Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I steered her into the kitchen and started the process of making strong coffee for a mob.

  “Lida Rose. Calm down. First, you call the paper and you cancel Barrett for today. Have you ever heard of a single reporter, apart from the crime beat types, up and awake at this hour of the morning? So there's no need for them to know anything until the police have made a preliminary investigation. Secondly, quit crying murder until you know for sure that's what it is. That damned cabinet was attached to the ceiling with pins or ropes or somthing, isn't that right? Well, who knows how long it's been up there? Those pins could have rotted or rusted away, and bam. Down came the cabinet.”

  She almost brightened. “That's true. Let me think about this. It's well known that Jason used the ‘Kismet’ prop room as his love nest. Maybe he met Macy last night, and she left and he was checking to be sure they hadn't left anything nasty around—if you get my drift—and, well, you nailed it. Down comes the cabinet and that stupid scimitar was a crazy fluke landing in his neck like that. Isn't that a possibility?”

  It sounded ridiculous even to me, but it was better than the alternative theory—that someone had snuck in, wielded the scimitar, and knocked that cabinet on top of him.

  I poured more water into the pot. “As for everyone who's due in the next thirty minutes or whatever, you tell them the truth. That Jason was found in the prop room and he's dead. Let the cops do their jobs. Okay?”

  She sank down onto one of the rickety old kitchen chairs. “Kiely?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why do you suppose someone murdered him?”

  I pulled my chair next to her. I didn't repeat the accident theory. Neither of us believed it anyway. “I don't know. I mean, Jason was not my favorite person. Let's face it. Jason was not anybody's favorite person except for maybe Daisy and Macy. Or Amber’s, once upon a time. He went through women like I go through tortilla chips, he was a racist pig, he had a very high opinion of his own talent but not of others, and he was generally annoying. Ham told me he even cheated at cards. Any one of those girls might have gotten so jealous she lost control. But to kill him? I can see Daisy shooting Macy. But I can't see those girls as killers.”

  I continued to speculate, “Unless Macy's husband found out and went ballistic or something. Hey, that's a strong possibility, isn't it?”

  Lida Rose let out a whoosh of air. “Nope. I know Macy's husband. He's five-foot five and weighs one hundred and fifteen pounds on a good day after a large dinner. How could he knock a cabinet weighing hundreds of pounds onto a man Jason's size?”

  “Physics, L.R., physics. I don't weigh much more, but if something's at a proper angle, a heavy object can be easily toppled.”

  She shivered. Before she could respond, a male voice chimed in, “I wouldn't advise speculating. It could prove dangerous.”

  I looked up. Rafe was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. I scowled at him. “Did you take lessons from our theatre ghost in sneaking around silently and appearing out of thin air? Or does it come naturally?”

  He helped himself to a steaming cup of coffee, interrupting the flow of the machine. “Since there is no ghost, the answer to your first question is ‘no.’ Which I guess means I was gifted at birth with the admirable ability to be sneaky. Thanks for the coffee, by the way.”

  Lida Rose poured a cup for herself before plopping back down in the chair. She waved her spoon at Rafe. “Why can't we speculate? Why is that dangerous?”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Jason Sharkey was murdered. You know it. I know it. But as yet, this is not an opinion shared by the local constabulary. If I am right, then a killer is very much at large and might be interested in knocking off anyone curious enough to wonder why Mr. Sharkey was ushered into the next world with undue haste.”

  I poured my own huge mug and added an extra spoonful of sugar. I was craving sweets. I wondered if Lida Rose had brought her stash of miniature candy bars. Then again, it might not be considered in the best taste for the police to find associates of the deceased snarfing down crunchy and liquor-filled chocolates while said corpse was being carted off by a medical examiner.

  I took an extra swig and asked Rafe, “Why don't the cops think it was murder?”

  “They theorize that the cabinet fell when Jason might have been trying to get one of the cases of guns that were on the top, which, incidentally, is a damned stupid place to leave them. They think the cabinet was unbalanced and whatever the heck kept it upright tied to the ceiling were rotten and it toppled on him and the scimitar caught him at the wrong place, mainly his neck.”

