Final Call (2 page)

Chapter One

“Just quit,” Stanley growled, as he maneuvered Betsey, his
turquoise blue 1961 Chevy Impala four-door sedan, through the narrow lanes of
the snow covered side streets of Freeport, Illinois. With four-foot high drifts
on either side of the road, it wasn’t an easy task.

Stanley Wagner was the fifth generation owner of Wagner
Office Supplies in downtown Freeport. And although the sixth generation was now
running the store, Stanley still arrived early every day to greet the customers
and make sure his children, now in their forties and
fifties,
were doing an acceptable job.

“I can’t quit,” Rosie explained, “I made a commitment and
I’m not going to let some bully scare me off.”

Rosie Pettigrew was a real estate broker in her early
sixties who also worked in downtown Freeport. She had been through about as
many husbands as careers. She had been devoted and faithful, but now she was
really enjoying being single and dating as many eligible men as possible. She
was also part of a small group of friends, who shared some interesting
experiences together. Mary O’Reilly, Police Chief Bradley Alden and Stanley had
brought quite a bit of excitement into her life.

“She
ain’t
just any bully,” he
replied. “She’s Faye McMullen and she can make your life pretty miserable
iffen
she takes a mind to.”

She turned in her seat and looked at him.

“Would you let her run you off?” she asked.

“Hell, no,” Stanley replied. “No one runs me off.”

“So, why should I let her scare me?”

“Well, because I
ain’t
trying to
sell real estate to some of her highfalutin friends,” he responded. “I
ain’t
trying to sell her nothing.”

“Well, really, I can’t believe that her friends wouldn’t buy
a house from me just because she tells them,” Rosie said.

Stanley shook his head slowly. “It’s obvious that you
haven’t been paying attention,” he said with disgust. “That woman farts and her
friends rush over to tell her how wonderful she smells.”

Rosie laughed. “Oh, Stanley, I can’t believe it’s that bad.”

“If I
ain’t
disremembering, a
while back the fashion was for ladies to wear those shorts all around town,
like they was at the beach,” he said. “She comes into town wearing this pair of
little shorts with a matching suit coat, all fancy and fine. With her skinny
little bird legs she looked like one of those
Sandhill
Cranes we got out by the river.”

Rosie scrunched her nose and shook her head. “That was
probably not a good look for her,” she acknowledged.

Stanley nodded. “Yeah,” he agreed. “But the worst was yet to
come. Once she wore those
shortie
shorts, all of the
other ladies in town who wanted to be ‘in’ started to wear them too. Made me
wonder if all the mirrors in town had
broke
. Some of
those ladies looked like five pounds of sausage stuffed into two pounds of
casings. It weren’t pretty. It weren’t pretty at all.”

Rosie giggled. “Poor Stanley, I bet it was awful.”

“‘Bout poked my eyes out for the pain of it,” he replied.
“But then those floppy shirts and bell-bottomed pants were the newest thing and
my eyesight was saved.”

“Well, thank goodness for short-lived fashion trends,” she
laughed.

“Point is, she made a bunch of normally sensible women
behave foolishly because they wanted to be like her,” he said. “Things haven’t
changed much since then. If you’re on her bad side, you might as well leave
town.”

“There’s got to be a way to get around this, Stanley. There
just has to be.”

“The only way she’s going to release her hold on the folks
of Freeport is when they pry us out of her cold, dead hands.”

They pulled up across the street from Winneshiek and parked
the car in one of the few cleared spots. “Looks like her majesty is already
here,” Stanley said, motioning his head in the direction of her silver-grey
Mercedes CL 500 coupe parked in front of the theater.

“Well, darn. I didn’t think she had to be here until later,”
Rosie sighed. “She’s probably going to sit in the front seat and criticize us
while we practice.”

“We could go over to Mary’s house instead,” he suggested.

“No, we can’t. Besides, you promised that you would help
paint the back drop and you’re not getting out of that.”

Stanley shrugged. “Don’t mind painting,” he said. “Just hate
being around uppity people who think their poop
don’t
stink.”

Rosie nodded.
“Yeah, me too.”

They walked across the street and Rosie entered the new
combination of security numbers into the keyless entry lock. Stanley peaked
over her shoulder. “What’s the number?”

She covered the keypad with her hand. “I can’t tell you,”
she said. “We sign a contract that says we won’t share the number with anyone.
I guess they’ve had some problems with some of the costumes and equipment
walking away.”

“Well, how the hell am I supposed to be doing the painting
if I can’t get in?” he growled.

“I’m sure Carl will give you the number,” she apologized. “I
just can’t do it.”

“Silly if you ask me,” he muttered.

The lock buzzed open and Rosie pushed on the door. The
interior of the theater was only lit by the small security light on the
stairwell.

“I wonder why she didn’t turn on the lights,” Rosie
commented.

“She’s probably a vampire and the lights hurt her eyes,”
Stanley retorted.

“
Shhhh
,” she whispered to him.
“She might be standing nearby.”

