Fran's guests were littering up the rooms in varying degrees of inebriation, gluttony, and lust. Lida Rose was schmoozing with at least three members of the Channel Eight news team in the dining area. The doorway to the kitchen was blocked by my friend from Garland and an unidentified male who was intently licking champagne from Sherry's neck. Theo and Lindsay were occupied in a similar manner on top of what appeared to be the most comfortable sofa in the downstairs area.
“Kiely! Lovely, talented Kiely. Please, come share a glass of champagne with me.”
Brett Barrett. Terrific.
“Hey, Brett. Why aren't you down at the paper frantically getting your story in for tomorrow's issue? Don't you people have deadlines?”
He smiled. “You've been watching too many Spencer Tracy movies. Yes, we have deadlines and we also have cell phones and tablets. We poor reporters no longer have to tear out of parties and dodge traffic to end up chained to a desk.”
“Mmm. Well, that's lovely. I'm glad to know the media is keeping up with modern technology. See ya.”
He put his hand over mine. “Wait. I promise I won't ask any questions about your ghost. I’d simply like the chance to chat for a few minutes. For old time's sake.”
I looked him squarely in the eye. “Why? To begin with, there were no old times. Next, you have your story; you've had your fill of food and drink, and yee, howdy! There are women here who might even be interested in one or more of your lines off-paper.”
“Kiely, hasn't it occurred to you that this ghost nonsense could end up being dangerous? Especially to you?”
“What? Are you nuts?”
“I should ask you the same thing. Consider. Jason dies under, well, kind of kinky circumstances. The cops say accident but this reporter isn't buying. Then there's a fire in the theatre. Small, yes. I realize Lida Rose was, shall we say, elaborating more than a tiny bit for effect, but still, there was a fire. A can of nails did fall from the catwalk. And didn't a rope break, placing your villain in a precarious situation over the orchestra pit? Lastly, you found an earring that shouldn't have been embedded in the fibersof old fish netting last usedwhen? A hundred years ago.”
“Damn. What did that woman do? Fill you in on the brand of coffee we drink and what sweetener we use as well? I swear, you're more up-to-date on the doings at East Ellum than I am.”
He smiled. “I'm very good at what I do. That includes getting people to talk. Not that Ms. Worthington is the silent type. She's so thrilled about this show and the publicity it's generating, she truly doesn't see connections.”
“Brett, Brett, Brett. You are indeed an ace reporter. And yes, my dearest friend is a blabbermouth when it comes to getting the theatre's name in print, even if it's less than desirable press. But. No matter how sincere you are about the danger that envelopes me every time I set foot in East Ellum, which, incidentally, I think is a load of hooey, I am not about to add to your story. Now, then . . . I am off to face the perils of the dining room and dive into the carrot cake I've been holding back from all night. First, I'm going to go powder my nose. Ta.”
I marched away from the reporter fully intent on doing precisely as I'd stated. After the stop in the ladies' room. Where I stayed for five minutes admiring the decor. The Watkins's bathroom was bigger than my entire bedroom. It even boasted a divan in the corner of the “nonfunctional” area. I lay down for a few minutes to test it out.
“Kiely. Get up. You're snoring.”
I opened one eye. “Hey, Lindsay. What's up?”
“Not much. Theo decided to try and win back the money he's been losing all night and I came in to do what one does in powder rooms. I hated to wake you, but really, I was afraid everyone would hear you and call the cops for excessive noise.”
I sighed. “I always snore if I sleep on my back. Especially after cheese. I love cheese. Shame it doesn't love me back.”
I sat up, and began to literally and liberally powder my now shiny nose while I waited for Lindsay to finish her own business. We strolled arm in arm back to the main room. Theo was standing by the bar, scowling as the bartender refilled his glass. Lindsay nudged me. “Uh-oh. Looks like my man has bombed out of the poker game again. Cheering up time. Later, Kiely.”
I nodded and watched as she grabbed Theo's hand and led him off to a dark corner for a bit of physical consolation.
