Ghosts, Wandering Here and There

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Cyrus grabbed the gun from the table. “You're a villainous snake, Nick Nefarious! You stole Polly Sue Primrose's land years ago. You cheat at cards and even made off with a horse from my good friend Ace Royale. You set fire to Billy Joe Bob and Bobby Joe Bob Travis's barn, tied up their Ma in her petticoat, and poured blue paint on their dog. I think it's time we put you behind bars once and for all.”

  Rafe, as Nefarious, sneered, and then laughed. “You're a fool if you believe a mere jail cell can hold the likes of Nick Nefarious. And you're an even bigger fool if you think you're going to march me down to the sheriff's just because you wave a silly revolver in my face.”

  Rafe carefully positioned a tipped gaming table to stand upright, then placed his gun in the middle of it. He backed away two steps and faced Cyrus, boldly waving his weaponless hands.

  “Care to make it a race, Mr. Lamar? A fair draw. Whoever makes it to that weapon first gets to shoot?”

  Cyrus stood his ground. “I'm not bargaining with you, Nefarious. There's a cell with your name on it sitting in town just awaitin' for you to fill it. Hands up, sir. “

  Rafe laughed, then dove for the gun on the table. The script called for him to grab it, spin around, and finally shoot. Before Nick Nefarious can actually fire the gun, Lance Lamar shoots first. Cyrus steadied his own gun once again and prepared to discharge the blanks into Rafe's stomach.

  Don Mueller stepped directly in front of Cyrus.

  Don looked at me. I could hear his voice as clearly as I'd heard Rafe's and Cyrus's mere seconds before. The thought struck me that Don had had a great voice for an actor. Then the reality and import of what he was saying hit me.

  “Kiely! Stop him! The bullets are live!”

  Not good. I was too far away to grab the gun from Cyrus. I whirled around and executed a spectacular kick in midair, neatly knocking the gun from Cyrus' grasp. The hisses and boos from the audience were accompanied by my teenage friend in row three who yelled, “Nice kick, Delilah.”

  From onstage I now heard gasps and whispers.

  “Kiely? What are you doing? I'm supposed to shoot!” Cyrus spat from under his breath. Rafe quickly ran toward me as I hissed back, “It's loaded! With the real thing.”

  “Oh, my God. How do you know?”

  “Him.”

  Cyrus and Rafe looked down toward the front of the stage. I began frantically performing kicks and turns so the audience would think this was part of the show. I vaguely saw Daisy Haltom in her perch at the piano throwing her hands up in shock over this marked departure from the script.

  Cyrus whispered, “What are you talking about?”

  “Him! Don Mueller. Damn! Don't you see him?”

  Cyrus shook his head. Rafe looked sharply at me, then back at Cyrus. He took off his stovepipe hat, then held it in front of his face as he spoke. “I'd rather assume Kiely's right. Cyrus. Let's change this scene. If Kiely can get the gun, um, she can aim it at you. Then Hank or Ham or Theo can lasso me again. We'll improvise a different ending.”

  He whispered to the twins. Both nodded.

  I began doing cute dance steps that would place me nearer the gun.

  Someone beat me to it. “You rotten witch! How dare you interfere with my plan! It's time to settle your hash once and for all.”

  The audience had been eagerly waiting to see what the next twist would be.

  Shirley Kincaid pointed the gun right at me. She sniffed.

  “Move, Delilah. Next to Nefarious there. The lovers. How sweet.”

  I groaned.

  Shirley with a live gun. The ditz of the theatre. She must have thought Cyrus had remembered the last time he’d done the bit, frozen, and wasn't going to shoot, then I'd changed the scene, but lost the gun in the process.

  I smiled at her and tried to signal that all was not well with the piece of metal in her hand.

  “Now, now, Miss Shirley. You don' rahtly know how to handle one of them firearms. So I'll jes take that, iffen ya don't mind.” Under my breath I muttered, “It's loaded, Shirley. Be careful. Live bullets.”

  She smiled at me. And I knew. There was no reason to warn Shirley Kincaid about the ammunition. She was well aware that blanks had been taken out and live bullets placed in that chamber. She knew because she'd put them there. Shirley Kincaid. Murderer.

