Scarecrow’s Dream (11 page)

“I’ll be okay. Really. I mean as far as my safety. I don’t care about getting drenched.” I tried to be upbeat. “Hey, people are going to get so riled up about this play they’ll forget about the love life of Shane and Holly.”

“Great. So we can jump from one reason for a lynching to another?”

I smiled. “Dad, I really can’t see anyone getting shot over a play. Well, except for the other actors, writers, and directors who’ll lose to
Basement
come Tony Awards time.”

Chapter Twelve

April 2016

While I’d been trying to recall whether Shane and I had stayed apart (and if so, how did we end up on his motorcycle racing across the bridge?) the rain had returned with a vengeance. My friend Joey had fled his perch for a drier shelter. I cut short my visit to the park, raced home, and made a hot toddy, then spent the rest of the night pacing around the apartment, arguing with myself about my options.

The first idea I considered was Addie’s suggestion. Have her knock on Shane’s door and try to convince him his late girlfriend was back on earth—just not quite in the way one would expect.

Although Option One seemed interesting and almost logical, I could foresee a problem or two, such as Shane getting Addie locked up for being a nutcase. But, upon further consideration, I decided the “aunt as loony” wasn’t an issue. Unless Shane’s entire personality and values had changed, he’d love hearing that Addie was in touch with me and while he might not totally believe her, he’d never be so crass as to label her a lunatic.

Besides, if I got in on the act and started chattering away at him, he’d definitely know Addie was telling the truth. Which left the other problem with Option One. What good would it do? Hearing I was floating around without a body would only bring back painful memories. It wouldn’t solve the mystery of who’d shot at us, or provide further clues as to
why
this maniac had shot at us or help to figure out how to bring us together in whatever plane of existence was possible (or allowed) before I went zapping off forever into some kind of welcoming light.

On the other hand, finding out I was able to talk and listen might help Shane remember the events of the past, but if Shane himself was clueless, I didn’t want him to be thrust into the land of self-doubt and regret, forever asking himself, “What could I have done?”

Option Two was to check out the Internet for mediums, psychics, and/or ghost whisperers who would peer into the blank recesses of my mind and tell me the whys and wherefores of what had happened on that bridge and try to solve the mystery of etcetera, etcetera. This assumed such folks were genuine and could really tap into other worlds and I could tap with them for whatever memories I was certain held answers. If nothing else, all this tapping would be energizing. The other problem with Option Two was explaining to one of these lovely, genuine, caring psychics that I wasn’t ready to go into the light, no matter how determined they were to shove me through.

Option Three was to follow Shane around and hope he’d keep wandering into places that would jog my memory and lead me to solve the mystery of those nasty etceteras.

I liked Option Three as a starting point. If nothing else it would keep me close to him without freaking him out. Well, not too much. And I could also fall back on Option One or Two if nothing exciting happened in the next few days.

I went off to bed around three wishing I could figure out how to make what I had just dubbed Option Four work. Specifically, come back to life and be with Shane Halloran and mysteries and killers be damned.

Addie was gone by the time I got up. She’d left a note in the kitchen next to the coffee pot telling me she was following up on a rumor regarding a certain rock ’n’ roll group about to lose their lead singer to Broadway for a new musical based on the life of Queen Victoria. The show would likely be horrible and absurd and cheesy, and Addie couldn’t wait to get the full scoop. She figured it would be a nice break for the city from the angst of yesterday’s rally, except for the understandable angst oozing from the group about to lose their lead singer to the production of
Queen Vicky
.

It all sounded divinely seamy. I sipped coffee and planned my strategy for haunting Shane and somehow coaxing him into visiting meaningful sites around the city.

