Scarecrow’s Dream (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

It was eerie that Shane felt he’d been given some sort of nudge by the universe to return to Manhattan shortly before I came popping back from the dead. I had to stop myself from jumping up right then and there to announce my presence.

But I needed to wait and see what Frannie Stutzgraft had to say about Rob. I didn’t want to see the woman faint before she could provide any info. It’s one thing to admit to being “spiritual” and another to have a spirit start asking to share their tea and scones and clotted cream on the side. But I was digressing in my own thoughts. I turned my attention back to their conversation.

Frannie was telling Shane how sorry she was he’d lost Holly, his career, and his own identity because of tragedy and death and the mysterious reason behind the murders. Then she started talking about Rob.

“Shane, I doubt I can give you the answers you need because I don’t know all that much. I was away, living in Illinois and taking care of my mother who was very ill at that time. But Rob’s calls were growing more and more…odd. I remember him telling me he’d been mugged. He sounded paranoid. Claimed the mugging had more to do with his script than with any money he was carrying.”

“Do you have any idea why?” asked Shane. “As to the script, I mean.”

“I knew
Basement
was based on real events, both from when he was a POW and later at the veterans’ hospital. I was worried when he started writing it because he’d based the characters on real people, including someone he claimed was a traitor, some very nasty guards, a general from the prison camp, and several people from the hospital. But Rob never told me their real names. Honestly, he said very little about the whole project. It was as if he was scared from the day he sent out the proposal. But it was as if he was driven to write it. Almost as if he knew…”

Shane nodded. “Rob said something similar to Holly and me when she was working on the script with him. Not only about being afraid, but about things in the play mirroring real life. But he didn’t elaborate. Not to me. Not to her until a few days before he died, from what Holly said.”

“Did he tell you he’d seen one of those people here in New York?”

“What! No. I had no idea. Did he tell you who?”

Frannie replied, “No. He never did. The one thing he said to me the day he died—over the phone—was he was going to meet someone later and give this…individual a chance to explain. Rob was too kind-hearted. Didn’t want to label anyone as a traitor or a murderer on the off chance he’d been wrong in some way. But, Shane, Rob also said he had proof.”

“Anything that could help with an identity?”

“He inferred as much. Could have been a fellow prisoner or one of the women at the VA hospital. Several of whom were pretty rancid. I seem to recall there was an overly amorous nurse and a jealous spouse or something. I’m not sure who actually committed a crime.”

Shane rose and began to pace. “His last draft was supposed to have everything laid out. No one but Holly saw it, and of course, she was supposed to be helping him write it. But he kept holding back.” He stopped and slapped his fist into his hand. “Damn! If he hadn’t been so secretive about all this… And Holly, for that matter. She knew something but didn’t want to tell me. Thought she was keeping us both safe. But I remember Rob telling me there was a scene where a murder was committed in the hospital and Daniel—that was my character—witnesses it, but no one believes him.”

“He based Daniel on himself. But he never told me much about being in the hospital. At any rate, it’s doubtful this play would have resulted in anyone’s arrest. At worst it would be slander or libel.”

“Perhaps, but it might have sparked interest in starting a real investigation,” Shane said. “Murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations. And of course, we don’t know the actual ‘why’ of all this. I’ve probably read too many mysteries, but the obvious motive isn’t always the correct one. People kill for crazy reasons. People kill for no reason at all.”

Shane sank back down onto his chair, took another sip of tea, set the cup back down, and continued. “I’ve agonized for years over whether or not Holly was shot because I’m black and she was white. I blamed myself for allowing our relationship to continue even after we’d experienced some…let’s just call them stressful incidents. We broke up for a while because I was afraid she’d get hurt. One of the actresses who’d been cast in
Basement
, Chandra Petrie, was furious because Holly was involved and she wasn’t shy about expressing her feelings. My agent was terrified my career would be in the trash if word got out I was seeing a white girl. He acted like a pig every time Holly’s name was mentioned. But what purpose would it serve killing her? Or me? The play makes more and more sense as motive since it points to why Rob and Holly were murdered.”

