“Who was the soldier?” I asked. “Did you know him before you were in the hospital?”
Rob and Crimson exchanged an odd look. Crimson whispered, “Tell her.”
Rob chewed on his lower lip, then said, “I met him there. We’d been POWs in the same camp but we were in separate—well—let’s say ‘areas’. It wasn’t like we could hang out in an exercise yard. But we got to be friends in the hospital and he told me the captain, whom I call Hemming in the play, had been collaborating with the Viet Cong. He and the commandant of the camp—General Thuy in Basement—met more than once, even before Hemming became a so-called prisoner of war.”
“And this boy saw them?”
“Yes. Mike—God, he really was just a kid—anyway, he overheard them. He was on leave in Saigon before any of us were taken prisoner. Some crowded bar most of the GI’s had never heard of, so I guess the general and our killer didn’t notice Mike nursing a beer in a dark corner. Anyway, Mike never told anyone until we met and began to compare notes on our experiences.” Rob’s voice sounded distant. “Mike knew I was a writer. He told me I needed to get the word out, one way or another. It was as if he knew he wouldn’t be able to. He also told me he had proof.”
Crimson stared at the ceiling as tears flowed down her cheeks. I squeezed her hand and asked, “Crimson? Why were you at the hospital? Did you already know Rob?”
She wiped her eyes. “No. We first met when I came to talk to the doctors about Private Mikhail Cherstvennikov, who was murdered the night before I was able to see him.
“Holly, Mike was my brother.”
April 2016
I stared at the Matisse as the flashback subsided, wishing I could tell Shane what I’d just learned without attracting Brian’s attention. Some kind of mild spectral activity that wouldn’t freak him out. Shane needed to know Crimson Cloverly’s brother had been the soldier who’d died in the hospital. He needed to know it was murder, and that more of the play than he’d thought had been based on truth.
The killer must have decided he couldn’t risk exposure. Rob had made major name and plot changes but he obviously believed there was still enough there to denounce him and reveal him as the traitor he was. The only thing that surprised me was that Crimson hadn’t been killed along with everyone else in April of ’73.
Shane and Brian Martin were discussing the Matisse and Brian was telling Shane his grandfather had been a Ukrainian who’d emigrated to the United States before World War II, then joined up with the US to fight overseas. He’d found the Matisse in Paris a few months after the war ended.
Brian’s eyebrow lifted. “My grandfather was a proud soldier, but my mother was very much opposed to war. My uncle Mike died in a veterans’ hospital back in the late sixties, so that probably contributed to her feelings.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Shane. “What happened?”
“All I know is that he was in a POW camp in Vietnam. He was already in pretty bad shape when he was finally released and brought back to the States. Died at the VA not long after he was home.”
Brian continued. “My grandfather was awarded the Bronze Star during the Second World War and my great-grandfather fought in the Crimean War. A family tradition of soldiering.” He smiled. “But you didn’t come here to listen to me babble about my ancestors.”
Shane said, “Funny, but in a way I did.”
“Oh?”
“If we’re…if I’m right, this centers around your family history.”
Shane sank down onto the sofa and I stood next to him.
Brian said, “Go on, Mr. Halloran.”
“Please, make it Shane.”
“Brian.”
Shane took a deep breath. “Brian, forty-three years ago, your mother was asked to take a role in a play. It never made it onto the stage. The playwright, Rob Stutzgraft, and my…well, the play’s co-writer, Holly Malone, were both murdered.” His voice broke, but he added, “I disappeared. I knew I was next.”
“But why come to me now? What’s going on?”
“I returned to Manhattan about two weeks ago, not long after your mother died, using the name Jordan Matthews. I never imagined I was still in danger until yesterday, when someone tried to shoot me. Wanted it to look like a mugging gone wrong.” He did not add that he was saved by the ghost of Holly Malone, screaming stage directions at him in concert with a bald eagle.
Brian smiled. “Sounds like a decent movie plot.”
“It does, doesn’t it? We’ll give it a go one day when it’s all sorted out. At any rate, I found a copy of the Village Voice with my photo plastered on page one. It had been taken at a protest the previous night in Bryant Park. It identified me as Jordan Matthews but, as several people have pointed out, I’m still pretty easy to recognize.”
“So the theory is this mugger saw the photo and targeted you?”
“Exactly. Which begs the question, why? And the only answer that makes sense is this has something to do with whoever tried to kill me forty-three years ago.”
Brian exhaled. “Whoa. This is interesting, and bizarre, but what does it have to do with my mother?”
“I am so sorry for bringing this up, but are you certain Crimson’s accident was an accident?”
“What are you implying? It was deliberate?”
“It’s…possible. I don’t know.”
Brian frowned. “The police came by a week or so after the accident. The…autopsy revealed Mom had peanuts in her system. She was allergic. They surmised she’d had a seizure, gone into shock, and lost control of the car. She was always aware of what she ate and she always carried one of those epi-pens with her just in case. The police told me they found a half-eaten cookie on the passenger seat. There was no epi-pen in her bag. I just thought it had been misplaced. The cookie was chocolate, but they found traces of peanuts in it. She wouldn’t have known…”
I flinched. Shane must have felt the movement because he casually laid his hand over mine without Brian being aware of anything unusual.