An hour later I was at the door of Shane’s building, berating myself for not considering he’d already gone out for the day. Should I ring the bell and hope he’d be home acting like a naïve new Manhattanite who pressed the “in” buzzer for a stranger? Stupid idea. Shane had always been many things—naïve wasn’t one of them. Should I wait for Shane to ask, “Who is it?” and risk him hearing my voice? The voice of a girl who died years ago? Would he assume it was all a trick, someone passing herself off as me to gain entrance? Should I wait on the stoop all morning hoping he’d go out for lunch at some point? Unless, of course, he’d already left long before breakfast.

I hadn’t mapped this out very well.

For once, my guardian angel had been on the job. While I was debating tactics, Shane appeared at the top of the stoop, and then began a slow climb down the five steps leading to the sidewalk where I’d been rooted for the last five minutes arguing with myself. He stared directly at where I stood, watching, and then took a very deep breath.

“Holly? Damn. I’ve thought about you every day for forty-three years but somehow in the last day or two it feels as though you’re right next to me. I do hope there’s a way to hear me. I miss you so very much.”

He remained silent for a few moments, eyes closed. I came close to shouting “I’m here!” but I held back. This wasn’t the right time. We needed answers first. He opened his eyes again.

“I have to figure out who killed you. Who tried to kill me. My God. Over forty years now. And it’s like it was just the other day, girl.”

I caught myself before I started laughing out loud. For me it
was
just the other day. But we were very much in sync; we just inhabited different planes.

“All right, then, luv, I’m going to pretend you’re here with me, even if half of Manhattan believes I’ve lost my wits. I took a little trip yesterday, trying to remember what was happening in our lives before I lost you, and it was as though your own spirit followed. I came up with a few ideas. Beginning with tracking down everyone who was involved in
Trapped in the Basement
and finding out
if any of them had a reason to get you out of the way. Or me. Or was it both of us?”

A dog walker holding on to about six pups stopped and stared at Shane. She was forced to stop. All six dogs were tugging and barking at me, which no doubt must have been confusing to the two live humans nearby. I muttered, “Good doggies,” as softly as I could, but it only made them more excited. Finally, the girl yanked them into obedient postures next to her.

“You okay, sir?”

Shane gave her the charming Halloran smile. “I’m fine, thanks. I tend to talk to myself—helps me work things out. But perhaps I shouldn’t do my talking in public?”

She beamed. “No problemo! I do it, too. I can get away with it while I’m tugging all these pooches. Everyone assumes I’m talking to them when I’m actually going over a script and reciting.”

“Ah. An actress.”

She nodded. “Yep.” She peered closely at him. “I don’t want to be nosy or rude, but were you ever in the business? You remind me of this actor from the sixties. Shane Halloran. He did some awesome stuff.”

Shane stiffened but only someone who knew him as well as I would have noticed the change in posture.

“Truthfully, I was a roadie with a carnival for years. The rougher but generally more exciting part of show business.”

The girl laughed.

Ridiculous. I felt jealous of a twenty-something actress who was having an ordinary conversation with a seventy-five-year-old man. She must have considered him like her grandfather, but to me he was Shane, the man I loved. “I guess we’re all performers in one way or another, aren’t we? Often afraid in real life to reveal who we truly are.”

“So true.”

She squinted. “You do resemble Halloran, though. You ever see a movie called
Ebony Dreams
? He was marvelous.” She bent down to calm one of the pups who’d started pulling at his leash. “Sad, though.”

Shane asked, “Why sad? I remember the movie but don’t recall it being a tear jerker.”

“Oh. No. I didn’t mean the movie was sad. I meant Shane Halloran. I read where he died back in the seventies in some kind of crash when he was still pretty young. There wasn’t a lot of detail about what happened. Kind of mysterious.”

Shane nodded. “And as you say…sad.”

Shane and the girl lapsed into one of those awkward,
Okay, what do we talk about now
silences.

Shane was the first to speak. “Well, you’ve got me intrigued. Could be time to go home and look up Halloran online.”

The girl grinned. “I do that too. I’ll be watching some show on TV and see an actor and immediately hit IMDB to see what else he’s been in. That’s where I got my info on Shane Halloran.”