Frannie said, “No one knew but Rob and me but
Trapped in the Basement
was receiving some major buzz about being turned into a movie a few months before Derek snapped it up as a play. Filmmakers were starting to use Vietnam for storylines back then. Rob told me he’d been approached about it. Media loves to dig into actors’ backgrounds, especially those involved in movies, and sometimes the background also leads to digging into the reality of the characters they play.”

“I apologize if I’m being repetitive, but is there anything at all Rob said to provide a clue as to the real person…or which character?”

“I’m sorry, Shane. I have no idea where he ran into him. It was not long after he got mugged. I’ve always believed the person responsible for Rob’s death stole that copy. Rob included a character breakdown. It’s possible the killer would have recognized himself although Rob kept changing names. Anyway, it must have been pretty damning for him to resort to violence to keep the play from being produced. Or read by someone who saw it as hitting too close to home.”

She reached for the teapot. I noticed that her hand shook as she picked it up. Her next bit of information revealed why. “Actually, there’s one more thing. Rob told me he got a strange phone call the week before he died. From someone taunting him.”

“In what way?”

“Telling him
Trapped in the Basement
would never be produced and he should forget about trying to finish it.”

“When you say taunting, was it more like someone being snide, rather than specific threats?”

“Yeah, and he sounded drunk. At least, that’s what Rob kept telling himself. I didn’t buy then and I don’t buy it now.” Frannie stared at Shane and placed the teapot back on the table without bothering to pour another cup. “Damn. It’s insane. Everyone believed his fall was an accident. A stolen script, followed by some kook hassling him over the phone didn’t add up to murder at the time. I truly wish I’d been in New York when all this was happening. I tried to tell the police after he died that he didn’t climb that catwalk on his own, but I was just the grieving widow who couldn’t accept his death. Shoot, I felt lucky they were calling it an accident. I remember the word suicide actually being mentioned once or twice, but Rob would never ever take his own life. And, as they kept reminding me, the catwalk railing was slippery. Anyway, murder was never considered and I soon realized I needed to keep quiet.”

“Good instinct. Might have saved your life.” Shane took a deep breath. “Frannie, no one else was supposed to know Holly was working with Rob. He told her he was afraid for her if word got out. I never saw a finished copy. Hell, I never saw a lousy rough draft. He was right to be afraid.”

Frannie and Shane lapsed into silence for a long moment.

Finally Frannie asked, “Are you going to continue investigating?”

“I need to, but I don’t want to put you into danger again,” he replied.

Frannie laughed. “Ah, you sweet Irish gentleman, you. Shane, don’t worry. In the last forty years I’ve never received a threatening phone call or letter. I guess the killer decided I wasn’t a threat. Hell, even the wacky emails I get are from princes of countries I’ve never heard of telling me I’ve inherited a potful of money and they’d be thrilled to send it to me once I’ve simply handed over my bank account and routing numbers. And there’ve been far fewer of those in the last five years. I guess scammers figured out the old folks are on to them.”

Shane grinned. “Not old, Frannie. Just experienced.”

“Well, naturally.” She smiled back at him. “You, Shane Halloran, are a charmer still.”

They chatted about how the city had changed over the years and I kind of tuned out, apart from staring at Shane who’d changed very little—as Frannie had pointed out. This worried me. Even using the name Jordan Matthews, if he started poking around—and assuming the killer was still out there—Shane might be recognized. This murderer had already killed twice. Shane could well be next on the cleanup list.

Addie’s theory was right. I was now convinced I’d been sent back to help Shane find the killer or killers and bring them to justice. How I was going to accomplish all this hadn’t been laid out in my non-existent ghost manual but I was already further along the road of enlightenment after following Shane around for a day and a half. It seemed pretty obvious someone involved with
Trapped in the Basement
had been the person responsible for Rob’s death—and for mine.

Shane and Frannie were saying their goodbyes. Shane gave her his cell number and told her to call if she remembered anything that could prove pertinent.

“Be careful, Frannie,” he cautioned her.

“I’m fine. You’re the one I’ll worry about. Just call me if you find out anything.”

