“Anyone else want to fess up to being a carpetbagger?” Lindsay questioned as Lida Rose finished up with “I was belting out my first notes in the very same key.”
Theo turned as pink as was possible for a man whose skin color was a deep brown. “I have to admit it. I was not born in Texas. Nowhere near.”
Lindsay poked him in his side. “Yes, yes. Give.”
He smiled sheepishly. “Actually, my dad was in the service, so I wasn't even born in America. We were living in Germany at the time. But I did go to college at Sam Houston. Am I forgiven?”
The look Lindsay gave him made it clear he could have robbed a bank and been forgiven. I had that one pegged right. I was glad. They were a great couple. Plus, since Theo had been nabbed, Lida Rose would have one less bachelor to bug me about. Theo looked at the twins.
“Where you guys from?”
Ham and Hank chuckled. In unison. With the last name of “Humble” (a town southeast from Houston settled in the mid-1800s) and those first names, they had to be Sons of the Texas Republic. Their ancestors had probably elected the first governor, signed treaties with Mexico, and imported the original longhorn steers.
I was right. Ham stopped chewing on a taco long enough to announce the Humble brothers as natives of San Augustine, the oldest city in Texas. Lindsay squealed and stated she was from Lufkin, only forty miles away.
That started the “where were you the year San Augustine beat Lufkin?” routine. The beating referred to was, of course, football. Yep. I was back in Texas.
Rafe had stayed silent. Lindsay, the instigator of this roots interrogation, eyed him and stared until he retreated into a tall glass of iced tea. “Okay. Tell us, Montez. Are you even legal? I mean, you look like you came riding over the hill with Pancho Villa.”
I was beginning to truly adore Lindsay. She had yet to pull a punch and had absolutely no guile.
Rafe smiled, a long, warm smile that made the hot sauce seem mild in comparison. “Dallas, Texas, ma'am,” he drawled. “I'm more native than the bunch of you. Not only did I grow up smack in the middle of Big D, I was born here.”
I stared at him. “You're kidding. Where did you go to school? Did you do shows around here? How did I miss meeting you before?”
“Jesuit High. Where, incidentally, I played more than my share of leads in theatrical extravaganzas. I don't know why we haven't met before, although you Arts Magnet types ignored the productions at Jesuit. As for college? Notre Dame. Football scholarship. I did a few shows there as well.”
Amazing. He did possess a great physique, but even college football players nowadays seem to be giants. Rafe was a shade less than six feet tall and wiry rather than big.
My mouth dropped lower. “Football?”
“I happen to be a damned fine kicker.”
I laughed. “I thought those toes pointed right smartly for a villain when we were rehearsing the 'Business Is Bad' number.”
He acknowledged the compliment with a slight tilt of his head. “Remember I told you my mom danced with New York City Ballet? Blame it on her. My Dad moved down to Texas, she was only about eighteen when I was born, and she missed being out of the company. So I got the brunt of her frustration until she began performing with Dallas Ballet. She'd dance at home—with me. Actually, I was the only kicker in Notre Dame history ever to do tours in the air after the ball sailed through the goalpost.”
We were all howling. For the first time, Rafe seemed to be relaxing. I wondered how long that would last. I couldn't stop myself from asking questions. “What was your major?”
He lifted the right eyebrow at me. “You are one nosy woman, you know that?”
True. I've never denied it.
“So?” I demanded.
“Art.”
“You're joking.”
“I'm absolutely serious.”
The man looked like he could grind metal in his teeth and bench press three times his weight. Art. I knew I was thinking stereotypically, but still I was so astonished I couldn't even think of a clever quip. Fortunately the dessert platter of sopapillas arrived and everyone got busy pouring butter and honey over the pastries. My lack of witty bon mots didn't seem to be noticed.
The conversation took a series of rapid turns, from college majors to football teams to who was dating whom and where. The last naturally launched us into a delightfully tacky discussion about Jason going off for lunch with three women we speculated had very clear designs on the man.
“So does Daisy.”
