The Phantom of Oz

by Cindy Brown

  “Shhh. I thought I heard footsteps.” Babette stared up into the fly space.

  There was no way anyone could have heard anything over the din on stage, but people did quiet down, straining to hear the ghostly footsteps. The theater was almost silent when a whirring noise came from overhead. Dorothy’s house. And it was falling.

  “Runaway 47, downstage, heads up!” shouted a techie. Actors and munchkins and mothers bolted, scattering in the wings.

  “No!” a man yelled. “Let go!”

  A scream from stage left. A blur of motion. A techie, flying into the air. We couldn’t do anything but watch as the runaway rope yanked her up into the fly space.

  Bam! Dorothy’s house hit the stage floor and the techie’s ascent stopped. She dangled from the rope some thirty feet above the stage.

  “Shit!” Logan ran onstage. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” The techie’s voice trembled. “Just get me down fast, okay?”

  A flurry of movement backstage, then the woman was slowly lowered down. As she touched down onstage everyone applauded, except for Logan, who looked like he was going to bite off his bottom lip, and Babette, who said, “Hang on. That house could’ve fallen on me. Isn’t anyone concerned that the ghost just tried to kill me?”

  Everyone stared at her, open-mouthed. Next to me, a light on a stand flicked on. The Grand Phoenician’s ghost light. Why did someone turn it on? It usually wasn’t lit until later, when everyone was about to leave the theater.

  Then, a scuffling noise from Candy’s bubble and movement from within. The silver tent-like fabric dimpled like someone was punching it from the inside. Another louder noise—a muffled cry for help?

  “Let her down,” shouted the stage manager. “Lower Glinda’s bubbleship.”

  The ship touched down. The stage manager opened the panel that acted as the bubble’s door. Candy crawled out, wild-eyed. “Help!” She clutched her chest. “She’s got me. She’s killing me.”

  I rushed to my friend. She didn’t seem to recognize me. I knelt down beside her and felt her pulse. It seemed fast and erratic. “Candy,” I said loudly, right in her face. “Candy.” Shaking violently, she shut her eyes tight against whatever she was afraid of.

  “Help should be here right away,” said Logan. “I called 911 as soon as the house fell. I was afraid someone was hurt.” He dropped to one knee beside Candy. “What do you think happened?”

  “It was the Lady,” Madison said in a hushed voice.

  I forced myself to be calm. I reached for Candy’s hand. She grabbed mine and held on, tight enough that it hurt.

  A burst of noise from the stage door, followed by a team of firefighters and EMTs bearing a stretcher and some medical equipment. “Here,” I shouted. They ran over to our little group.

  “What happened?” asked a guy who was taking Candy’s pulse. Or trying to. She’d let go of my hand and turned into a wild person, screaming and clawing at the air.

  “We don’t know,” I said.

  “We’re going to need to restrain her.”

  I cringed, but the guys were professionals. In what seemed like seconds, they were securing Candy on the stretcher, using soft restraints on her hands and feet. “Let’s get an IV started, and we need a heart monitor,” the first guy said to another EMT. He shone a penlight in Candy’s eyes. “Dilated pupils, but reactive. Do you know if she’s taking any medications?” he asked me. “Or if she’s allergic to anything?” I shook my head, but the stage manager said, “I’ll check her employee file and get right back to you.”

  “What kind of medication causes dilated pupils?” I asked, thinking back to what Ricky had said about drugs.

  The EMT didn’t answer my question, just said, “Would you help to clear this area? Let’s get some privacy for your friend.”

  Chapter 11

  Perplexed Me Most Terribly

  The EMTs shooed me away too. After what seemed like forever, they deemed Candy stable enough be transported to Good Sam. “Don’t worry,” one of them said as they took her away on a stretcher. “We’ll take good care of her.”

  Was Candy doing drugs? Ricky was right, coke seemed like a stretch, but maybe something else? Arghh. I wanted to do something, anything to help her. But what?