Shane walked down the flight of stairs to the first floor. He stopped before opening the door, taking the time to check the street to see if he spotted anyone suspicious (whatever that meant) or saw someone who seemed overly interested in the building.

I peered out as well. Not a soul was in sight who looked older than retirement age. It struck me that we were searching for someone, who, if still alive, would be in his sixties or seventies by now. Out of the group involved in
Trapped in the Basement
, I couldn’t recall a single person who’d been over forty at the time. I’d been the baby of the group. Shane and Nick or Rick, playing the other soldier in the VA hospital, were the oldest of the actors and it seemed that Nick or Rick had been around thirty-five. Putting him close to eighty. I couldn’t imagine any of the cast as a killer who’d take pot shots at me and lure or chase Rob up to the catwalk before throwing him off but perhaps I’d always had too trusting a nature.

Shane and I stood at the bottom of the stoop. Shane seemed uncertain as to where to go next. My memories gave me no choice.

March 1973

Rob and I sat on the top step of his stoop. I could see Shane still at the newsstand down the block perusing magazines. I’d been in shock for the last five minutes, listening to everything the playwright needed to say.

“Rob, I’m really trying to wrap my head around you claiming you actually
witnessed
a murder?”

“Believe it, Holly, although my doctor never did. If anyone at the VA had done an autopsy they might have discovered he didn’t stop breathing on his own. But my doctor dismissed everything I said…the ravings of an injured man under a ton of painkillers. I was doped but I swear I was in my right mind. I saw a man smothered with his own pillow. But I had to drop it. I didn’t want to stay in the hospital any longer than necessary and trying to convince my own doctor of what I’d seen wasn’t the quickest ticket out.”

I shivered. “It’s too horrible to imagine.”

“Possibly because imagination has nothing to do with it,” Rob said wryly.

“I hope at least
Basement
wakes some people up about what men go through in war—not just on the battlefield, but after.”

We fell silent for a moment and waited for Shane to come back with a copy of the
Village Voice
.

“Hey, you two! Are you done with your secrets for a while?”

I smiled. “Long enough for you to read us the review of Lou Reed’s solo concert over in Berlin. I’ve never been thrilled with his vocals but I wish I could get my eyeliner and shadow to last as long as his does.”

Shane grinned. “He does have an amazing make-up artist.” He sank down on the step in front of me, read the review to us and then brought the topic back to the play. “I talked to Derek. He’s still trying to tear Crimson Cloverly away from her soap long enough to play the captain’s wife. She’d be perfect for the role. After all, she plays a demented spouse to perfection on her show.”

“Oh, she’s interested. That’s not what’s holding her back,” said Rob.

“I’ve heard she’s been offered some great movie that’s slated to shoot over in Italy.” Shane mused, “I’d love to find out what her real name is.
No one
is born Crimson Cloverly.”

“Shouldn’t be all that difficult,” I said.

“Researching her birth name?”

I tapped the top of his head. “Cute. No, no. Getting her to sign on. Rumor has it that she’s about to be lost at sea. I mean, her character, Brisa Hightower. Well, they did the episode two days ago. The question is whether Brisa, the mistress of Buzz Bremer, oil baron and illegitimate son of Daytona Wellsby, is going to return from her little trip to the Pacific Ocean via a wrecked helicopter.”

Rob stared at me. Shane was laughing so hard he was coughing. Rob dropped to one knee. “I beg of you, Ms. Holly Malone, please tell me you do not watch
Temptation Terrace
.”

Shane managed to stifle his glee and stared up at the sky. “I, myself, am innocent of all knowledge of Holly’s scandalous love of daytime serial dramas.”

I tilted my nose in the air and pretended to be offended. “You two are so full of it with your superior attitudes toward TV. Word is Mr. Halloran here watches far more than intellectual public broadcasting programs—including that ridiculous science-fiction show with the sets that look like a blindfolded toddler made them. Yes, Shane, I’m talking about
Rocket Roy, Time Agent from Mars
. And while we’re on the subject, how do you, Mr. Stutzgraft, happen to know Crimson Cloverly is on
Temptation Terrace
?”