[2015] The Ghost Slept Over

by Marshall Thornton

  “He committed suicide. How can you not have an inkling you’re going to die if you commit suicide?” Grady grumbled.

  “The medical examiner hasn’t confirmed suicide. It may have been accidental.”

  Grady snorted. “He took an entire bottle of hydrocodone and at least a half bottle of wine. Doesn’t sound accidental to me.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked.

  “I’m a newspaperman. I don’t reveal sources.”

  “Grady, you deliver newspapers,” I said. In point of fact, Grady owned the service that delivered all the newspapers in four counties. “That doesn’t entitle you to confidential sources.”

  “Hold me in contempt!” he shouted. “I’m ready to go to jail to protect my sources.”

  Jane leaned over and said, “Patsy Dickers told him. She’s the pretty little thing who works for Dr. Albertson.”

  “Jane! How could you do that? You may have put poor Patsy’s life in jeopardy!”

  Jane shook her head. “I knew we should never have gotten those pay TV channels. Now Grady thinks everything is a conspiracy.” She and Grady lived together out-of-wedlock, as my grandparents might have said. She turned to him and said, “Dewey Morgan is not going to harm a hair on Patsy Dickers’ head.”

  “Maybe it’s not Dewey I’m worried about.” He looked around the back dining room suspiciously.

  “No one here is going to hurt Patsy Dickers,” I said. “Aside from that we have more important things to discuss. Like how we’re going to keep the theater running. And what we’re going to do if—”

  “Heaven Sent!” Kelly gasped.

  “That may be a problem,” I admitted. Heaven Sent was to be our winter production. It opened in three weeks. The play itself was an old warhorse from the thirties; part mystery, part ghost story, part comedy and always a crowd pleaser. The plot concerned an old English estate left by a recently deceased Lord to his favorite nephew, skipping over two unpleasant and greedy cousins. The cousins decide to gaslight the nephew by pretending to be the Lord haunting the estate. Unfortunately, it all goes awry when the ghost of the Lord actually shows up. The play features a flying teapot, doors that shut themselves, chains rattling offstage, and a treasure trove of very old, very corny jokes. We’d been rehearsing for nearly four weeks and had expected an infusion of cash from Mac the day after he died. I had no idea how we’d open without the cash.

  “So who gets it all?” Wendell asked. “Mac’s money.”

  “Oh, well, the heir is an actor named Cal Parsons.”

  “Who the hell is he?” Grady wanted to know.

  “Apparently, he and Mac were once partners.”

  “Business partners?” Kirby asked.

  “Oh my God!” Grady nearly shouted. “Gay! Gay partners!”

  After frowning at Grady, Jane wanted to know, “What kind of person is he? Is he reasonable?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve only had one short conversation with him.”

  “Could we buy The Red Barn from him?” asked Wendell.

  “We’re hardly in that kind of financial situation,” Constance said quickly.

  “Oh, I know, I know…we’d have to find a benefactor to give us the down payment.”

  “Could we do that?” Jane asked.

  “It’s highly unlikely. We’d have a better chance in the summer, but we can’t wait that long,” Constance pointed out. It was unfortunate, too. Constance was a real-estate agent and had strong relationships with the summer folk. I had no doubt she could raise a nice chunk of money…if it were just six months later.

  “So, what are we going to do?” Jane asked.

  We looked at each other for a moment. Then Wendell said, “Well, we’re just going to have to convince this Cal person that he needs to give us some money. That’s the way Mac would have wanted it, so that’s how it should be.”

  They all turned and looked at me. I thought, Oh crap. But what I said was, “All right. I’ll give it some thought. I’m picking Mr. Parsons up at the airport tomorrow. I’ll get a sense of him and then we’ll figure out a way to proceed.”

  The meeting came to an end and I tried to get out of there as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Constance snagged me before I got all the way out of the back dining room.

  “You’re going to get a phone call.”

  “I’m a lawyer. I get a lot of phone calls.”

  “You’re getting a particular phone call. From a gentleman.” She gave me a wink. “A gay gentleman.”