  Maybe I could figure out what happened. “Does anything look different than usual?” I asked the stage manager, who had poked her head inside the bubbleship. “Or smell different than usual?” Maybe toxic fumes were the cause of Candy’s distress.

  The stage manager sniffed the air. “No smell, and everything looks fine.”

  I joined her at the spaceship’s door. Inside, the structure of the ship was obvious: a network of PVC pipes in the shape of a globe, like a round jungle gym covered with stretchy fabric. “How does Candy’s entrance work?” I asked. “What’s supposed to happen?”

  “Candace crawls inside the ship while it’s in the fly space,” said the stage manager. “She hangs onto the inside of the structure—hands and feet on the piping—then pushes open this panel when she lands, and walks out as Glinda. It’s a pretty dynamic entrance. And—”

  Whatever she was going to say next was drowned out by a babble of voices from the backstage door entrance. The sound rushed toward us like some freak high tide, Babette’s voice on the crest of the wave. “I thought it was me that the Lady in White was after,” she said, “but a few seconds after I made sure the munchkins were safe”—nice rewrite of history there—“I realized that the falling set piece was just a distraction.”

  “Is it true you saw the ghost right beforehand?” asked the man with the hipster glasses I’d seen outside.

  Babette frowned at the reporter who had interrupted her story—which I realized sounded a bit rehearsed. I also realized that the ghost light was off again. Huh. It had turned on right before Candy’s accident. Was it a signal? From who?

  “Yes, several people including myself saw a white figure”—they did?—“And we heard footsteps, right before the house fell. In fact, that girl”—she pointed at me—“has photos of the ghost.”

  I was suddenly surrounded by a throng of people.

  “Let’s see.”

  “Is the picture clear?”

  “Can you really see the ghost?”

  But Babette was not about to let anyone steal her thunder. “As I said,” she said loudly, drawing attention back to herself, “that first accident was a distraction, disguising the ghost’s real intentions. Now I understand that the ghost isn’t after me. After all, why would she be?”

  Everyone in the room could have answered that question, but no one wanted to do it in front of the national press.

  “No, I believe the ghost is jealous,” Babette continued. “She was an actress after all, one who never made it big before killing herself.”

  “The Lady in White,” said a reporter.

  “Now I know for certain that I’ve got a sure winner, because the ghost is jealous. She just tried to kill my newest It Girl.”

  What? She couldn’t mean...

  “Candace Moon.”

  Chapter 12

  So Frail a Creature

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Candy as Babette’s next It Girl. I thought about it as I drove to Good Sam. I thought about it as I parked and went to the ER. I thought about it when the nurse told me I couldn’t see Candy because she was being “attended to.” I was really annoyed, but not just with Candy, who, yes, should have told me. I was mad at myself. I should be happy for my friend. This was a huge break. She’d be all over the internet and on TV and in magazines. No matter what happened, she would be a bankable commodity for a while. And though there was a bit of envy, it was only a titch. The overriding feeling was worry. I was sure Candy was sick, and Babette didn’t seem the nurturing type. More the bloodsucking, soul-eating type.

  I couldn’t get the It Girl ne
ws out of my head, but at least it steered me toward my next destination. I left the ER waiting room and headed to the hospital gift shop. “Do you have a copy of Us magazine?” I asked the white-haired volunteer behind the counter. A few minutes later I was back in the waiting room with my new magazine and a Diet Coke. I plopped down into a molded plastic seat and flipped to the four-page article on Babette. It wasn’t much different than the one in the Huff Post. It had a few more photos but mostly talked about the chandelier and the ghost and Babette. She didn’t mention Candy by name, and there wasn’t much talk about the It Girl until the end of the article, when the reporter said, “Do you feel like you’ve failed in your search for Hollywood’s next big thing? After all, none of your It Girls have gone on to major stardom.”

  “I think I figured out why,” said Babette. “You have to look back at the big stars of yesterday. Greta Garbo, Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe—they all had something today’s actresses are missing: vulnerability.” And unhappiness. She forgot to say that. “We could all see their vulnerability, relate to it. This healthy self-esteem crap everyone spouts nowadays gets you nowhere in Hollywood.”