I was bored. Bored, unloved, and in need of more food. I headed for the table in the dining room where I'd last seen the carrot cake. It was well hidden. Not only the cake, but the entire table. Every available space was crowded with remnants of drunken media, and various cast and crew members all diving into trays of food. I dodged reporters in need of stories, and booze, and slipped into the kitchen. The catering staff was knee-deep in cooking. All the platters were empty.
I smiled hopefully at a black-and-white-clad waiter who smiled wearily back. “Anything ready to eat?”
“Try the Jarlsburg. It goes great with champagne.”
The voice was not that of the waiter. Rafe Montez stood behind me holding a plateful of hors d'oeuvres. I grabbed a handful of calorie-laden goodies. “Hey, Rafe. What happened? They kicked you out of the game?”
He snorted. “It's not a game anymore. Neil has gone from pretending not to cheat to outright thievery. I've had it. Hank has had it. Theo left about ten minutes ago muttering names I've yet to hear in my twenty-seven years on this earth. Nathaniel and Cyrus are trying to impress upon the jerk—Neil, that is, not Theo—that cheating at cards is not considered kosher in the gentleman's rulebook of life and he's young enough to learn it now, but they're not making much headway. Mr. Kincaid refused to own up to it. Hank is still in there glaring and muttering he's going to tell Shirley that her grandson is a crook. I decided to seek a bit of sustenance, then find my car keys.”
“What? The valet didn't park for you?”
He tried not to laugh. “When I pulled up in the Ancient Mariner I thought the poor guy was going to have a heart attack right there on Fran's driveway. I spared him the humiliation of driving it and trying to keep it parked at least six feet away from any other vehicle.” He chuckled. “I found a great spot at the next house down the block. Which, come to think of it, is the next block. Actually, I'll have an easier time leaving. No waiting behind cars parked too close together. See you tomorrow, Kiely. I'm off to get some sleep. Big day ahead.”
He kissed me on my forehead and was gone before I had a chance to wheedle a ride out of him. I noticed he hadn't offered one. Couldn't be pride. I'd ridden in that clunky old vehicle of his only this morning. “Ancient Mariner.” Cute. Maybe he was afraid he'd not end up driving me straight home? Maybe I hadn't asked for a ride for the same reason. I liked the man more and more, but couldn't figure him out. His actions at the theatre were odd. I kept waiting to learn something like he'd been casing the joint intending to rob everyone in the show, grab the box office receipts on opening night, and then store them under the game tables, in the piano, or possibly in the prop room. Or maybe he was a serial killer who'd been stashing bodies in steamer trunks and pianos. Or a bigamist finding hiding places for all his marriage certificates.
I felt sleepy. Obviously I needed more food. I started to ask the only caterer still in the kitchen if anything was ready, but stopped.
He looked harried.
“Problems?” I asked.
“The queso dip is the hit of the evening. Which is fine, except I'm out of spicy tomatoes and don't have time to hit the pantry for more. These darn cheese puffs have to be timed exactly, so I'm stuck in front of the oven.”
“Where's the pantry and how many cans do you need?”
A whoosh of air whistled through his lips. “You are a nice lady.”
With a hand holding a huge stirring spoon, he motioned left, toward the swinging doors that led out of the kitchen into a hall.
“Down the hall to the end. Can't miss it. Dead end. Thanks. You've saved the cheese puffs.”
I easily found the pantry an
d took a minute or two to admire the neat rows of canned goods, canisters filled with grains, jars of imported jellies, and one entire shelf devoted to tea cookies. I was tempted to open the box that said “Scottish Shortbread” but decided that would be rude.
The hot diced tomatoes were on the top shelf, easily reached by standing on the first rung of a stepladder. I grabbed a few, jumped down, and started to push open the door with my butt. Nothing. The door wouldn't budge. Weird. I was sure my derriere was stronger than this. I set the cans down on the stepladder and pushed with my hands. Nothing. The door was not opening.
A wave of heat hit me, starting from my forehead and coursing to my feet. My hearing disappeared. There was no sound except the high volume pounding of my heart. My vision blurred. All normal brain activity stopped as panic set in. I first kicked off my shoes. Then I began to peel the sundress down off my shoulders. I stopped and tried to regain a sense of sanity. I had no desire to be found naked and quivering if the door miraculously opened. I needed logic and clear thought to get out.