  “Constance, we talked about this.”

  “Oh, I didn’t take that seriously.” She frowned at me, as though my asking not to be fixed up had been in terribly bad taste. “Besides, what harm is there in talking to a man on the telephone. You don’t have to meet him if you don’t like the sound of him…”

  And I probably wouldn’t like the sound of him. Constance thought that simply being gay was enough for two men to have in common, and while it certainly helped, there was more to a relationship than that. On the other hand, the Tri-County area didn’t have a lot of gay men; in fact, there were more homophobes than homos, so I could see where Constance’s impulse to match-make came from.

  But I still wanted it to stop.

  “I should probably hurry back to my office then,” I told her.

  “Oh yes, you…wait a minute, no, I gave him your cell number.”

  “Ah, good idea. I still have to run.”

  “Don’t be like that,” she said.

  “Like what?” I asked as I waved at the others over her head.

  “You’re not going to be young forever. You haven’t been on a date in nearly two years.”

  “Constance, I can’t imagine how you’d know that.”

  “It’s a small town,” she reminded me. “I know what kind of underwear you wear without your having to pull down your pants.”

  “I can’t say that I’m happy to hear that,” I said.

  She shrugged. “It’s a small town; we all know each other’s business.”

  I wanted to disagree with her, but I actually knew far more about her than I would have liked to. Including her preference for mail-order lingerie. Frowning, I slipped out of the dining room and into the main restaurant. I did have to run. I had quite a bit of work to do. I had to rearrange my entire schedule for the following afternoon so I could drive an hour and a half each way down to Tri-County airport and pick up Cal Parsons.

  * * * *

  The Metro area was always more than I could take. The traffic, the people, the over-crowding. At the airport, the new terminal looked like a hospital and people told jokes about ambulances arriving mistakenly. I parked in the structure across the street and walked across the overhead walkway to the sterile terminal. Snow had begun to fall. I waited in the vaguely defined area outside of security, trying to remember what it was like when you could walk right up to the gate to meet people.

  Around me were families waiting for loved ones. A trickle of passengers came through the gate: a businessman, a soldier in camouflage, students. I found the arrivals board and checked the flight. It had already landed. Fifteen minutes before schedule. Apparently, they’d made good time and arrived early. I looked around again, wondering where Mr. Parsons might be. Someone tapped my shoulder and I jumped. I spun around and found myself looking up slightly at a tall man of around forty with dark hair, a superhero chin, and long-lashed, brown eyes.

  “Are you looking for me?” he asked.

  “Are you Mr. Parsons?”

  He tilted his head a bit, as though there was some question and said, “Yes, I am. Cal, please.”

  “Then I’m waiting for you.” I put out my hand, “Dewitt Morgan. Dewey, that is.” I like my full name but sometimes it seems impossibly formal. “We spoke on the phone.” That was a dumb thing to say. He knew that we’d spoken on the phone, he knew I was coming to meet him. I felt myself beginning to blush. Which made me wonder, why was I blushing? This was a client. An attractive client; but still, a client.r />
  “Yes, I remember,” he said, slipping his hand into mine. It was soft and big and gripped my hand tightly.

  I cleared my throat and took an involuntary step backward. “I don’t think I said this when we talked, but I am very sorry for your loss.”

  “Hmmmm...this is awkward. You see, I haven’t seen or talked to Mac in something like fourteen, fifteen years. I’m not happy he’s dead, but I don’t exactly feel a whole lot of…loss. I grieved when I lost him the first time. A lot. I’m not planning to do it again.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that so I asked, “Did you check any luggage?”

  He held up a shabby gym bag. “I travel light.”

  Eccentric, I thought.

  “Okay. The car’s this way.”

  As we headed toward the overhead walkway and the garage, he asked, “What’s an entertainment lawyer doing all the way up here?”

  “I’m not an entertainment lawyer. Mac used a firm in New York for all his business dealings. I only handled his personal affairs.”

  He smirked. “Is something funny?” I asked.