This last came from Larry, the assistant costumer who had joined our group only moments before. I hadn't seen him at first, which was surprising because he was dressed in what I could only label as his Great Gatsby: vanilla ice cream suit with a pink shirt and mauve tie with dots of white and pink. How he could wear something like that when the temperature was well over ninety outdoors was a tribute either to the deodorant industry or a clear conscience. He wasn't eating; he was visiting. He informed Lida Rose that he was on his way to the Garland Summer Musicals’ warehouse to look at old slut costumes he thought might work for the dancehall girls.
We stared at him after he made his astonishing revelation about Daisy Haltom. He threw his hands into the air in a gesture any New Yorker knew meant, Yo! You gotta problem?
“Well, pardonez moi, y'all, but I'm not making it up. She follows him around like a puppy. And she was crying in the costume shop the other day after he'd been flirting with Macy all afternoon. Daisy's always coming up with excuses for him to check her car or offering to help him learn his songs. The man's an ass, but he is a good musician. He no more needs help learning that music from Miss Spinster than I need a woman.”
Since Larry made no bones about being gay, this last statement was a firm indicator of how desperate Daisy Haltom truly was.
Lida Rose smiled a bit too sweetly. “Well, golly gee. I never knew Miss Daisy even recognized differences in the sexes. This is truly an eye-opener.”
Lindsay shook her head. “She's in for some serious hurt. Jason likes 'em young and pretty. Let's face it, she's neither.”
“The man's a snake.”
“What?” We turned as a unit to the older twin, Ham.
“He goes after every poor girl in every cast. Love 'em and leave 'em. I've counseled more broken hearts in the years I've done shows with Jason. I should be paid analyst fees.”
“Ah, you're just jealous cause you're passionately in love with Amber and she's not interested. Yet.”
Ham blushed as his brother stated this embarrassing fact.
So Ham (and doubtless Hank, since the pair seemed joined at the hip) disliked Jason Sharkey with a passion. And Daisy, the spinster wren with the grace of an ox, had a passionate crush on Jason. Jason was passionately chasing both Macy and Amber. I was passionately trying to finish my dances while not giving in to the passion rising in my body for a certain Spanish disbeliever of the paranormal. The passion level at the theatre for the next few months could prove interesting.
Lida Rose started gathering up her troops to shepherd us back to rehearsal. I swallowed the last of my sopapilla, hurriedly chugged down a glass of iced tea, and tried to get my mind back on the show.
The instant I entered the lobby of the theatre, I could hear Jed howling behind the kitchen doors. I let him out of his prison and tried to withstand the attack of sixty-five pounds of puppy jumping my direction. He frantically began to lick my nose. We went through the dance ritual practiced by dog lovers and their pups around the world upon reuniting after an absence. No matter if that absence is two minutes or two weeks. Thelma Lou walked in and laughed at the sight of Jed's paws gripping my shoulders.
“Jed wasn't left alone for more'n a minute while you were gone. I only right now stepped out to go to the little girl's room. He's nuts about you. He was good the whole time, but he had that lost look in his eyes like he was afraid he'd been deserted forever.”
Jed stopped licking long enough for me to gasp out, “Thanks,” follo
wed by, “I love him, too. I don't know what I'm going to do when Ted and Margaret come back. I may have to ask them to adopt me so I can live with them and this durn dog.”
She grinned, started to leave, then turned and asked, “By the way, didja hear about the folks comin' back for the show?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Lida Rose told us this morning. I hope we can do justice to their performances from years ago. I keep hearing how wonderful they all were.”
Thelma Lou sniffed. “Not all of 'em were wonderful. Of course, Don was. Some of the others. But don't you fret about it none. From what I've seen so far, this production is much better.”
“Well, thanks. That's kind of you to say.”
I disentangled the dog from my body and started out of the kitchen with the elderly wardrobe mistress. She stayed silent until we reached the stage area. “Kiely? I gotta wonder how Don feels about all those folks comin' back. And Cyrus Boone? How's he gonna react when he watches Lance Lamar shoot Nick Nefarious? I hate to be shoutin' doom and gloom, but I told Lida Rose when she invited 'em. This is just askin' for trouble.”