  Yep, bloodsucking soul-eater.

  “Ivy.” Arrestadt stood in front of me. “I got here soon as I heard. They said Candace is still—”

  “Being attended to,” I finished with him.

  He pushed his hair off his forehead. “God, I hope she’s okay. And I hope she’s okay in time for the show tomorrow. We don’t have anyone else to play Glinda.” Arrestadt looked around the waiting room. “Are you the only one waiting for her?”

  “Yeah. You’d think that Babette would be here, looking after her newest It Girl.”

  Arrestadt didn’t blink. Must’ve known about Candy and Babette. “Probably don’t allow cameras in the ER.” He saw the magazine in my lap. The cover displayed a picture of the Grand Phoenician’s chandelier with an inset photo of Babette looking terrified, a different one than the selfie she’d taken. Arrestadt snorted. “Wonder when she staged that photo?”

  “Why staged?”

  “You’ve met Babette. She’s never afraid. She’s the scary one.” He indicated the magazine with a nod of his head. “May I?”

  I gave him the magazine, and he flipped to the story headed “Babette Firmin’s Phantom Nightmare.” The big photo was of the fallen chandelier. The magazine had inserted a big red arrow pointing at the Wicked Witch of the East’s striped stockings sticking out from underneath the wreckage. “No need for a house,” said the caption, “when the Lady in White has a chandelier!”

  Arrestadt snickered. I looked at him. He tried to suppress a smile. “I know it’s not appropriate, but Normina is going to be okay, and come on: a chandelier falls on the Wicked Witch of the East? It’s too good. I mean...” He pointed at the red and white stockings peeping out from underneath the chandelier. “It couldn’t be any more perfect if it was...” He stopped smiling.

  “Planned?” I said.

  “But no one would do that,” he said. “People could have been killed.”

  “Do you think anyone would have wanted to kill Normina?”

  “She’s not...easy,” he said. “But I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill anyone, ever. Call me naive, but...”

  “Candy thought Normina was bitchy because of you,” I said. “What did she mean?”

  “Oh.” Arrestadt shifted in his seat. “Well, she’s had a crush on me forever, I guess. No, I don’t guess. She made it very plain whenever I saw her, at auditions and parties. When I cast her in this show, I think she thought...” He shrugged. “She was wrong.”

  “Of course, it wouldn’t have to be Normina who was targeted. After all, most of the cast was in range of the chandelier.”

  “Plus you.”

  “Me?” I said. “Nah. Babette seems the most likely target.”

  “God knows a lot of people would like to see her gone.”

  “Could she have staged the whole thing for PR? I mean, it seems awfully dangerous, but...”

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about the fact that this latest accident ensures she’ll get another week of coverage, either.”

  I didn’t want to think about it either, at least not yet. “Let’s go back to the chandelier,” I said. “Do you seriously think it could have been tampered with?”

  “Maybe.” Arrestadt sat forward, his elbows on his knees, a thinking pose. “The theater personnel were astounded that the accident occurred. When they renovated the theater, they did it right, with the best historic-preservation architects in the country. Plus,” he looked at me, his hazel eyes serious, “they said something odd about the chandelier. They couldn’t be sure when it happened or why, but it looked like something had been done to it.”

  “Something that could cause it to fall?”

  “No.” He furrowed his brow. “The opposite, actually. There was an extra cable attached, as if someone wanted to make sure the chandelier wouldn’t fall all the way down.”

  A nurse clad in blue scrubs walked into the ER. “Anyone here for Candy Treat?”

  “Yes.” I raised my hand. Arrestadt blinked.

  “Her real name,” I said.

  “Wow.”

  “Her niece has it worse. Her name’s Trixie.”

  The nurse walked over to us. “Candy is going to be just fine.”

  “What was wrong?” I asked.

  The nurse continued without meeting my eyes. “We’ll want to keep her overnight for observation, but you can see her now. Follow me.” We both stood up and followed the nurse through swinging doors that separated the waiting room from the patient area.