  “Personal affairs. Sounds like, you know, something a pimp would say.”

  I think I was supposed to laugh. I didn’t.

  “Is this going to be uncomfortable for you?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “This. I mean, the whole one gay guy leaving his personal affairs to another.”

  “Why should that make me uncomfortable?” He wasn’t making sense.

  “Well, it shouldn’t, but it does make some people—”

  “Oh, that...” I finally tumbled. “You think... you don’t... I’m gay. Too.”

  “Huh? Oh, well, totally misread that. I had you all married to some little blonde who liked to cook Paula Deen recipes and…you know...”

  We walked in silence. It was odd being accused of being straight. Most people in Marlboro Township knew I was gay. Sure, when I was out in other communities I was nearly always assumed to be straight. I’d always thought it was because so many people refused to believe gays existed outside of New York City and San Francisco. But now this gay man assumed—

  We’d reached the walkway, and beneath us cars zipped back and forth. The chill air from the garage began to overtake the heat from the terminal. Cal wore a T-shirt and a black suit jacket that seemed to be some kind of antique. Completely inappropriate for our weather. But then he was from California. I guessed I should be happy he hadn’t shown up in shorts and flip-flops.

  “I suppose you can take that as a compliment,” he said.

  “What? That you thought I was straight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would I take that as a compliment?”

  “I mean, a lot of guys would, do. Haven’t you ever dated online?” He made air quotes and said, “No fats or femmes. Please be straight-acting.’”

  “I find that kind of thing offensive.”

  “Dating online?”

  “Requesting guys be straight-acting. It’s bad enough straights think they’re better than we are. We shouldn’t necessarily jump on the bandwagon and think the same thing.”

  “Okay, well yes, I can see that. But it is what guys do.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay.”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just…I was trying to say I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

  I looked at him for a moment and said, “Okay.”

  “Okay. So…do you have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes. He’s a little blond who likes to cook Paula Deen recipes.” I don’t know why I said that. Other than that I thought I might enjoy the look of panic that popped onto his face. And I did.

  “No, not really. I’m single.” I said, finally, letting him off the hook.

  After a short pause, in which we walked quietly, he said, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “What? That I’m single?”

  “I mean…I figure some guy would snap you right up because you’re so straight-acting.” He gave me a well-rehearsed actor-ly smile, which I liked despite myself.

  “Touché,” I said. Then added, “This is my car.”

  I hit the remote to my green Land Rover. Cal jumped backward. “Sorry, I’m not used to cars that beep.”

  That struck me as odd; cars had been beeping for a long time. We climbed into the SUV and I said, “The seats will be warm in a minute.” Then I turned the car on and hit the button to warm the seats.

  “Really, the seats are heated?”

  “I guess you don’t need that in California.”

  “No, not really.”

  As we drove out of the parking structure, Cal said, “Everything’s so small. This airport has, like, one runway.”

  “Two, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Okay. Still not big.”

  “Well, brace yourself, it gets smaller from here.”

  “Really?”

  “I imagine you’re a city boy through and through?”

  “I am. Los Angeles native. Most people don’t believe we exist.”

  I smiled politely at his joke. We drove for a while. Cal looked out the window as the Metro area faded away and we got onto a three-lane highway going north. I wondered what he’d think of the highway when it cut down to two lanes.

  “Is there going to be a reading of the will?” he asked abruptly.

  “Well, no. That really doesn’t happen,” I explained.

  “Oh,” he sounded disappointment.

  “And you’re the only heir. I suppose I could read you the will if you like, and the trust too...but I do bill by the hour.”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  “I’ll give you copies of everything, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And if you have any questions...” I paused to see if he might have them before even getting the paperwork. Then I said, “We should probably talk about the funeral.”

  “Oh, you didn’t do that already?”

  “Well, no. It’s only been four days since Mac’s body was found.”

  “Right.”

  “Which reminds me.” I paused. These things can be delicate. “Did you want to see him?”