Chapter 7
Coming in early to choreograph had worked so well the previous day (except for that short unscheduled chat with Rafe) that I decided I'd give it another try this morning.
For once, the front doors were locked. I whipped out the key Lida Rose had provided and prayed for it to work. She's been known on occasion to hand me keys that open either one of her kids' lockers at school, or the safety deposit box at her bank. But with an easy twist, the door gave and I was in.
I smelled coffee. Thelma Lou was a saint. I needed to find a fun good-show gift for her for opening night. Perhaps some brightly colored sports memorabilia earrings to match one of her team caps.
I grabbed a mug, filled it with coffee, cream, and sweetener, held it in my right hand and grabbed a wad of paper napkins with my left. I had to use my butt to open the doors leading into the theatre from the lobby entrance.
Half of a body appeared to be sticking out of the top of the old upright piano. A pair of jeans encasing muscular legs was all that could be seen. I screamed and promptly spilled my coffee all over the floor. It appeared as though the piano had swallowed its victim, rather like a scene from an old horror movie, like Attack of the Hungry Piano.
Sounds were emanating from the keys, though, so this piano hadn't quite devoured whoever was inside. A living being quickly brought the top half up when I yelled, “Who's there?”
“Kiely? Is that you?”
“Rafe?”
Sure enough. The man disentangled himself from the innards of the piano. The scowl on the face could only belong to Rafe Montez, noted art historian and kicker of footballs.
“What in hell are you doing? You scared the living fool out of me. I thought someone had stuffed a body into the piano.”
He quickly made his way down the aisle of the theatre, knelt down, and began mopping up the coffee. “Sorry. I was actually leaning over the top. No way to get that far inside. Daisy told me yesterday she thought something might be stuck in the piano. Said the keyboard action didn't feel right. Wasn't springing back the way it's supposed to. She didn't have time to check it out, so I thought I'd do it for her this morning.”
I glared at him. “No offense but that is a load of horse poop. The keyboard action? Seriously? Anyway, how did you get in? The doors were locked.”
He looked wickedly innocent, rather like a choirboy explaining to his priest why that copy of Playboy had been passed around the loft during services. “Hey, they were open when I got here. I locked them while I was working on the piano. Wouldn't want a break-in, would we?”
He smiled at me. Intuition said he was lying, but there didn't seem to be a motive for it. I had no idea what to say or how to call him on it.
We finished cleaning the spilled coffee with the wad of napkins I'd thoughtfully juggled in. Jed helped by lapping up this new treat. I prayed that caffeine mixed with cream and chemical sweetener wasn't harmful to canines.
Rafe gently took the empty mug from my hand. “You need to get to work, don't you? I'll get you some more coffee, since it seems I was responsible for you losing that first cup.”
I looked at him. He seemed sincere. “Thanks. I'll let you do precisely that. I must admit I'm still shaking. I thought someone had joined our resident ghost by means of piano vivisection.”
His laughter filled the theatre with a rich baritone sound.
“You do have quite an imagination, Miss Davlin. Believe me, there was no violence being perpetrated by either the piano or myself.”
“Mm hmm.”
He turned to go.
“Rafe? Cream and fake sugar. The yellow stuff, please, not the blue or the pink. Teaspoon each.”
He didn't even turn. “I know.”
I didn't want to ask how he knew how I liked my coffee. I was simply glad he was going after another cup. After the scare of seeing a headless body over a piano, I needed a serious jolt of java.
I set up my phone with music app and notebook on the stage, then dug out a toy for Jed from my bag. Ted and Margaret had thoughtfully supplied a seemingly endless accumulation of chew toys, but Jed had been eliminating them at an alarming rate.
I was about to ease into my usual warm-up routine when Rafe came back laden with a mug of freshly brewed coffee. I took a sip. Yellow stuff and cream, both in the right amounts. I was feeling much more kindly about Mr. Montez, but I waved him away almost rudely. “I have work to do. Thanks for the coffee. Where you off to now?”
“I have props to search for. And lines to learn. And dances to go over. I shall leave you to your creative processes.”
I watched as he headed toward the lobby doors. Nice view. I couldn't resist calling as he opened them, “Watch out for the ghost. He's up and around today.”