  She shook her head and lowered her volume as well so the audience couldn't hear. “I know quite well how to handle a gun. So stay where you are, you slut. I have a score to settle with you and the boyfriend. You, Charity, Noemi. All the same. Hot for the villains. Ignoring the heroes. Daddy was right. You’re trash, nothing but trash.”

  A shower of poker chips came cascading over Shirley's head from the direction of one of the Humble boys. She didn't even flinch. She shouted so the audience could hear each word.

  “Don't try that stunt again, Billy Joe Bob Travis. You and your brother are not in my plan. Yet. But there's six bullets in this gun and if my calculations are correct Mr. Nefarious and Miss Delight will only use up two. Leaving four. I'd be delighted to try my luck with you, Mr. Lamar, and Ace Royale if need be.”

  I found I was doing arithmetic in my head and reasoning she'd be a bullet short. I bit my lip. Not the time for math problems. I hadn't done so well on my SATs years ago and I didn't want to rely on my skills at subtraction to breezily assume any one of us would be safe.

  Hank Humble, who'd thrown the chips, sank down in a chair near the upright game table and looked at Rafe for inspiration. Cyrus took a step forward toward Shirley.

  She raised the gun and aimed it in his direction. “Stop right there, Mr. Hero. Lance Lamar. Delilah was correct. These bullets will indeed kill you.”

  I nodded frantically, trying to make Cyrus and Rafe aware that Shirley wasn't fooling.

  Cyrus looked at my face, then halted his approach. Rafe stared at me as we tried to figure out how to stop the woman from shooting live bullets into what would soon be one dead dancer and art expert.

  Shirley smiled at Rafe. “Don't try any fancy footwork. Either of you. Nick and Delilah. Such an attractive, soon-to-be-demised, and damned stupid pair. With your interfering cousin, too. You've all been far too involved with my life. I should have taken care of this before. But it's never too late to dispatch villains, is it? After all, it's part of the curse.”

  She actually turned to the audience as she made the last two statements. They loved it.

  I began screaming, “They're real bullets, you idiots! Don't you see? We're about to die!”

  Nothing but more cheers. A nice willing suspension of theatrical disbelief had turned into stark reality. If we stripped naked and started break-dancing onstage it wouldn't make a difference. The audience would assume we'd updated the show.

  The incongruous thought flitted through my mind that Shirley's sentences and words had become very clear and concise. No cute mispronunciations, no mangled phrases or adjectives. Mrs. Malaprop's vocabulary was as clear as that of a classical actress accepting an Oscar for best performance in a Shakespearean tragedy. Which could happen soon (the tragedy; not the award) if Ms. Kincaid had her wish and killed Rafe and me before this eager audience.

  A flash caught my peripheral vision. Thelma Lou. She was in the wings, wearing her rhinestone-studded pink silk shirt and jeans, and calmly loading what appeared to be a sawed-off shotgun. I shut my eyes and prayed for quick transport to anywhere else. When I opened them again, Lida Rose was standing next to Thelma Lou, arguing that the last thing anyone needed at this point was another gun filled with real bullets.

  “Is it live?” Lida Rose screamed at me. “Shirley's gun?”

  I nodded. I kept thinking, “I can't die here. Lida Rose will be forever pissed that I never gave her the recipe for my brownies with Kahlua. Although, if I die, at least I'll finally get to meet Don Mueller in person. We can come back together and haunt Lida Rose for getting me in this mess.”

  This was not logical or clear-headed thinking. I shook the cobwebs from my brain and in
ched a bit closer to Rafe. I tried to gauge whether or not I was too far away from Shirley to kick. Either the gun or the woman's chin. I didn't really care which object my pointed-toed boots might connect with. I considered flying into a very high and very long leap across the length of the stage but knew I needed running room. I'm not a standing broad jumper.

  Rafe was still trying to reason with the unreasonable lady now enjoying her moment in the light. “If you dispatch this particular villain, Miss Shirley, you'll add murder to your crime of smuggling. Do you really want that? Don't you think this curse has gone on long enough?”

  Shirley giggled, in that awful elderly little girl voice she normally used. “I've already added murder. Twice, if my calculations are correct. What's two more?” She sighed. “Enough of this chitchat, Nefarious. I'm tired and I'm ready to end this scene. There's a party to attend.”

  She lifted the gun.

  Time turned into freeze-frame moments.

