I managed to get to my feet and took a step forward. Then I took a step back. It was like a manic waltz. The air, such as it was, came from what was more like a closet. Nowhere to go from there and if that door closed on me once I was inside, I'd truly lose what was left of my sanity.
I sat back down and squeezed the pin I'd picked up earlier. Somehow having something tangible and sharp in my hand helped me to focus. I didn't want to die. I particularly didn't want to be buried alive.
I'd always figured I'd go in the middle of executing a grand jete at age ninety-six while demonstrating to some twenty-something dancer the proper form for split leaps.
That image made me smile and calmed me a bit. I carefully began to pat the space to find where the closet wasthen avoid it. That took another five minutes by my inner clock.
I sat. I still had no idea where the entrance to the hall was. I was stuck. All the calm I'd built up left. I started sobbing again, becoming furiously ticked because I had no tissue. Great. My bones would be found in another hundred years or so along with those of my new “buddy.” Some snide archaeologist would comment on the fact that the distraught, dead dancer's nose had been running when she died, pointing out the ruined portions of the leotard as evidence of blotting. Which I now did. I inhaled to see if I was still breathing and got a whiff of something other than dust and decay. Popcorn.
“What in bloody blue blazes? Am I dead already? Did the angels carry me to some great carnival in the sky, complete with funhouse, popcorn, and cotton candy?”
I sniffed again. Popcorn. With butter. “Yes! There must be someone above. Some kind, hungry, lunatic soul who has returned and is making mounds of popcorn in the kitchen.”
Just maybe if I followed my nose, I might be able to get the hell out of this dark chasm of dust and actually make my way into civilization again. Assuming I was correct about still being alive.
I stayed on my hands and knees and sniffed like Jedidiah following the scent of chili. (He loves chili.) I thanked every deity I could think of for being gifted with a good smeller, and silently apologized to my mother for complaining that my nose was so good I'd gained weight exploring every bakery in New York City.
I have no idea how long my journey took. I hadn't had the chance to get batteries for my watch, which wasn't luminous anyway. (Addendum to Christmas list for the next time I stupidly decided to go wandering through what could become blind territory.) I kept inhaling and crawling and cursing when I scraped a knee and praying that this ordeal would be over soon.
I reached a door. I didn't care where it led. I opened it. I was back in the orchestra pit next to the harp. The light was so intense after the total blackness, I had to close my eyes and gradually become accustomed to my surroundings again.
“Hello? Anybody around?”
I looked around the pit. The prop harp was still there. The music stands were still there. The piano was still there. (One leg looked as if it had a few teeth marks, canine size, from the previous week's rehearsals, but it was in place.) Jed was barking excitedly from the floor of the theatre over my head. No human had yet answered, so I assumed my popcorn-popping savior was still in the kitchen making a fresh batch. I started toward the entrance leading out of the pit to the kitchen. No one was inside. The popcorn machine was empty, the cabinets with the food locked. This was bizarre. It had taken me at least twenty minutes to inch my way out of the tunnel, but that wouldn't have been long enough for whoever was cooking to get the popcorn ready and clean the huge machine.
I glanced toward the entrance of the orchestra pit. Don Mueller was calmly munching from the paper bag of popcorn he held in his hand. He smiled, waved a kernel at me, and then disappeared.
Chapter 27
I should have called the police the instant I started breathing fresh air. But like any good heroine determined to make her life more complicated, I didn't. I honestly wasn't up to dialing Officer Krupke et al to explain I'd just spent half the night in a tunnel under the theatre with a skeleton. To add to my idiocy, I decided I wanted to walk home. Past two in the morning and Kiely, the defiant and brave, was strolling through downtown Dallas as though it were Times Square at rush hour. I had to. I needed to be in open spaces or I'd start screaming again.
Jed was with me, so I wasn't afraid of being mugged. He's a sweetie but I knew he would defend me with every ounce of his now seventy pounds (no Kielyno chili). I also figured any mugger within smelling distance would catch a whiff of my clothes and quickly realize I wasn’t worth the effort. I was also beyond angry at what had befallen me in the last few hours. I pitied anyone stupid enough to jump out at me. My feet were itching to kick someone, anyone, in any spot designed to provide maximum injury.