“Where was she before this happened?” Shane asked.
“I have no idea. She was meeting someone for tea. We visited and called often, but it’s not like I saw her every day.” Brian stood and crossed to the fireplace, then ran his hand over the frame of the Matisse. “But, Shane, there’s one thing… It didn’t mean much at the time but after hearing what happened to you, it now seems important…”
Shane and I both waited.
“She was all excited because she’d been cleaning out old trunks and cartons and came across a very early draft of an old script written by a friend of hers. She said she’d gotten in touch with the man who’d tried to produce the original play years ago, Derek Fergus. I said it sounded interesting and Derek has always had an excellent reputation. Anyway, they met and were discussing how terrific it would be to finally get it produced if they could find someone to finish the script. The day she died she’d told me she was going to meet with someone who claimed to have a copy of the final script. She wasn’t sure how this person knew she was interested. And I have no idea how he or she found out Mom wanted to try and get it produced.”
Shane almost leapt off the sofa. “Who was this other person?”
“I don’t know. I wish now I’d asked. I was in the middle of my own project and it was one of those days when everything was in crisis mode.” Brian’s expression mirrored his frustration and anger. “Damn. This has me reeling. Could this really have something to do with what happened to you? Or Mom’s accident? It can’t all be coincidence.”
“I hate to say it, but yes, it’s possible. Is there anything else you can remember about what she said?”
“Not much. I told her I’d be glad to do the casting if all went well and she was able to get whatever was left of the script and find someone to complete it or give me some info on the characters. I asked her the title. After t
elling me the subject matter was pretty explosive she said the play was called Trapped in the Basement.”
I knew it was coming, yet when I heard the title it seemed to seal a final confirmation. Crimson had died so a killer could continue to enjoy the life he’d had for the last forty-three years.
Chapter Twenty-One
Shane and Brian continued to discuss the horrific possibility that Crimson Cloverly had been murdered. Had the killer been devious enough to provide chocolate-only goodies at tea, then persuade her to take a couple “for the road”, substituting them with several laced with peanuts?
It wasn’t the surest way to commit murder, but then, neither was shooting the tires out of a motorcycle. If it worked, great. If not? The killer doubtless had more than one back-up plan.
Shane told Brian to tell the police everything about their conversation. “They could check her cell phone, or a notebook organizer, if she carried one.”
“Will do.”
They said their goodbyes. Shane and I headed back to Addie’s car for the drive to Manhattan. We sat in silence for the first few minutes.
Finally, Shane came out with, “I need coffee. You?”
“Oh yeah.”
He stopped at a fast food joint we’d noticed on the way to Brian’s house, and ordered two coffees and two breakfast burritos. He parked in the lot so we could have some time to talk.
“So, where do we go from here?” I asked. “I mean, in terms of investigating?”
“Derek.”
“You don’t believe he’s involved?” I shuddered.
“No. I don’t. Then again, I always liked him so I’m a bit biased in his favor. But I am entertaining the possibility he knows something he doesn’t realize is important.”
“Oh, crap!” I shouted. “Speaking of important.”
“What?”
“I had a flashback while you and Mr. Martin were discussing the Matisse.” I told him about Rob witnessing a murder in the hospital, and that the victim had been Crimson’s brother.
“Shane, we knew Rob and Crimson were friends, but this kind of bond is much closer. And Rob swore there was some kind of proof.”
“Whoa. Holly, with deference to Mr. Shakespeare, you’ve just confirmed that the play really is ‘the thing.’ Slanderous accusations or embarrassment over past misdeeds are one thing, but if this captain realized Rob was about to ‘out’ him both as a traitor and a murderer, well, he’d have a good reason to make sure Rob’s play never saw the light of day. Hell, I’m surprised he didn’t take out Crimson years ago along with Rob.”
“My exact thought.”
Shane snapped his fingers. “Hang on a second. I want to confirm something.” He grabbed his cell phone and hit whatever let him access the Internet. I stayed silent while he searched.
“Ha! We missed this the other day in her bio. Remember when I said I thought Crimson had been offered a gig in Europe? She did a film there in ’73. She wasn’t around when Rob was killed.”
I was right with him. “I’ll bet our guy never knew she was Private Mike’s sister. There’s the whole name difference after all. And she didn’t witness his murder. Anyway, she takes off for Europe and stays safe. Ten to one she only became a threat when she found that old draft of the play and started talking to people about finally getting it produced. Obviously the wrong person found out… I mean, it’s all speculation but it seems to me our killer isn’t one to take chances.”
Shane waited until he’d swallowed a large bite of his burrito. “I agree. Let’s try to organize this into a timeline that makes sense. So, in the spring of ’73, as far as the killer was concerned, only Rob knew the full story. Then he found out Rob had asked you to help. Which again, begs the question, who else knew you were working with Rob, apart from you, me, and your da?”