  Rafe grabbed my hand and threw me to the floor. I landed easily, rolling over onto my stomach, thinking I could crawl, and possibly tackle her from the ground while Rafe simultaneously tackled her from above. Rafe began moving toward Shirley in slow steps.

  Shirley shot once, deliberately aiming toward the picture above the bar. After the screams onstage stopped there was total silence. Even from a now confused audience. Shirley stayed motionless before addressing her next remarks to Rafe. “I have perfect aim, dear. The next shot goes through Miss Delight on the floor there. Now step back, please.”

  Rafe stopped his forward motion. I looked up at him. I blinked. And blinked again.

  Rafe Montez and Don Mueller both now stood in front of Shirley Kincaid. Both wore their black villain costumes. Both had a look of calm resolve on their faces. It was hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

  Shirley's face turned absolutely white. She took a huge intake of breath that sounded more like a gasp. She'd seen Don. Back from the dead. Back to stop this killing.

  Her hand unclenched and released the gun an instant before she fainted.

  The lights went out all over the theatre. Everywhere. Not even the exit sign glowed. It was as dark as the tunnel below the stage.

  I was lucky. I had an advantage that no one else in the theatre shared. I could still clearly see Don Mueller. But I knew that the only thing the audience and cast could make out was that column of light slowly filling the center of the stage. They couldn't understand how or why the gun lifted into the air. They saw it disappear into darkness, but didn't realize it had been placed in the secure pocket of a black tuxedo.

  Don smiled at me. He turned and faced the audience.

  A rich baritone laugh filled the theatre.

  And a hailstorm of very real popcorn hurtled into the first three rows of the audience.

  Chapter 32

  “Daisy quit.”

  “She did?”

  “Yep. Said we changed the script and she was upset she never got to play the song ‘Back to the Ranch, Polly Sue.’ After all that rehearsal time. Said we were all horrible, rotten, and unprofessional.”

  Lida Rose poured champagne into a glass already three-quarters full and studied it in silence. I did the same. We managed about ten seconds before we sank to the floor writhing in hysterical laughter, being careful not to spill the booze.

  Lida Rose lifted her glass again and toasted the heavens. “So, where's Rafe? Is he going to the police station with kindly Officer Krupke et al.?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. They took our statements here. When we could get a word in. Shirley kept wanting to talk. And talk.”

  I stayed by the orchestra pit. Lida Rose settled into one of the seats in the first row in the audience. “So? What did killer Kincaid have to say? I was busy trying to get cast members calmed down, give the press some sort of statement, and make sure the opening night party was still on at El Diablo's. I still can’t believe they let Joe out of the hospital. One more ridiculous event in a long chain of 'em.”

  “I sprung him. Joe claimed he would never forgive me if he missed the fun tonight.” Rafe made this statement as he strolled down the aisle to join Lida Rose and me. He was wearing his villain costume. “Incidentally, folks, Shirley Kincaid is about one painting short of an exhibit. A taco short of El Diablo's numero cuatro. A scene short of a full act. You get my drift.”

  Lida Rose nodded vigorously. “I'm so glad she didn't kill either of you. I'd've been most upset.”

  I snorted. Bad move. Champagne zipped up my nose to sting sinuses already overworked from all the crying.

  “Thank you, L. R. Rafe and I would have been upset as well. You do know the only reason that benighted elderly bitch didn't succeed in her nasty plan was because Don Mueller grabbed the gun from her and put it in his pocket, which everyone else saw but thought they were seeing the gun hovering in midair on the stage because they couldn't see Don's spirit.”

  Rafe groaned. “How much has Kiely had to drink? She's rambling. And delirious. Don Mueller. Yeah, right. What really happened was Shirley dropped the gun, the lights went out, and that was that.”

  I frowned at him. “How do you explain the gun disappearing? How do you explain the popcorn sailing into the audience? And excuse me, Rafe Montez, but who was that laughing? I'm telling you, it was Don Mueller. I know it and you know it.”

  Lida Rose put up her hands. “Stop. Halt. You two will never agree on this. So Rafe, any info on the why of Shirley's nefarious deeds?”

  I interrupted before he had a chance to say a word. “It's genetic.”

  Lida Rose whipped her head around to stare at me.

  “What? Kiely, what are you talking about?”

  “Genetics. G, E, N—”

  “I'm aware of the spelling. And the meaning. Give it some context, please.”