  “See him? You mean his body? Good God, no. I didn’t want to see him when he was alive. Why would I want to see him dead?”

  “I completely understand. I felt I should ask.”

  We drove quietly and uncomfortably for a bit. Mac had not been a perfect person. He had a habit of saying things that were, well, rude; often true, but rude nonetheless. But he had also been quite generous, at least with the Barnyard Players. Not just as a group but as individuals. Cal’s distaste for his ex-partner was not only tacky but confusing.

  I decided the best thing to do was to try and use the time in the car to go over a few details. Obviously, I’d be billing him for the ride. It was only fair to make use of the time. I was familiar enough with Mac’s assets to list them as we drove. Cal was interested, but was not as animated as he’d been on the phone. When I told him about the brokerage accounts and the bonds, I said casually, “Of course, you can have the stocks transferred to your own brokerage account. Or if you like we can simply have the name on these accounts changed.”

  “It’s so cute you think I own stocks and bonds.”

  “You mentioned liquidating your Ford stock. Did I not understand?”

  “I liquidated my Ford truck. I took it to one of those car lots that pay cash for cars.”

  “Oh, I see.” I reassessed the situation. The shabby gym bag he used for luggage was not eccentric. It was the best he could do. He didn’t show up without a winter coat because he was oblivious, but because he was poor. Well, poor in the past tense. He was rich now. Still, I felt a little bad having made him sell his truck. I suppose I could have fronted him the money for the ticket. “I’ll take you into First Marlboro tomorrow and we’ll get you access to the household accounts. And you actually own an SUV...you know, to replace the truck.”

  He just n
odded. I hoped the truck hadn’t had sentimental value.

  I went back to outlining the estate’s assets. He seemed a little stunned that Mac had accumulated so much. I thought I might get some kind of comment when I mentioned that Mac owned The Red Barn Theater, since he was an actor. But he barely blinked. Perhaps he was strictly a film actor. Then I explained the steps we’d have to go through to change the name on Mac’s accounts. I suppose I could have talked up The Barnyard Players but it seemed ridiculous to hit Cal up for money on our first meeting—particularly since he wasn’t even allowed to write a check yet. The best strategy would be to get him out to the theater and have him at least meet some of the players. Which didn’t mean the board wouldn’t expect me to have the whole thing tied up by the end of the day.

  “So, I have to ask,” Cal said. “You didn’t recognize me when we met?”

  I blushed. Had I missed something? Something important? “Have we met before?”

  “No.”

  “Then why would I recognize—?” I caught myself. “Wait. I’m sorry. I’ve probably seen you in something haven’t I? I don’t watch much—” I looked at him closely. “Oh shit, you’re not a porn actor, are you? I don’t watch any…um, well, I mean, a little...”

  “I’m not a porn star. Just forget it. Sorry I brought it up.”

  We were silent for the next ten minutes or so, and then I pulled off the freeway at the Marlboro exit. The exit slopes down a long ramp and the view is postcard pretty. Mountains with untouched forests, the iced over lake, snow everywhere.

  “Wow, everything’s so…natural,” Cal said with a touch of what I thought was awe in his voice. I changed my mind when he added, “It’s like being in the frozen food aisle at Whole Foods.”

  I smiled weakly at the joke. “We don’t have Whole Foods.”

  “You don’t? Wow, it is a small town.”

  Mac’s house was on the east side of the lake about two miles north of the township proper. Like most of the houses along the lake it was originally designed as a summer home. Mac was one of the few who’d winterized his house so he could live in Marlboro year-round. The house was contemporary with a slant roof that allowed it to be one-story in the back and nearly three in the front, facing the lake. It also allowed the snow to safely slide off as the weather warmed. Though as we walked up to it, there was still a thick layer of snow clinging to the roof. The front of the house was nothing but glass, making it expensive to heat but architecturally stunning. The lake came almost all the way up to the house, leaving room for a tiny private beach—now buried in snow—and an unused dock. The view was amazing, more so in the summer, taking in the far side of the lake and a long row of the Adirondack Mountains.