I pounded on the door with both fists. When that didn't bring an immediate result, I began to howl, much like Jed whenever I left him in the apartment.
The door flung open so fast, I nearly fell onto my knees. A dozen or so people filled the hallway like a mosaic. I didn't stop to sort out who was who. I ran.
Chapter 23
The morning after Fran's party I wasn't able to crawl out of bed until nine-thirty. My head was throbbing and my eyes couldn't focus, even with my contacts. I had barely a half an hour to shower, slap on some makeup, grab some food for Jed and a leftover bagel for myself, and literally run to the theatre.
This was not a day to look forward to or mark down in the diary under pleasant events. This was the day Lida Rose and I had to carefully add the senior contingent to the show while attempting to stave off rabid journalists lurking around the theatre in search of fresh fodder for the curse story. Lida Rose doubtless would be delighted to regale them with further tales of every disaster that had ever occurred on East Ellum soil. Plus, we needed to finish running Act One. A solitary leftover bagel was not going to suffice. Especially since my headache was threatening to escalate into a major migraine.
Lida Rose and Thelma Lou were in the theatre kitchen pouring coffee and distributing donuts and cinnamon rolls to any cast member who was interested. There are times when I want to lock Lida Rose into the nearest sanitarium—drug rehabilitation, criminal, mental, or fat farm. I don't care. As long as there are locks. Last evening I'd had more than one of those impulses. But the woman has a knack for finding carbohydrate treats on days when one needs one's serotonin levels high. A smell of hazelnut was emanating from the coffeepot. This was worthy of my forgiveness. Apple crumb fritters and flavored coffee in the same morning.
I absently gave Jed a bite of doughnut and beamed at L.R. “Bless you. I was going to ignore you all day and pretend you didn't exist, but this changes my mind. Are you sober yet?”
She grimaced. “Yes. I am sober. I am also in pain. My entire body feels as if the bane of Bad Business has taken over.”
I shook my head. “Serves you right. Drinking like a first-time frat boy at a pledge party, then telling absurd lies to a mob of media. I tried to throw a dumpling at you when you so eagerly snatched the mike from Fran, but you were wound up and ready to fly. I’m sure I hit the reporter from the Observer in the ear.”
She laughed, and then winced as the effects of numerous drinks caught up with her. “Ouch. My head. And stomach. Hey. I did not snatch the mike. Fran Watkins thrust it at me like a dead snake. I had to take over from the woman. She looked like a constipated turtle up there and Mr. Barrett, for one, was not letting up until he had a story. You're right. He's a toad.”
“So you invented one wingding of a tale. And by the way, find some better metaphors than reptiles or I'm not going to last the day. My head hurts worse than yours and you're making me ill.
She smiled innocently. “If you hadn't had those last four margaritas, you might not feel this way. And no offense, Kiely, but if you have to be that violently claustrophobic you could at least learn to control it with something other than tequila. You shot out of that pantry and headed straight for the booze.”
I hit her. Not enough to cause damage, unfortunately. “I was upset. Someone locked me in there and I needed to calm down.”
“You want to think someone locked you in. The door stuck. That's all. I think you let the curse story get to you. The newest Delilah Delight losing her mind.”
I was incensed. “Me? Me? Let that ridiculous tale get to me? Look who's talking, Miss Outrageous Lies Who's Going Straight to Purgatory for a thousand years.”
She grinned as she shoved half a jelly cruller in her mouth.
“Mm mph. Deednemaksho.”
“'Scuse me?”
“I said, I did not make up a story. Bad Business did lose three cast members a hundred years ago. Week before they opened. Very tragic. Delilah Delight, Nick Nefarious, and Lance Lamar. You, Rafe, and—oh, my word. Jason. It really hadn't hit me before now. Neat!”
I wriggled off the counter stool and grabbed two more pastries. “Don't say 'neat' again. I never want to hear that word from your mouth. You realize now I'm going to be hounded and Cyrus will be hounded, and even Rafe the calm and stable will be hounded. They'll make comparisons between him and Don Mueller.”
I started to leave the kitchen. Stopped. I had to know. “What happened to them? The first group of actors?”