  “Sins of the father, L. R. Which were whoppers. Shirley’s Daddy Dearest was none other than Elias Henry. The first Lance Lamar.”

  I coughed and started to hiccup, so Rafe took over.

  “One century ago. According to Shirley, “Daddy” was a great actor who had a thing for Charity O'Sullivan. He was married to Shirley's mom at the time, which didn't seem to deter him, but didn't thrill the original Delilah Delight.”

  I interjected between hics, “Who happened to be in love with the unmarried Nick Nefarious. They were planning to elope after Bad Business closed.”

  Rafe patted my back as he added, “They never got the chance. Elias owned not only Henry's Five and Dime, but the antique store across from East Ellum. He used the underground passages in the theatre to hide artworks and jewels, et cetera, then carry them to his store. There's a tunnel connecting the ‘Kismet’ prop room to what is now the orchestra pit.”

  I exhaled and thanked Rafe for the hiccup remedy, then continued, “Which is where Elias stored the body of Charity O'Sullivan, the first Delilah Delight, after he shot her. The tunnel, that is, not or whatever the name of his store was back then.”

  Lida Rose waved her hand at me. “Wait. I thought she'd run off with the actor playing Nick Nefarious after robbing the box office.”

  I shivered. “The reality is that Charity lay under the theatre wrapped in a drop cloth until a cave-in sometime this year. Rafe and I found the cloth upstairs in ‘Kismet’. I have no idea why but it was nasty. Then I found Charity's bones in the tunnel. Shirley and her idiot grandson Neil moved her before the cops came. Somewhere. Probably one of the trunks upstairs. I think Melinda Krupke will start looking there tomorrow.

  “Sadly, Shirley seemed disinclined to tell anyone where she and Neil had put Charity's remains. She pretty much ignored the question. Too busy apologizing to Rafe for trying to kill him. Which she did not do to me, by the way. No “I'm sorry for locking you in tunnels, Kiely, or trying to shoot you during Act Three.”

  Rafe squeezed my hand, then turned to Lida Rose. “According to Shirley, that ‘bitchy Irish tart didn't like Daddy.’ I gather Elias wanted Charity to stay with him but she was go
ing to go off with Nick Nefarious up North, to, as Shirley put it, ‘play with the Yankees.’ I had to refrain from asking, as what? Second base? She then mused that there’s always a problem with Lance, Delilah, and Nick Nefarious. Kiely is supposed to be dead, you see. Another ‘Irish tart.’ Cursed.”

  “Kiely?”

  I zoned back in. Lida Rose was waving her glass at me. “Do you know if Shirley was responsible for Jason's death?”

  I nodded. “Rafe? You heard more about that than I did. I couldn't stand to listen to a lot of her garbage.”

  He poured some champagne into a glass, then gulped it down. “Shirley was afraid Jason would discover the tunnel in the prop room that ultimately led to. To quote Ms. Kincaid, ‘That boy was a tramp. In and out of ‘Kismet’ at all hours with women. No morals whatsoever. And smoking cigarettes. He could have started another fire.’ She seems to have forgotten she killed him before the blaze. Which she swears she didn't set—”

  I interrupted him. “Don set that fire. To get our attention focused on the prop room and the program with Charity's picture. And her earrings. I heard her that night. Pleading with Elias Henry not to shoot her. To let her live.”

  Rafe ignored me.

  I sighed. “Never mind. It's my own theory. I'm communing with spirits. Sorry to have mentioned it. Forget I said anything. Go on. Tell her about Jason.”

  “Shirley snuck in and swung that scimitar at Jason. Who apparently was asleep after a long night of—well, a long night. Then she pulled the cabinet down to make it look like an accident. She's not a stupid woman. Very, uh, resourceful.”

  Rafe had nailed it. In the last four weeks Shirley and Neil had attempted murder at least four times. They'd locked me in the closet at the party knowing I was claustrophobic. I still wasn’t sure why unless they wanted to be sure I was so claustrophobic I’d never attempt to put even a toe in the tunnel. (Shirley's comment after telling me that Neil had been the one to close the door on me at the party was, “You should really see someone about that, dear. Claustrophobia is no fun to live with.”) She'd fired live bullets at us, semi-decapitated Jason Sharkey, and played hide-and-seek with a century-old skeleton she'd hauled around the theatre. And she'd done it all while continuing to run a successful smuggling operation and learn blocking for a show.