, a first generation Ukrainian, had been born Fekla Dunyasha Esfir Cherstvennikov. Damn! Talk about an excellent reason for a name change.
There was nothing in the reports of her death providing any help in determining if the crash had been accidental or not. However, contrary to the information Shane had found online earlier, the investigation was still ongoing.
I began to wander through the same websites Shane had visited at the computer café. I didn’t expect some brand-new revelation to pop up but that didn’t stop me from hoping to trigger a memory explaining…something. Anything.
Lightning struck. I typed in the one name Shane hadn’t included. Rob Stutzgraft. Co-author. Co-victim.
I found his obituary and one article regarding his death. Rob had been born in 1946, making him twenty-seven when he died. A Brooklyn native, he’d been drafted and sent to Vietnam in 1966. He was captured in ’67 and swapped in a prisoner exchange two years later. Spent a month in a VA hospital and remained an outpatient for a year. Diagnosis listed as “combat fatigue”. Married Frances Baker in 1970. Died April 7, 1973 of injuries sustained during a fall off a catwalk in the Elysium Theatre.
There was no mention of Trapped in the Basement.
Futile. This entire enterprise was a waste of time and energy, and was becoming way too emotional. I closed the browser and shut down the computer. Then I paced around the apartment, to the delight of Boo-Boo, who ran around in circles trying to trip me up. I was restless and unhappy and annoyed and angry. I grabbed my army jacket from the coat rack and headed out for a walk. It was close to six now and the park was always more beautiful at sunset, so I hoped I could ease my troubled mind with a nice stroll.
It was also time to check in with Joey and see how his life was going. I sat down on the bench where I’d first met Shane and watched as the bald eagle landed with a serene grace on the railing by the paved path near the water. It was magical.
We were the only two beings in that section of the park and I could sense the connection between two separate species who respected each other for the unique ways we inhabited the same world. We sat in silence for a few moments, and then he took off, flying south toward the part of Inwood Hill Park that bordered Payson Avenue.
Which was where Shane Halloran was now walking. He saw Joey and flashed his wickedly beautiful smile, transforming him from the seventy-five-year-old Jordan Matthews into a thirty-two-year-old charmer.
Joey seemed intent on leading Shane back to his perch, toward my own bench. Great idea. I watched as man and eagle headed my way, but suddenly started getting a prickly feeling.
I soon realized why. Someone was following Shane. It wasn’t a “we happen to be going in the same direction” kind of following, either. There was a deliberateness, an intensity, and a menace to it. The stalker looked to be in his twenties and was wearing a suit. Not normal attire for a late day stroll through a park.
Shane wasn’t aware someone was behind him. His focus was on Joey. The eagle crossed over my head and landed on the railing. Shane was within about twenty feet of my bench when the man unbuttoned his jacket and pulled out a gun from a shoulder holster. The closest I’ve been to guns were eyeing fake pistols lying backstage on prop tables but I’d seen enough movies to tell when one has a silencer attached.
The man spared a quick glance right and left before aiming the gun at Shane and calling out “Halloran?” There was a question in his voice, as if he needed confirmation.
Shane turned around, puzzled. I was too far from the man to knock the gun out of his hand and too far from Shane to tackle him to the ground. All I could do was scream and hope the sound would startle the killer.
“Shane! Drop!”
It sounds clichéd but several things happened at once. Shane, always the consummate actor, knew when to take direction.
As Shane hit the ground I heard him call out “Holly?” in tones of shock, fear, confusion, and a trace of hope. The killer whirled around, faced my direction, and fired. He missed—not that it would have mattered—and the bullet hit the railing.
The third event was more dramatic. Two members of the park police, ever on the alert, had heard the shouts and now jumped off their bicycles, drew their weapons, and yelled at the man to drop the gun.
He didn’t. They opened fire.
I closed my eyes but I wasn’t fast enough to blot out the image of bullets hitting the man’s body as he fell.