There was a bit more conversation about movies for another minute or two before the alpha in the dog pack, a small but determined dachshund, made it clear enough was enough and nudged the girl repeatedly. The pups were anxious to attend to business.

“Duty calls. I enjoyed chatting with you.”

“You as well. Enjoy the walk. All of you.” Shane leaned down and petted the alpha, who returned the pat with a loving tongue swipe.

The girl waved goodbye and took off toward Fort Tryon Park.

Chapter Thirteen

Shane waited until the girl and her dogs had crossed the street. He glanced around. Not another person or canine was in sight. “Crash, my ass. Talk about a tame phrase for what really happened. I’m damned sure my bike didn’t get shot up by itself.”

He continued to mumble to himself. “And what about poor Rob? Hell, I’ll bet he was murdered too. Fall off a catwalk? Total bullshit. I knew it then. You knew it too, Holly. Rob was the one person apart from you I could trust back then. They’re both gone and so is that bloody script. What was it you tried to tell me before the shooting started?” He blinked back tears. “Couldn’t hear ya. Shots firing and the bike so loud and us trying so hard to get away.”

He closed his eyes for so long I was worried he was getting dizzy and would pass out in the street. Finally, he opened them wide. “Rob was married. Is his widow still around? Could be a place to start.”

Shane pulled a high-tech cell phone out of his jacket pocket. Well, high tech to me anyway. He spoke into the device, requesting a reverse address look-up before rattling off Rob’s old phone number in Greenwich Village.

There was no way he was going to find Rob’s widow. She must have married again by now or moved out. Hell, she might be dead.

There was a look of satisfaction on Shane’s face. He typed what had to be an address into his phone, then stood for a moment or two, apparently undecided as to how to proceed. After a few seconds, he tapped numbers into the phone and made the call.

“Hello? Mrs. Rob Stutzgraft?”

I waited through the agony of numerous pauses since I could only hear Shane’s half of the conversation.

“I’m very sorry to bother you but I knew your husband well. I worked with him many years ago.

“No, ma’am. I’ve been away from Manhattan for many years.

“My name wouldn’t mean anything to you. I go by Jordan Matthews now.” Shane inhaled. “Look, I really don’t want to intrude but if there’s any way we could meet, I’d really appreciate it. I was a good friend of Rob’s and to this day I’m not happy about the way his death was handled back then.”

I could see the relief on Shane’s face as he responded with, “Thank you. Yes. I’m uptown near Dyckman, so it’ll take me at least forty minutes to get to the Village. I’ll see you as close to ten as I can make it.”

Shane began the short trek toward the subway and I followed close behind. Forty minutes later both of us were on West Fourth Street before heading toward the Hudson River and Perry Street to stop in front of one of the few properties that had remained solely residential.

The instant I spotted it, I remembered the place. It was an old six-floor walk-up, built in the late 1800s, and back in 1973 had been home for six families. From what Addie had told me about Manhattan real estate, I was certain the space was now divided into at least four apartments on each floor.

Shane pressed the buzzer for Apartment 2, and waited for the answering buzz to unlock the door to the lobby. He opened it wide, almost as though he was aware a second person needed to come inside.

Mrs. Rob Stutzgraft appeared to be the sole occupant of the entire second floor. She stood at the entrance of her apartment, staring at Shane. “Mr. Matthews… Or should I call you Mr. Halloran?”

Shane froze.

She gestured for him to come inside. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you have reasons for preferring Matthews. Believe me, I’m well aware there are dangers that could still exist.”

Shane and I were both speechless, though my lack of comment was on purpose. He paused for a long moment before asking, “Mrs. Stutzgraft, how did you know my real name?”

“Please, call me Frannie. As to your name? You haven’t changed much and I was a big fan of yours back in the day. Yes, you’re older.” She smiled. “But I’m an artist, Mr. Halloran. My medium is the camera and details often become even sharper when seen through a lens. Your eyes, the structure of your face, all the same.”