Rosie climbed up the stairs, walked beyond the small pool of
light and flicked the switch that illuminated a portion of the backstage.
Stanley followed behind her, turning and looking around the area.

“
Ain’t
real fancy back here, is
it?” he said.

The walls were either red brick or had bare drywall nailed
over two-by-fours. The open steps up to the Green Room, dressing rooms and control
room were constructed of bare wood and nails. Against one wall was a rough
countertop filled with hardware used for constructing sets and the bare boards
on the floor were smeared with remnants of different colors of paint.

Rosie glanced around, trying to see it through Stanley’s
eyes. “Yep, this is the glamour of show biz,” she teased.

She walked over to the heavy curtain that separated them
from the stage. “The lights for the rest of the building are across the stage
on the far wall,” she explained. “I might as well turn them on, because we are
going to need them.”

“I’ll go with you.
Might as well get the
whole tour.”

The curtain cut off much of the light and the stage area was
dark. “This is creepy,” Stanley whispered. “Think this place is haunted?”

“They say that all theaters are haunted,” Rosie whispered.
“They say the spirits are drawn to the creative energy of the actors.”

“You could have waited to share that with me.”

Rosie giggled. “Ghosts are not the scariest thing in this
theater lately.”

They reached the opposite side of the stage and Rosie felt
her way to the light box. She flipped the switch for the house and stage lights
and soon the area was brightly illuminated.

Stanley walked over to the line of riggings. “What are these
for?” he asked.

“Each line controls either a curtain or a backdrop,” Rosie
explained. “They use pulleys and sandbags to counter balance them. The bar at
the very top – like the curtain rod – is called the batten.”

“Those curtains and things are pretty tight up there,” he
replied, looking up towards the ceiling. “I’m amazed they don’t all get tangled
up together.”

She
nodded,
her focus on the
riggings in front of her. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. There are all kinds of
interesting names for things backstage. For example, a line that’s not being
used is called a dead end,” she began and then noticed he was not paying
attention to her, but had walked down along the wall of curtains.

“Stanley, what’s wrong?”

He peered up into the shadows above the stage. There was a
colorful blaze of fabric amidst the burgundy curtains and canvas backdrops. He
moved closer, trying to get a better view from a different angle.

“Hey, what’s this play about anyway?” Stanley asked. “Is it
a Western?”

“No, it’s a drama,” she replied.

“How come you need a dummy hanging from a rope?”

She looked over quickly. “No one gets hanged in the play.”

“Sure looks like it. Up there.”

Rosie looked up to where he directed and saw the caftan and
silk pants ruffling in the slight breeze of the theater twenty feet over the
stage.
“Oh, sweet heavens!
Stanley,” she screamed.
“That’s Faye!”

Chapter Two

Mary O’Reilly sat on the floor in her kitchen sorting
through her junk drawer. She had a vintage Carpenters song playing on her iPod
and the soulful voice of Karen Carpenter was singing about rainy days and
Mondays.

She picked up a small plastic knob and turned it around in
her hand, wondering where it came from and why it ended up in the junk drawer. Shrugging,
she began to toss it in the nearly empty garbage basket sitting next to her,
thought better of it and put it back in the drawer.

Looking back down into the drawer, she sighed. It was still
filled with a pile of miscellaneous junk and she hadn’t thrown anything out except
a handful of expired grocery coupons. “Okay,” she said to herself. “In five
months if I haven’t used anything in this drawer, I throw it all away.”

She reached up and slid the drawer back into the cabinet and
rested her chin in her hands.

“Well that was a big waste of time,” she said. “Maybe I
should sort socks.”

She leaned back against the cabinet; if something didn’t
happen soon, she was going to go crazy.

Mary had been a Chicago cop before she was shot in the line
of duty. A near-death experience brought her back to earth with an extra talent
– she could communicate with ghosts.
Which, she had come to
learn, was both a blessing and a curse.
She moved to the small town of Freeport,
Illinois and set up a private investigation agency where she could solve cases
involving clients, living and dead.

During the past few months, Mary had been involved with a
number of cases that also included working with Freeport’s Chief of Police,
Bradley Alden. Although their initial meeting had been a little rocky, they had
gotten to know each other and, eventually, had fallen in love. The biggest
obstacle in their relationship was Bradley’s wife, Jeannine, who had
disappeared more than eight years ago after a break-in at their home. Bradley
spent years trying to find Jeannine, with no luck. He came to Freeport to try
and start his life over.

During her last case, Mary discovered that Jeannine Alden
had died and was now a ghost. She wanted to tell Bradley, but Jeannine had
insisted on secrecy because she was not ready for Bradley to find out.

Now, halfway through the month of January, she hadn’t seen a
glimpse of Jeannine since the early morning hours of New Year’s Day. Mary had
been avoiding Bradley as much as she could, because she really hated lying to
him and she had an obligation to comply with her client’s wishes. She took a
deep breath and sighed.