  “But that's good, isn't it? It really might have been an accident?”

  Rafe shook his head. “I've been in the prop room a lot in the weeks I've been here. That cabinet was no more unbalanced than I am. And why the hell would Jason be trying to get those cases anyway? He’s not the prop master. Doesn't make sense. Not to mention that the guns we use are kept in the new prop room next to the scene shop. Not in ‘Kismet’. And the cabinet was a lot lighter than you think. It was almost empty.”

  Lida Rose spilled coffee down the front of her blouse and didn't even notice. “You believe someone was able to push the cabinet on top of him That doesn't make sense, either. How would they do that with Jason standing there? Wouldn't he jump back?”

  Rafe shrugged. “I don't know. Hey, I'm an actor with a theory. What does that matter, right?”

  Lida Rose looked at him for a long moment. “It does matter. You're a very smart actor and we may very well have some lunatic running loose in our theatre tossing cabinets.”

  Rafe and I raised a total of three eyebrows to that one. His left brow and both of mine. I patted her hand. “Lida Rose, I don't think a mad cabinet thrower is rampaging through the theatre. Even if it was deliberate, much as I hate to mention it, we've said it before and it's true. Jason had a lot of folks angry at him.”

  Rafe took a swallow from a large mug of coffee.”Kiely's right. Jason was not well loved by all.”

  I stood up. “Crap. I'm about to be brilliant. Well, thanks to Don Mueller.”

  The other two looked at me like I was running naked down Central Expressway during rush hour.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I'm sorry. It just hit me. When I looked up and saw his ghost—yes, I did, Rafe, whether you believe me or not—he was making a swinging motion. I thought he was waving kind of funny. But maybe he was trying to suggest that someone first sliced Jason with the scimitar, then pushed that cabinet to make it look accidental. If it’s not as heavy as it looks, even a small guy like Macy's husband, or hell, Macy or Daisy could knock that sucker over. And if Jason was lying there bleeding, he or she would have all the time in the world to finish the job. I wonder when Jason actually died.”

  “I may be sick.”

  I looked at Lida Rose. She wasn't kidding. Her face was the same shade of green as the T-shirt I'd almost bought down in a vintage clothing store in Greenwich Village that specialized in sixties and seventies neon: a cross between lima bean and chartreuse. It was not a pretty color. I hugged her.

  “Hey, I'm sorry. Listen, I'm probably wrong. I mean, no one wants to imagine someone wielding a scimitar at anyone's necknot even a sleaze like Jason then taking the time to toss a cabinet around.”

  We were interrupted when a shout came from inside the theatre. The casts, past and present, had arrived and were wondering why cop cars and ambulances were decorating the parking lot.

  Lida Rose poured more coffee into her cup and threw open the door. “Time to be the bearer of very bad tidings.” She looked hopeful. “Unless the police beat me to it?”

  Rafe escorted her into the theatre. “No such luck, Mrs. Rizokowsky. They're still upstairs and not likely to come down for another hour at least. Didn't even leave anyone in the lobby to let the cast know. It's up to you, director lady.”

  The pair of them left the kitchen. I stayed. I didn't want to be there when Lida Rose announced
that Jason Sharkey was dead. I didn't want to look at Macy's face or see Daisy's tears or wonder who in this group might have had a reason to kill the man. And I wanted to sit in silence for a second and try to figure out why Rafe Montez had been looking at the tops of cabinets in the prop room enough to know that was where the old gun cases were stored.

  Chapter 14

  Taking the time to gulp down several cups of coffee had been one of my better ideas. I felt a bit more ready to face the cast of Bad Business, now sitting in the audience section.

  Macy was slumped down in a seat in the middle of the front row. Tears had washed away every bit of mascara from her lashes, and black streaks now stained her white T-shirt. Daisy was curled up into a fetal position on the piano bench, rocking and holding her arms around her upper body. Lindsay and Theo were holding hands, disengaging only to allow Lindsay to wipe away the tears flowing down her cheeks, but she at least seemed composed. The twins, Hank and Ham Humble, appeared angry. Amber sobbed as Lida Rose tried to calm her by patting her shoulder.