A look of innocence transformed Lida Rose's face. “They were shot. Well, actually, no one knows what happened to Delilah. But shots were heard and her body never found, so it's assumed she, too, was riddled with bullets. Or went mad.”
I shivered. She looked overwhelmingly pleased with herself. She continued, “Some stories say there was a duel over Delilah, and the men shot each other. And she got in the way. Other reports say one of the men was the rejected suitor and he shot both Delilah and the other man, then committed suicide.”
I groaned. “I don't want to hear this.”
Thelma Lou had stayed silent throughout my conversation with Lida Rose. She now handed me a full cup of coffee and shook her head. “The thing Lida Rose ain't mentionin’ is that the show had done closed for the night and the ticket sales and a lot of jewelry and cash was missin'. And that there was a gang of what in those days was called 'outlaws' prowlin' through Dallas. Not to mention Delilah Delight was known to be quite a flirt and she prob’ly ran off with one of them outlaws after the show. Guess they don't make for as spooky a tale. It's all in the newspapers from years ago if y’all wanna check ‘stead of speculatin’.”
I winked at Thelma Lou and sniffed at Lida Rose. My hungover friend got in one last comment before I made it to the door.
“A toad is not a reptile. It's an amphibian.”
I didn't even turn. “Well you're welcome to go suck on a pond full.”
I walked onstage and got my first glimpse of Rafe for the morning. He was lounging against the bar set piece. He stayed silent, but lifted up a paper. I asked tentatively, “What's this? Morning News? Do I want to read it?” I shook my head trying to decide. Mistake. “Not really.”
Rafe firmly put the paper into my hand. I snarled. “Fine. I'll read it. Maybe they'll say a giant tornado is headed for the East Ellum Theatre and we're canceling the show. Or a hurricane. Are we at the L's yet this summer for hurricanes? The weather service should name the next one Lida Rose.”
Rafe smiled. It was a weary smile. He'd been the most sober of the partygoers and should have gotten at least three hours more sleep than I had. I'd last seen him heading for his truck at least thirty minutes before I'd been trapped in the pantry.
I turned my attention to the paper as he intoned, “Metropolitan Arts. Section C. Page two.”
This did not bode well. If Rafe had taken the trouble to memorize the exact spot in the newspaper, doubtless I wasn't going to like what was written there. I
found Section C and opened with trepidation to page two.
“Bane of Bad Business,” by Brett Barrett.
“Oh, fantastic. Alliteration and hexes in the same headline. I may need a pot of coffee for this one.”
Rafe motioned for me to read on. I did. It was essentially the same story Lida Rose had told me in the kitchen, but fancied up to sound more ominous and enthralling. The deaths of both Don Mueller and Jason took prominence, along with the disappearance of Noemi Trujillo and her relationship to Don. Nothing had escaped Mr. Barrett's keen sense of the dramatic.
“Oh, Suffering Saratoga. This idiot intimates that you, playing Nick Nefarious, and I, playing Delilah Delight, will meet a foul or mysterious end.”
Rafe solemnly stated, “My favorite bit was the part where Charity O'Sullivan was taking possession of the current Delilah, i.e., you. Lida Rose must have been rip-racing, roaring drunk when she came up with the idea. Great for publicity. I checked in at the box office right before I arrived. Shirley's snotty, cheating, little grandson told me ticket sales have doubled since eight this morning.”
I sank to the floor of the stage, promptly followed by Jed who began licking my face. I pushed him gently away. “I want to go back to Manhattan. I want to discourage perverts in the park and wait for five hours for my name to be called at an open audition for something I have no hope of getting. I want to yell at the landlord for not recycling the garbage and letting it build up in the basement so I can't get to the laundry machines. I want to listen to overly made-up ladies with Bloomingdale's bags scream at bus drivers when they have to detour down side streets to avoid six alarm fires. I miss the calm and the sanity of it all.”
Rafe started singing “Take Me Back to Manhattan” and I joined in during the second line. Cast members old and new jumped or crawled onstage and added harmony. The stagehands buzzed around with hammers and noisy attachments, while members of the lighting crew rode the cherry picker up and down checking gels and leko lights.
Ghosts, Wandering Here and There Page 18