“You’re making
me
depressed and I’m dead!”

Mary jumped and looked up to see Mike Richards fully
materialize next to her on the floor.

“Mike, you scared me.”

“Duh, I’m a ghost. I’m supposed to scare people.”

She had met him during her last case. A former fireman, Mike
had been poisoned by a mentally unstable woman who had a thing for good-looking
law enforcement professionals.

He looked over at her. “Is this some new kind of yoga
position?” he asked, taking a moment to study her. “Let’s call it depressed
woman.”

She sighed again.

He shook his head. “Nope, that’s not acceptable,” he said.
“My witty repartee cannot be met with a sigh. You have to giggle, laugh, guffaw
or snort at the very least.”

Mary smiled.

“That’s better,” he acknowledged, “but not great. So, what’s
making those brown eyes blue,
Sweetcakes
?”

“
Sweetcakes
?”
Mary asked.
“Really?”

He shrugged. “Worked when I was alive,” he said, placing his
left hand on his heart and lifting his right hand. “I swear.”

This time she did laugh.

He grinned. “That’s better. So, what’s up?”

She shook her head. “I haven’t seen Jeannine for two weeks,”
she explained. “I can’t tell Bradley she’s dead until she gives me permission
and I can’t keep lying to him.”

“Kind of caught between a rock and a hard place, aren’t
you?”

She nodded, and then brightened. “You don’t happen to run
into Jeannine, when you’re...” she waved her hands around, “in the other world
place.”

“You mean at the hangout,” he said. “The one that kind of
looks like the bar scene from Star Wars, but instead of aliens it’s filled with
all of these ghosts, playing pool, drinking beer and eating peanuts.

“Although, quite frankly, I wouldn’t touch the peanuts if I
were you,” he added as an aside. “They fall right through us and then the
barkeeper sweeps them up and puts them right back into the bowls on the bar.
Disgusting if you ask me.”

“You’re lying to me, right?” she asked.

He nodded and leaned his translucent body back against the
cabinets. “Yeah, babe, sorry,” he said. “No such things as an inter-dimensional
hang-out. We pretty much all do our own thing.”

Mary stood up and walked over to the sink. She washed off
her hands, and then turned, leaned against the counter and stared back at Mike
who stayed on the floor. “Do you think she’s avoiding me?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, nothing that deliberate,” he said.
“She’s just somewhere else.”

“Somewhere else?”
Mary asked.

Mike stood and floated over to her. “Ghosts don’t do time
very well,” he said, shrugging. “I suppose it’s because, really, we aren’t in
any rush to get anywhere. So, we really don’t have a good judge of time
passage.”

“How bad would you say it is?”

He smiled. “Most of the hauntings that go on for years are
just one of us stopping by a favorite place and hanging out for a little while.
We have no idea of days, months, years and, sometimes, even centuries.”

Dropping her head, she moaned. “I’m never going to be able
to tell him the truth.”

“No, she’ll be
back
soon, she
doesn’t want to be floating. She wants to move on.”

She heard the wistful note in his voice. “Does it get
lonely?”

He nodded his head, all humor gone from his face. “Damn
lonely,” he said. “I guess that’s why our natural tendency is to want to move
on. There’s family on the other side, waiting for us.”

“I really want to help her,” she said. “The last time I saw
her she looked so sad.”

“Well, she just learned her husband has fallen in love with
someone else,” he said. “And no matter how much she wanted that to happen, it
had to hurt a little when he chose you over her.”

Nodding slowly, Mary agreed. “You know, I hadn’t considered
her perspective at all,” she said. “I wasn’t even thinking about how this would
cause her pain.”

She turned to face him. “And once again, it’s all about me,”
she said. “We still haven’t figured out why you aren’t moving on.”

“I’m not in that big of a hurry,” he confessed. “Really, the
only one waiting for me on the other side is my great-aunt and she’ll probably
want me to wear one of the sweaters she made me for all of the Christmases when
I was growing up.”

Mary grinned. “How bad were they?”

“We gave them to the Salvation Army and the homeless people
returned them,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

Mary laughed. “You are such a liar.”

“Feeling better?” he asked, suddenly serious again.

Nodding, she realized she felt much better. “Yes,” she said,
a little surprised, “much better.”

“Good,” he leaned over and placed a kiss on her cheek.

It felt like the brush of a frozen feather.

“Where are you going?” she asked, as she noticed him fading
slightly.

“Ghost-clubbing.”

She snorted. “No. You are definitely lying about that.”
      

“Ever hear of Studio Six Feet Under?” he asked.

She nodded, biting her lip to keep from laughing again. “Or
how about the Coffin Club?” she added.

He chuckled and nodded, “Can’t forget the Spook Nook.”

She finally laughed out loud.
“Spook Nook?
I love it.”

He smiled at her and winked. “That’s better,” he said. “I’ll
leave you with a smile on your lips. Bye, Mary.”

She watched as he disappeared. “Bye, Mike.”