  Our older cast mates looked equally perturbed. Shirley cried and hung onto an ashen-faced Fran for support. Nathaniel paced the far aisle. I didn't see the Boones.

  Jed was whining down in the raised orchestra pit. He must have sensed I was back from the kitchen because he jumped out from under the railing and galloped toward me. I hugged his warm body while he wriggled and licked and produced small yips of joy.

  I looked around for Rafe and finally spotted him standing by himself under the balcony at the very back of the theatre, muttering and shaking his head. Three more people entered—Thelma Lou and the Boones.

  Billie spoke without preamble. “We've been talking. And we think we should close the theatre for a few weeks, then open with a different production.”

  Lida Rose had been nearly distraught when she and I had been in the kitchen talking. She had let her emotions show through when she had informed the cast of Jason's death. Perhaps this had registered as weakness. But Billie Boone did not know the real Lida Rose. Jason's death was devastating. But Billie’s pronouncement brought the stiffness back into her spine. Lida Rose straightened to her full height, marched toward the front of the orchestra pit, then stood next to me. “Billie. I'm sorry, but this is neither the time nor place to discuss the future of this theatre or this production. And excuse me if I sound rude or callous in the wake of a horrific tragedy, but any decisions made concerning this theatre will be made by Fran Watkins, Shirley Kincaid, the board members, and myself, as managing director.”

  Billie appeared stunned, as did most of the people sitting in the theatre. Fran had regained some of her normal grayish beige color in her cheeks. She patted Shirley on the back one more time, then stood and walked toward Lida Rose with head erect. “Lida Rose is correct. As half owner of the East Ellum, I will be meeting as soon as I can with Shirley and the board. We will let you know what we intend to do when we ourselves know.”

  Shirley sniffed once and nodded. Rapid, unintelligible conversations burst forth from the crowd of actors.

  Lida Rose yelled over the murmurs as best she could. “I believe the police may have some questions for all of us. Please stay in the theatre until they're finished. You're welcome to go get coffee or sodas, but I suggest you bring any drinks back in here and stay close by.”

  The police responded to her statement faster than most actors respond to their cues. Officer Carter and his gorgeous lady partner looked sternly at the cast and crew and motioned for everyone to sit and stay silent.

  That was when I finally noticed the female cop's nametag: Melinda Krupke. I choked and tried to look anywhere else. Not the best last name for a cop having to interview a roomful of musical theatre people. Even with all the horror I'd witnessed this morning, the lyrics to “Gee, Officer Krupke” came barreling through my mind as clearly as the last time I'd done West Side Story.

  Rafe was staring at me. His mouth twisted to the side enough for me to know that he was humming that tune as well. Doubtless each member of the cast of Bad Business was inwardly sniggering and praying not to break into song during interrogations.

  Officers Krupke and Carter were asking individuals what I assumed were the basic, “Where were you? When did you last see . . .?”questions. I wandered to the back of the theatre and sank down on the floor, resting my feet up on one of the seats. I fell asleep. I know this because I was awakened by Rafe nudging me, none-too-gently, telling me I was snoring and suggesting that if I was planning on sleeping I probably needed to be on my side and not my back. Or buy a snoring aid. (I vowed to myself never to eat dairy products again. Except for the queso at El Diablo's.)

  I cast a furtive look toward the front of the theatre. Not much had changed. “Was I loud?”

  He smiled. “You weren't buzz-saw level, but you were distracting me from being able to eavesdrop on the interrogation techniques of the good officers.”

  I threw my water bottle at him. Fortunately for him, it was empty. “Learn anything?”

  “Only that since he's been killed, Jason Sharkey has become a saint in the eyes of many. Humble twins, Theo, and Lindsay haven't changed their perceptions. They're staying low-key but fairly honest about how much they really despised the man.”