I needed to be out in the night air, with the Texas stars above in the clear sky, away from dirt, bones, harps, and doors leading to blackness.
Three minutes into my walk I ran into a gay couple exiting the bar next to Mia Maya. They were semi sober, barely legal age-wise, and very concerned about this woman they spotted wandering down the street with a large playful puppy, wearing a filthy leotard top and jeans (me, not the dog). I calmly informed them that I'd come from the East Ellum Theatre where I'd had a run-in with a tunnel, sans lights. They immediately offered to escort me home. I immediately accepted.
The three of us (and Jed) had a great time walking the ten minutes to my apartment singing country and western songs I hadn't heard since I was a kid, and occasionally pausing to do a high kick or a spin in the street. Once we got to my Bennett Avenue home, I hugged my rescuers good-bye, got their names and numbers, and promised comp tickets for any performance of Bad Business they cared to attend. I'd been greatly cheered by this encounter after a near-death experience. It was nice to know that nice people who nicely took the time to help others were still left in the world. Not everyone stood ready to turn the lights out and leave claustrophobic dancers in the dark.
I was now certain someone had been in that pit moments after I'd entered the hallway. Someone had followed me, seen me fall, and watched as my flashlight died. Someone then deliberately doused the remaining lights. I knew this because after I'd grabbed Jed and my bag and thrown oodles of kisses toward the ghost of Don Mueller, I'd gone down into the orchestra pit for one last look around. The music stand that had been on the floor when I'd been looking for Jed's chew toy had been changed to upright. I didn't think the dog could have managed that little piece of housecleaning, especially from twenty feet above.
Once I was home, I tore off my clothes and jumped into the shower. I stood motionless under the heat and water for over thirty minutes. Eventually I soaped up and washed off the remainder of the dirt to feel a bit more human.
I don't remember actually crawling into bed. The next time I was aware of anything other than throwing my ancient Disney 101 Dalmatians sleep shirt over my head, the sun was shining. I cautiously opened one eye. Ten a.m. Morning of opening night of Bad Business and some inconsiderate fool was pounding outside my apartment and yelling at me.
I staggered to the door. As I unlocked it, I recognized the voice of the irate screamer once it yelled, “Kiely! Are you ready? Open up!” at least three times. Lida Rose.
The woman entered, paused, and then scrutinized me with the eye of Richard Blackwell, decrying my appearance from beyond the grave and preparing to pronounce Worst Dressed for the year.
“Damn, Kiely! You look like crap.”
“Thank you. Thank you sooo much for that comment. I can't tell you how much I needed to hear that after last night.”
She brushed off my words and started to brush by me as well, heading for the kitchen. “Kiely? You're not dressed. Honey, you're not even awake. And you look like dog doo squished on a shoe. No offense. Did you not go home last night?” She paused and nudged me. “Hey! Did you get lucky?”
I burst into tears and received a special Lida Rose bear hug. It felt great.
“I got locked in the tunnel last night.”
S
he calmly moved me to a position an arm's length from her person and asked, “Say again?”
“Don't you listen? I got locked in the tunnel under the theatre last night. The one that leads from the harpist's door in the orchestra pit.”
She wisely ignored this garbled interpretation of the location and seized on one word. Tunnel.
“There's a tunnel under the theatre? How cool.”
I pushed her away. “It was not cool. It was like the fifth gate of Hell. Excuse me. I need coffee and I need it now. Would you care for a cup or are you going to stand there and bewail the fact that you were not locked up alongside me in dirt with a dead body for hours and hours?”
That got her. “Dead body? You didn't mention a dead body before. Shit, Kiely, what the hell happened?”
I filled her in on my adventure with all the graphics and gory details. When I'd finished she shook her head and started to speak.
I immediately interrupted her. “If you dare to say, ‘that's neat,’ I shall personally pull out your bottle-dyed locks by their roots. In handfuls.”