For a long moment there was silence and a frozen stillness from all the players involved.
Shane remained crouched on the ground. The policemen kept their weapons drawn and carefully approached the gunman, lying in a mix of red blood and green grass. One of the cops kicked the gun away from the stilled hand. I began to shake.
I looked up and spotted Joey flying across the creek toward whatever favorite spot he frequented on the other side of the park. He’d done what he could to lead me to Shane. Time for the eagle to land and rest.
I glanced at Shane again. One of the cops was reaching down to help him stand.
“Are you okay, sir?”
A troubled Shane nodded. “Thank you. I’m okay. I think.”
“Can you tell me what happened? We heard a woman scream and saw you drop, then saw the man with the gun. Did you know him?”
Shane shook his head. “Never seen him before. Crazy. Dressed up like some bond trader, but ready to shoot me? I don’t know why. I’d have given him my wallet and been glad of it, if he’d just asked.” He inhaled. “Thank you. You and your partner saved my life, you did.”
The cop shook his hand, and then I heard him ask, “Do you see the woman who screamed anywhere around? She’s a witness and we’ll need to interview her.”
Shane spoke with perfect honesty. “I never saw her. I have no idea where she is now or where she was when all this went down.”
I stayed at my bench and watched in silence as statements were taken. Other police arrived along with what I knew from several reruns of cop shows was an investigative crime scene unit. I overheard one officer tell another the mugger carried no identification.
My focus remained on Shane, who kept glancing at the bench with an air of impatience as he told the police what had happened from his point of view. He gave his assumed name and showed the cops some kind of ID.
The police and the coroner finally took off, taking the body of the unknown man with them. I couldn’t suppress a shudder.
Shane waited until the vehicles and spectators had gone. Then he walked over to my bench and sat next to me. He took a deep breath and tentatively asked, “Holly? I swear I heard your voice. Holly? Are ya hauntin’ me, lass?”
The time for hiding was over. “Shane. I’m here.”
He closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands. After a moment or two he looked in the direction of my voice.
“How?”
“I have no idea.” I spared a quick look at Joey, who’d flown back to sit on his perch and was now staring at us. He was calm and appeared pleased Shane and I were talking. “I do believe bald eagles really are messengers. We used to kid about it but I still believe it was Joey who brought us together the first time we met. This one knew exactly what to do at the right moment. Thank God.”
Shane shook his head. “So, I suppose now either I’m hallucinating or talkin’ to a ghost?”
“The latter is the general consensus. ‘General’ consisting of my aunt and m
e.”
“I don’t…I don’t know what to say. How am I supposed to handle learning for sure you died that day? I never felt like you did. It wasn’t right. It still isn’t.”
“I agree.”
Shane swallowed. “How long have you been here? I mean, on earth? God, that sounds idiotic.”
I laughed. “It sounds a lot saner than it should. You’re handling this better than I did.” I told him about waking up by Spuyten Duyvil Creek a few nights ago and subsequently delighting my aunt, who’d immediately concluded she was witnessing (or at least hearing) her niece Holly, back from the dead to haunt her.
“Of course, Adelaide Malone Kennedy still believes in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and whatever those six impossible things before breakfast are,” I added. “Plus she insists I can walk through walls or doors no matter how many times I tell her that’s a big no.”
Shane laughed aloud. “It’s bloody marvelous, though. I mean that your aunt didn’t faint or run in terror and just…accepted. Sounds like a remarkable woman. Wasn’t she in Paris when we were together? I seem to remember you showing me a postcard and us talking about visiting her sometime.”
I nodded, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t see me, then answered, “Yes.”
“Damn. So many dreams and years lost.” He stopped. “Holly, do you know who shot at us? Is that why you came back? To see justice done?”
“Oh jeez. Um, this is where things get weird.”
“What? More than me talking to your ghost?”
“Good point. But stay with me for a bit.”
Scarecrow’s Dream Page 13