  “She’s still here in the ER,” the nurse said. “We’re waiting on a room for her.” I looked around but didn’t see any police. Must not be thinking foul play. The nurse pushed aside a curtain. Candy lay in a bed, her head raised, her face ashen against the pillows. The nurse checked the machines Candy was hooked up to, pulse and heart and whatever. Seemingly satisfied, she glanced at her patient, nodded her head, and left.

  “How are you?” Arrestadt gave Candy the typical theater-folk kiss on the cheek. “We were worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.” Candy’s voice was weak and scratchy. “Just stupid. I took too many antihistamines on an empty stomach. I should have known better.” A pulse beat in a vein on her thin neck.

  Yes, she should have. Candy wasn’t stupid. Of course, I didn’t say that. I said, “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’ve been run over by a truck. And they said I was...acting out. Please tell me I didn’t do anything ridiculous.”

  “You were fine.” It seemed the kindest thing to say.

  “I’m so tired...” Candy was having a hard time keeping her eyes open. “I’m sorry, but...” She waved her hand at us.

  “We’ll see you tomorrow,” said Arrestadt.

  “Call me when you know what time you’re getting discharged,” I said. “I’ll pick you up.”

  “Thanks.” Candy managed a smile, then closed her eyes.

  Arrestadt pulled the curtain surrounding the bed and held it open for me. “After you.”

  “I think I’ll sit with her a few minutes.”

  “You’re a good friend.” He left.

  I was a good friend, I told myself. That was why I was about to break a cardinal rule of friendship—hell, of sisterhood: never go through a woman’s purse.

  Candy was breathing in that deep way that usually means sleep. I leaned over her, my face close to hers. Her breathing stayed slow and constant.

  Her purse, a big brown leather bag with lots of silver studs, was on a side table. I eased it onto my lap and scooted her wheeled bedside tray table over me, hoping it would provide cover if anyone came in. I undid the bag’s flap. RIIIPPPP. Arghh. Couldn’t they make quiet Velcro? Luckily there was
no sign that Candy heard.

  I rummaged around in her bag. A set of keys—a car key, and a couple that looked like house keys. A plastic pouch that held makeup: several lipsticks, eyeliner, mascara, one compact with powder in it. Face powder, not coke. I double-checked. I flipped through her wallet: credit cards, a health insurance card, her union cards. One of those hotel keycards—no, two of them, from different hotels by the look of them, but no name on either. She probably inadvertently kept one from a previous hotel; I’d done that before. Nothing else of interest in her wallet. I pulled out Candy’s iPhone. Locked. I tried a few passwords: her birthday, her old street address, her new street address, even plain old 1, 2, 3, 4. None of them worked.

  Keeping the wallet and phone on my lap, I went through the rest of her bag, pulling each item onto my lap. A few Kleenex, a pen, and two tins of breath mints. No bottles of antihistamines. It had sounded like a pretty lame excuse. I sat back and watched Candy breathe. It was hard to see my friend in that gray emaciated figure.

  I popped open the peppermint Altoid tin. It wasn’t filled with mints. A handful of small blue pills rolled around in the compartment. I carefully picked one up. I didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t an Advil or ibuprofen or Tylenol.

  I rolled the pill in my palm. It wasn’t necessarily anything suspicious. Lots of people kept pills in different types of containers. It might even be an antihistamine. I examined the pill more closely. A series of tiny numbers were stamped on it: 56733.

  Footsteps stopped right outside Candy’s curtained cubicle. Dang! I shoved the contents of Candy’s purse back inside her bag, put it on her bedside tray table, and dropped the pill. It rolled under the bed. Double dang! I dove for it just as the nurse stuck her head inside the curtain and said, “How is she?”

  Don’t ask me why I raised my head. Reflex, muscle memory, years of being scolded to look at people when they spoke to me—probably one of those things. All I can say is that I did it, even though said head was right underneath Candy’s tray table. My head, the table, and the pitcher of water sitting on it all came up at the same time.