He did not respond.
I cranked up the music. I needed to concentrate on the steps for the “Brazos Shuffle,” a crazy number performed by the villain and his sidekick in Act Two. I decided to add a high kick. Mr. Football Scholarship with the ballerina mom could doubtless execute a flawless one with pointed toes, straight back and all. I giggled. I began imagining Rafe kicking vigorously and continuously over the head of Ben Collins, who played Jackson Wild, while the man squirmed on the floor ducking flying feet. I liked it.
Someone applauded. Apparently my efforts were appreciated.
I glanced into the audience. A figure wearing a black tux with tails, black pants, black stovepipe hat, and white sneakers stood near the back row. Had Rafe changed into the villain costume again and come back to bug me? I called out to him. He had vanished. Into nothingness. I breathed quickly and heavily. That had not been a shadow. No trick of the morning light had conjured up that vision. Fifty-years-deceased Don Mueller had just appeared and clapped his ghostly hands hard enough to be heard.
I sat down on the edge of the stage and took a large swallow of the now-tepid coffee. Jed rested his soft head on my dance bag and snored. The darned mutt hadn't even looked up.
I tried to assimilate what I'd seen and heard. I'd been right in telling Rafe our ghost was up and around. I had no doubt that this was the spirit of the murdered actor. I stared into the audience where I'd seen him. Nothing. Then a movement up by the light booth caught my eye. I craned my neck and squinted. My villain casually leaned next to the railing and waved at me. Without even thinking, I waved back.
“Who you waving at?”
“Him. Don Mueller.” I'd answered without a pause. Then I realized who'd asked the question.
Rafe strode up and hovered over me. “Kiely. Go home. Have you eaten today?”
My response was immediate and indignant. “Power drink, fruit, omelet, bagels, and peanut butter for breakfast. I am not hallucinating from hunger, if that's what you're suggesting.”
He sat down beside me and shook his head. “It crossed my mind. But damn, girl, how do you eat like a linebacker and stay skinny?”
�
��I am not skinny. I am a dancer, dammit. I dance all day and I jog back and forth from the theatre in this heat with my new four-footed roomie.”
He put his hands up to defend himself. “Hey, I wasn't being insulting. I thought women liked being called skinny.”
I stuck my tongue out at him. “Thin is nice. Lean and stacked is nice. Skinny conjures up the image of a crone spinster with fifty cats at home who hasn't had a date in forty years.”
He stifled a laugh. “I'll remember that. You are definitely not in the skinny class. Lean, stacked, and thin would be okay to say? Wouldn't get me hauled off for sexual harassment or sicced on by your rabid beast there?”
Jedidiah was lying on his back, tongue hanging out, paws dangling, oblivious to the world outside of bunny-filled dreams.
Rafe's tone grew more serious. “I'm worried about you. Bonding with nonexistent spirits.”
I drew myself up like one of those fifty cats. “Look. I'm not usually into psychic stuff. And I normally discount half of what Lida Rose says outside of when she's directing. But Thelma Lou has seen Don, too. So it's not only me.”
“Kiely, Lida Rose has an imagination that would make George Lucas, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Steven Spielberg green with envy. And Thelma Lou? Jeez, woman. Don't get me wrong. The lady is a terrific person and she was rumored to be one hell of a great costumer in her day. But she's about a hundred years old. Who knows what memories she has that may be expressing themselves as ghost sightings?”
I refused to listen to rational thinking or logic. “Fine. Then would you care to explain why I heard hands clapping, and saw a man dressed in the villain costume standing here no more than ten minutes ago? You'll note, please, that you're in jeans today, not the black outfit, so it's not you. No one else is here. It looked exactly like his picture. And he was waving at me up by the light booth.”
Rafe looked troubled. “I don't know what's going on. The only theory halfway plausible is that Lida Rose and Thelma Lou have got you so worked up about this guy, you're dreaming him out of thin air. Or someone's playing tricks.”
I stood up. “That' s one lousy theory. Actually, that's two lousy theories. Now, I have to get back to work. Excuse me.”
Ghosts, Wandering Here and There Page 5