She looked offended. “Don't be ridiculous. This is not neat. This is serious. If you're right and someone deliberately left you there in the dark, you're quite possibly in major danger. So, did you call the police?”
I swallowed a mouthful of coffee before answering, “Uh, no.”
“Kiely. Why not?”
“Because all I wanted last night was to be out, to be free, to be clean, and to be home. Oh, I met the sweetest guys, too. Cute couple. They walked me home after they saw me when they were coming out of Madison's.”
She threw her hands up to the heavens for assistance. “Kiely Davlin. Not only do you fail to call the police, but you allow yourself to go home with two strangers who could have sliced your throat and left you for dead. And you think I'm brainless?”
“Oh, back off. The guys were great. I'm comping them for tonight's opening. I need to tell Neil Kincaid in box office.”
She looked horrified. For a moment I thought she was about to chastise me for giving away perfectly good seats for free. Instead she began throwing objects out of her enormous purse, looking for her cell phone.
“Are you calling the cops for me?”
“Not yet. I'm calling the Channel Seven entertainment desk.”
“You're what? Lida Rose! You can't bring more media into this mess. I swear, sometimes you act like a savant three-year-old with a demonic bent. Do not tell those vultures that your choreographer has been excavating tunnels. Please.”
She glared at me. “You and I are supposed to be on television in ten minutes extolling the virtues of buying tickets to Bad Business. I don't think we're going to make it. That is why I am calling. Give me some credit for knowing where and when to garner publicity.”
I gulped coffee and got dressed while she explained to some poor receptionist that the director and choreographer who were scheduled for their show weren't going to be on due to an emergency at the theatre. Which was true. Lida Rose then dug even deeper into her purse and found the business card Officer Melinda Krupke had given each of us. She handed it to me along with the receiver.
“It was your misadventure, Kiely. You tell her. And be sure they know a dead body is involved.”
I took the card from her, looked at the number, and then started to laugh. “Are you getting hysterical with all this? What are you giggling about?”
“Look at this. Officer Melinda has a sense of humor. I knew I liked that girl.”
She took back the card. There in black and white was a photo from West Side Story depicting the cops busting the gang members. Cute. Lida Rose and I spontaneously sang two verses of “Gee, Officer Krupke” to each other, then I picked up my desk phone and dialed the number. Melinda Krupke answered in person.
“Officer Krupke? This is Kiely Davlin. The choreographer from East Ellum.”
I didn't know whether to casually mention that we'd recently met practically over the corpse of Jason Sharkey. I decided to skip that part. It seemed tasteless and unnecessary. She knew who I was.
“Yes, of course. Kiely. I know who you are. And please, call me Melinda.” She paused and I could almost hear the smile. “You'd probably find it a bit easier.”
I bit my lip. “Undoubtedly.”
“So, Kiely. What can I do for you? Any new information concerning Mr. Sharkey?”
“Yes and no. I don't know if this is related to his death or not. I do know something's up and it's not pleasant. I found bones. In a tunnel. Under the orchestra pit. It was dark and I don't know if they're human or not, but they sure felt big enough to be.”
“We'll meet you at the theatre.”
I hung up and turned to Lida Rose.
“Wow! Fast action. She said she'd meet us there. Hey, how does she know that's not where I'm calling from?”
“You are such a technological dinosaur. Don't you have caller ID in Manhattan? Don't you know the cops have it in every station house?”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry. My brains are obviously still in the tunnel.”
I threw her purse at her as we started to leave the apartment. “I wish now I’ve bothered to notice my caller ID number weeks ago. I’d’ve never picked up. I'd be safely dancing the tango in Florida and been blissfully unaware of dead bodies, broken railings, dirty tunnels, and ghosts in black tuxedos and tennis shoes.”
Chapter 28
The cops made it to East Ellum exactly the same time that Lida Rose and I did. I know this because my best friend narrowly missed hitting the nice white vehicle that read “Dallas Police Department” on its side when she illegally made a left turn in front of them.
I refrained from pointing this out to Lida Rose since she was obviously eager to see the tunnel and its occupant, and was trying to beat the police to the scene.