  I nodded. I was about to ask Rafe whether he'd heard any more about how Jason had ended up decorated by a cabinet when Officer Melinda Krupke appeared.

  “Do you two mind answering a few questions?”

  Rafe answered for us both. “It's fine.”

  I had it pegged right. Basic questions. We gave her basic answers. Rafe explained for the second time this day the circumstances of finding Jason's body, and I added my bit about Jed sniffing something not quite right upstairs.

  Then she asked the biggie. The one I dreaded.

  “Did Mr. Sharkey have any problems with anyone that you know of? Everyone I've asked so far has said—let me quote—he was a difficult man. Unquote.”

  I tried to stifle a fit of giggles. Rafe and the policewoman looked at me with varying degrees of surprise (from her), irony (from him), and not-so-hidden amusement (from both).

  Thankfully, Rafe saved me from totally embarrassing myself. “Officer, Jason Sharkey had so many problems with so many people, you could start a web site therapy group. Frankly, the man could have been given the award for most despised actor of the year.”

  Her face registered amazement. Whether it was from Rafe's honesty or the fact that Jason had been a creep was not clear.

  She gestured for the two of us to sit. “Tell me.”

  We did.

  By the time we finished giving Officer Krupke the shortened version of the life and times of Jason Sharkey, I was more than ready to go home. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, rehearsals had been canceled indefinitely, and I was tired. Melinda Krupke must have sensed it. She smiled.

  “That's all I need for now. If either of you remembers anything you haven't told me, please give me a call.”

  She presented each of us with a nice business card. I stood up. I was in the process of flinging my dance bag over my shoulder and was preparing to leave when I heard the new voice.

  “The lovely Officer Krupke. And Kiely Davlin as I live and breathe! Plus the villain of Bad Business. Mr. Montez, isn't it? Well, well. Jackpot.”

  I knew that voice. I disliked that voice. It was the sound of the reporter from the Morning News. Brett Barrett. He'd made it past the hapless rookie cop guarding the theatre doors. Melinda Krupke gave the reporter a piercing look, and then stalked off toward the rookie.

  “Brett. How did you manage to slither in?”

  He smiled. “Never reveal a source, Ms. Davlin. Including never explaining the procedures a reporter undergoes to gain entrance to situations that are clearly candy and catnip to said reporter. As is this one. Wow! Jason Sharkey decapitated. Obviously, the curse of Bad Business lives. Aren't you afraid you'll be next? And you, Mr. Montez? Delilah Delight and Nick Nefarious. Andy, get over here with that
camera. I have the headline for tomorrow's story all planned and I need the shot to go with it.”

  I'd been too stunned at both Brett's appearance and too tired by the entire events of the morning to respond to anything the man was saying. Why should Rafe or I be next? What had Lida Rose been saying to the press about a curse?

  Rafe wasn't reticent or helpless. “Mr. Barrett. Andy? Let me say this once. If a photo of either Kiely or myself makes its way onto the pages of your paper without our permission, other than that cheery publicity photo you saw in the lobby on your way in, you'll have to deal with me personally. You don't want to deal with me, Barrett. You don't want me for an enemy and I have no intention of being your ally. Believe me when I tell you I will find the means to sue you, disgrace you, get you fired from the News, and make it impossible for you to sire children in the future should you so care to engage in that activity.”

  Brett looked astonished. “How do you intend to accomplish all this?”

  Rafe smiled. It was not a nice smile. I relished it with my entire being. “I know your boss. He happens to be my godfather. He and my Dad were college roommates. Enough said?”

  Chapter 15

  The days since Jason Sharkey had been found bleeding on the prop room floor had passed by with surprising speed. I'd finished choreographing my songs. The cast knew their lines, their songs, and their dances. Most of the company seemed at peace with the fact that Jason Sharkey was no longer with us. Even Daisy had stopped bursting into tears every time her fingers crashed the opening chords of a Lance Lamar song and Macy had cut her trips to run to the dressing room during the middle of a scene then sob for ten minutes down to twice a day.