Final Call - a Mary O'Reilly Paranormal Mystery Read online

  “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 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 breakin 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, half-way 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 hangout. 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.”

  Chapter Three

  Bradley shoved open the back door of the theater and took the steps three at time. “Rosie, Stanley, where are you?” he called.

  “Over here, Bradley,” Rosie’s quivering voice came from the seats in the theater.

  He pushed through the door from the backstage and saw Rosie and Stanley surrounded by his officers. He glanced up at the stage and saw the new coroner and a group of paramedics standing at the edge of the stage and staring up at the body.

  “What’s going on?” Bradley called.

  “Forensic Team is about 20 minutes out,” Joe Kelman, the new coroner, called back. “We don’t want to intrude on the crime scene until they have a go at it.”

  Bradley nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  Joe shook his head. “Thanks Chief, but we ain’t doing this for you. If this is Faye McMullen swinging up there, you’re going to have reporters from all over the area swarming here trying to find out about her murder.”

  “She dated Frank Sinatra, you know,” one of the young paramedics said.

  “No she didn’t,” the other countered. “That was just a rumor. She actually dated James Dean.”

  “He was dead when she was a child,” the first countered.

  Bradley turned away from the stage and walked over to the crowd surrounding Stanley and Rosie. The officers moved out of his way. Rosie was sitting in a chair, a dainty handkerchief pressed to the corner of one red-rimmed eye. “Oh, Bradley,” she sobbed. “It was so awful.”

  Stanley sat next to her, one of her hands clasped in both of us. “Just calm down, Rosie,” he coaxed. “It’ll be all right.”

  “But, she’s…she’s dead,” Rosie cried. “How can it be all right?”

  Bradley squatted down in the aisle next to Rosie’s chair and placed his hand on her shoulder. “You’re right,” he said calmly. “It’s not all right. But I need you to be strong and try to remember everything that happened so we can find who did this.”

  Rosie lifted her face to Bradley’s. “So, you don’t think it was an accident?”

  “Not unless the old witch was riding her broom in the rafters of the theater and slipped,” Stanley grumbled.

  Two of Bradley’s best officers turned away quickly to hide the smile on their faces.

  “Stanley, that’s not nice,” she chided, dropping her handkerchief in her lap and turning on him. “A woman has been murdered.”

  Stanley snorted. “Tweren’t twenty minutes ago you was telling me how she was making everyone’s life a living hell. Now I don’t think anyone should die an awful death like that - but, sometimes folks reap what they sow.”

  Rosie shook her head and sniffed. “Stanley, sometimes I don’t know about you.”

  Stanley looked at Bradley. “I guess she’ll be able to answer your questions now that she not all slobbery and emotional.”

  Bradley nodded, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. He pulled out a notepad. “Rosie, can I ask you some questions?”

  She glared at Stanley, then turned and smiled at Bradley. “Yes, certainly. How can I help you?”

  “Were you planning on meeting Faye here tonight?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Faye was always here, every night,” she said. “Even if she wasn’t supposed to rehearse, she came to observe the other actors.”

  “Was she the director?”

  She shook her head. “No, she…” she paused, “she was trying to be helpful. She just wanted to get the best out of each of us.”

  Bradley looked up from his notepad and stared directly into Rosie’s eyes. He could tell that she was trying to make things seem better than they were. “You do realize that when you lie to be nice, it’s still a lie. And when you lie during a murder investigation, you make it even more difficult for us to find out what happened.”

  She sighed. “The truth? The whole truth?”

  He nodded.

  Rosie closed her eyes, pressed her lips together and nodded. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and blurted out, “Faye was a mean, egotistical, and vain bitch; there were no two ways about it.”

  “Well, that was brutally honest.” Stanley muttered.

  “Okay,” Bradley said slowly. “Why don’t you tell me why you formed those opinions?”

  “She was always criticizing everyone,” Rosie blurted. “No one was good enough. No one had her level of talent. No one had her expertise. No one was worthy to share the stage with her.”

  “Was she right?”

  “I don’t know,” she shrugged. “She was very good at being an actress; she was just terrible at being a human being.”

  He tapped the edge of his pencil against the pad. “Other than being a bad human being, do you know of any reason someone would want to kill her?”

  “She was rich,” Stanley interjected. “Someone’s bound to inherit when she dies.”

  Bradley turned his attention to Stanley. “Do you know of a relative, or anyone who would gain by her death?”

  Stanley shook his head. “Naw, don’t have a clue. Just saying it would make sense.”

  “Rosie, can you give me a list of all the people who are part of the performance?” Bradley asked.

  “Everyone? Including the stage crew?”

  “Anyone who would have been here at the theater with Faye,” he said.

  When she reached for her purse, he saw her hands tremble. Well, of course, idiot, he thought. She’s just seen a murdered woman up close and personal. Of course she would be shaken.

  “Stanley, take Rosie home. She can put the list together there and she will probably think more clearly once she’s away from here,” he said.

  “Best idea I’ve heard all night,” Stanley said. “Come on, Rosie, I’ll take you home. But don’t think I’m going to fuss over you or nothing. I’ll make you some tea, maybe, but don’t be expecting too much.”

  “Do you want me to call Mary and have her meet you at your house?” Bradley asked. “She’ll want to know about this.”

  “Thank you, Bradley, that would be lovely,” Rosie agreed, as she rose and allowed Stanley to help her with her coat. “I think Mary could be helpful, she’s more experienced with these kinds of things.”

  “Why don’t you have her come over here first?” Stanley suggested. “Maybe Faye is still hanging around.”

  “Stanley, the Freeport Police Department can handle a murder investigation without Mary O’Reilly’s help,” Bradley said.

  Stanley’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Course you can, Chief,” he replied. “No one ever said otherwise. Come on, Ro
sie, let’s get you home.”

  Bradley watched them leave the theater, while he rubbed the back of his neck. Stanley obviously didn’t realize that things had cooled between he and Mary during the past few weeks. He had no idea what had happened, but Mary was avoiding him.

  He shook his head. Maybe he moved too quickly during the holidays. She was just recovering from being kidnapped. Suddenly, he decides it’s the right time to tell her he loves her. Then, before they can even begin their relationship, he nearly dies and Mary has to rush in and save the day. Yep, that was enough to turn any sane woman off.

  He ought to just give her some space.

  The forensic unit entered through the back door and the rest of the group stepped back and let them do their work. Within forty-five minutes the body of Faye McMullen had been lowered to the stage and placed on a gurney.

  “I’ll get you the results of the autopsy as soon as I get them,” Joe said, as he followed the gurney across the stage.

  “Thanks, Joe,” Bradley replied.

  In another ten minutes, the rest of the group had left the theater, leaving Bradley to close things down and lock up. He had purposely waited, perhaps the instinctive itch a seasoned law enforcement officer has when there is something there, just beyond the apparent.

  The yellow crime scene tape covered half the stage and blocked the stairs at stage right. He walked slowly over, standing next to the orchestra pit adjacent to the stage stairs. An overhead spotlight cast an eerie glowing circle on the edge of the darkened stage, highlighting the area Faye’s body had rested.

  All of the house lights were now off, so the chairs behind him disappeared into the shadows. At the back of the room, above the seats, was a small enclosed balcony that contained the light and sound control booth for the theater. Pinpoints of green and red glowing lights from the control boards shone through the Plexiglas windows that encased the balcony.

  The theater was silent. Bradley could hear the wind whistling against the emergency exit door on the side of the auditorium. The backstage lights were off, only the dim security lights cast their yellowing pools of light. There was something else here, he was sure of it.