Officer Krupke wasn't quite so reticent. “Ms. Worthington? Did you know you nearly clipped my car ten seconds ago? Are you aware that one waits for the car either going straight or making the right-hand turn if one is turning left?”
Lida Rose assumed a look of cherubic innocence. “I'm so sorry. I was trying to get here and have the doors opened for you and have coffee all ready, and look . . . I brought muffins and scones from that awesome bakery in Kiely's neighborhood.”
I stared up at the sky and waited for the lightning bolt to crash through the skull of my best friend. Nothing. Clear. St. Peter and his crew were taking the day off.
Melinda Krupke smiled and took the raisin bran muffin Lida Rose was offering. “Since you're obviously overwrought due to the circumstances of your choreographer finding another body on site, I'll let you off with a warning. I hate dealing with traffic violations anyway. I spent five years getting away from that particular detail.”
She and Lida Rose smiled at each other. L.R. does has a knack for dispensing charm in all situations.
Lida Rose crammed a cinnamon apple scone into her own mouth and held it there while she pulled keys from her bag. This proved unnecessary. The door wasn't locked. I should have told her it had yet to be anything else since I'd first started popping in early to choreograph weeks ago.
Rafe Montez suddenly appeared in the doorway, and then studied me critically. “You look like you haven't slept in a week. No offense, but you look like crap.”
“Well, thank you, so much Rafe. Thank you for that lovely observation after a night of hell. I truly appreciate it.”
I started to cry. Rafe took my right hand. Lida Rose took the other. Melinda Krupke slid past with Officer Carter in tow.
Rafe instantly changed his tone to one of concern. “Kiely, I'm sorry. What's wrong? You really haven’t slept, have you? And since the cops are here I’m assuming something serious has happened?”
I sniffed. “Nice deductions. All of them. By the way, imagine how you'd look if you'd spent the better portion of the last hour or two crawling through the bowels of Hades.”
“What are you talking about? Last night's rehearsal was not even remotel
y hellish. Have you been hallucinating? Having run-ins with spirits not as friendly as Casper the Ghost?”
I glared at him. “And what are you doing back at the theatre anyway? It's barely ten in the morning. I need more coffee. And throw in some of that Irish whiskey I know Thelma Lou keeps in the back cabinet.”
He led both Lida Rose and me back to the kitchen. Our now-very-familiar-with-the-theatre cops were already helping themselves to mugs of coffee. Rafe glanced at them, then at me.
“No booze. It's going to be a long day and you don't need to fall asleep tonight in the middle of Act Two.”
He poured the necessary accouterments into a new Styrofoam container and threw a very sharp look in my direction, but wisely refrained from any comment until the cup was in my hand. Once I'd taken a few swigs he began his explanation.
“I'm here because you did not show up at El Diablo's last night. You were not at your apartment. You were not honky-tonking at Sweet Ruby's. I thought you might have fallen asleep here, and since Jason's death I have been somewhat concerned about you roaming around the theatre by yourself. It appears I was right, since the police are visiting again. So?”
Melinda Krupke glared at him. “Excuse me, but I think I'm the one to ask questions. Although you did ask the pertinent one. Kiely? Care to explain why we're here?”
I started crying again. Rafe silently handed me the box of tissues from the top of the refrigerator in the theatre kitchen. I blew and sniffed. “Thank you.” I took a breath. “Last night after everyone left, I found a tunnel under the orchestra pit. There's a door behind that huge old prop harp. I decided to see where it went.”
Rafe slammed his cup down on the counter so hard I was amazed it didn't splinter. “You did what!”
“I heard someone screaming. Really. And hey. It had lights and a floor. There were no rats. I figured I was fine.”
Rafe's right eyebrow shot high into his forehead. “Are you insane? Jason Sharkey got murdered in the prop room a week ago and here’s Kiely Davlin, the claustrophobic queen, playing Girl Scout explorer and wandering around through underground tunnels by herself. How in humanity did you ever manage to make it out of childhood? Come to think of it, apparently you didn't.”
Ghosts, Wandering Here and There Page 21