“Not a clue. I haven’t had any flashbacks providing any answers. I’m not even sure when Rob told Frannie.”
“Is there some way to trigger your visions?” Shane asked. “I mean, nudge your memory where we want it to go? Does that sound horrible?”
I laughed. “A little sinister and unpleasant. But I’d be willing to try hypnosis or electroshock therapy or something equally loony if I thought it’d work. To be honest, I was surprised I had a memory that didn’t include you back at Brian’s house. Up until today all my flashbacks have either been with you or about you.”
“So what is the common connection?”
“I’m not sure there is one. My memories seem to center around wherever I am and the people I’m with.”
Shane nodded but didn’t say anything for a long moment. He appeared to be zoning out of the whole conversation.
“Shane? What?”
“We still have more than one murder to solve, but Holly, I can’t see much ahead for us other than grief. It’s tearing me apart.”
“What do you mean?”
“I want to see justice done and I have to assume you were sent back to me to either save me or stop another killing. But let’s assume we solve this. Will it change anything for us? What’s going to happen? Can you stick around forever as a ghost I can’t really touch? Or worse, I’m terrified the minute we learn who did this—the minute he’s brought to justice—you’ll disappear. I can’t stand losing you again.”
I waited a long moment before responding. “Believe me, the same thing occurred to me. It has ever since I remembered meeting you for the first time. I joke with Addie about haunting her but—pardon the phrase—it’s killing me to imagine being without you again. Do I cross into the light and hang out and wait for you?”
“Any way you look at it, our lives were changed back then. But we need to find out who did this. We have to stop him before he ruins any other lives.”
“Agreed. Enough wallowing in despair. Time for action. Shit. Brian Martin has a family. And Frannie Stutzgraft believes she’s safe but is she? I don’t want this creep coming after any of them on the off chance they have some information.”
“Let’s get to it, then.” Shane put his empty coffee cup and burrito wrapper into a bag. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
Shane eased out of the parking lot and back onto the street leading to the George Washington Bridge. I stared out of the passenger side window, obsessing about how much longer I’d be on earth, and whether everything we were doing had a purpose or whether proverbial tails were being chased in circles.
I felt a sudden tension in my neck and shoulders. “Shane?”
“Yes, luv?”
“I’m having a weird feeling, like something bad is going to happen.”
“Worse than what’s already happened?”
“I mean, more immediate. Like in the next few minutes.”
“Are you sensing danger?” Shane asked.
“It’s more a déjà vu vibe.”
Shane continued to head for the bridge. “Um, work with me here. No offense, but do you have anything more specific?”
I tried to force the feeling into something more solid. Nothing happened.
“Holly?”
“Hang on. Something…Shane! Quick, take the upper level!”
Bless the man. He didn’t ask why. He just moved—illegally, since we were in the “no changing lanes at this point” area—and swerved into the lane reserved for the second tier. Fortunately, the road wasn’t crowded and we reached the toll plaza without any issues. I sat back and tried to relax.
“Still twitchy?” Shane asked.
“Yes.”
He paid and continued on to the upper deck, staying in the right hand lane. I kept waiting for whatever awful thing I couldn’t identify to happen. So far all was serene and quiet. Just a pretty April day’s drive across a bridge, with the beauty of the Manhattan skyline in front of us.
“I guess I overreacted,” I told Shane. “What did I expect—th
e killer to swing down from one of the girders and shoot at us through the window?”
Shane laughed. “Addie’s got you watching too many movies.”
“Well, I still…” I never finished the sentence. I listened in horror to the sound of metal colliding with metal on the bridge’s lower level.
“Shane!”
“I hear it. Can you see anything?”
I rolled down the window and glanced behind us. Four cars had crumpled into a single accordion. I could see flames licking the hood of the second vehicle.
“Holly, you can be heard by everyone, right?”
“Apparently.”
Shane handed me his cell. “Nine-one-one.”
I punched in the numbers with shaking hands. The dispatcher assured me responders were already on their way and thanked me for the prompt call.
I laid the phone down on my lap. “She said the paramedics and cops and firefighters should be there soon.”
As soon as I finished my sentence I saw the flashing lights coming from both sides of the bridge. There was nothing more Shane or I could do other than pray.
We reached the Manhattan side of the bridge and then headed up to the Inwood area. Shane pulled over and found a place to park.
“I need to gather my wits and begin to breathe normally again. Hell. If we’d been on the lower level…”
“Yes.”
“Holly. You knew, didn’t you? This was the vibe you were getting?”
“Shane, this was so strange. I kept feeling we weren’t in danger as long as we took the upper level. How did I know?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Weren’t you complaining only last night to Addie and me that your one trick as a ghost was invisibility? Are ya now includin’ a mite of second sight to your skills, lass?” Shane teased.
“If a crystal ball in my brain could tell me who did what and where we need to go from here, believe me, I’d love to include ‘seer’ on my resume,” I said. “Which brings me to—”
Scarecrow’s Dream Page 17