“Well, since you know who I am, please call me Shane.” He glanced around the living room at various black-and-white photographs, primarily of the Greenwich Village and Soho areas. “Yours?”

She nodded as he surveyed the group of pictures.

“Intriguing. There’s a timeless quality shining through them. I’m sure anyone who ever lived here would recognize the landmarks.” He pointed to a series taken of the old church on 11th Street. “I especially love these. Using the same people but having them dressed in the clothes of each passing decade? Brilliant.”

Frannie beamed at him. “It’s my favorite as well. Tea, Shane?”

“Thanks. That would be much appreciated.”

She ushered him toward a small table set up right outside the kitchen, then disappeared for a moment, coming back with a tray filled with tea and scones.

I wandered around the apartment unseen while Frannie and Shane made small talk. I tried to find anything remotely familiar in the room to help trigger a flashback. Forty-three years had passed. Had Frannie kept anything of Rob’s in plain sight?

It didn’t seem so but then, I barely recalled being in this room. Frustrated, I found a chair near the café table and waited for Shane to quit scarfing down scones and get to the important questions.

He must have read my mind.

“So, Frannie, forgive me for being direct. I hate to bring up bad memories but I’m looking for any explanation as to why Rob died. I never bought the whole catwalk story, and I doubt whether you did, either.”

“You’re right. But why all the interest now?”

“I’m trying to find answers. For Rob…and for Holly Malone. She was on the motorcycle with me when someone started shooting. Holly…well, she…didn’t make it. I went into hiding. I’ve only been back in New York a short time.”

“You think the deaths are connected?”

“Yes. I do now. I don’t have proof, but…”

“Proof’s overrated. Sometimes one just knows. And, I agree with you. The police labeled his death an accident. They were wrong. Rob was murdered. You don’t climb up to the catwalk dressed in slacks and dress shoes—especially if you’re afraid of heights. There was no reason for him to be up there, unless he was trying to hide from someone.”

Shane’s breath caught. “What was the date, again?”

“April seventh. He was found later that night.”

“That’s right. I remember now. But, why was Rob at the theatre? Did he tell you? We didn’t have rehearsal as I recall. Hell, we still didn’t have a final script.”

“I was out of town but he called me that night before he left. Said he had a meeting at the theatre. I assumed it was Holly. Not a big deal, right? After all we lived down here and it seems to me she lived in Upper Manhattan somewhere. Washington Heights?”

“Inwood.”

“Yes, of course. Well, the theatre was like a central location.”

Shane began to talk almost to himself. “Holly and I were at the park that day. We had a picnic, didn’t give a damn that it was cold. We didn’t go to the theatre until the day after after Rob died. We were supposed to meet Derek and some others…”

“What exactly happened? The story was you’d crashed your motorcycle on the Henry Hudson Bridge and were presumed dead.”

“Exactly is kinda hard to pinpoint. Derek’s assistant, or someone claiming to be, called and asked if we’d meet Derek at the theatre to discuss Rob’s memorial. I remember it was raining and we couldn’t get inside. When it turned to snow, we decided just to go home. Holly dropped her bag and we were both reaching down to grab it. That’s when we heard a shot. Holly screamed. We were right by my bike so we hopped on and took off.”

Shane seemed unsure whether to continue but finally said, “Whoever it was had been in a car when he took the first shot. Looking back on it I assume someone else must have been driving. At any rate, we’re flying through the city, hoping to lose him. Holly kept trying to tell me something. I thought she yelled something about the script but I couldn’t hear her. Then we were on the bridge. I felt the impact when the bullets hit the tire and then Holly…well.” He closed his eyes for a moment.

Frannie nodded in sympathy. I wanted to tell them it hadn’t been painful. I had no memory of feeling anything at all until after I was dead.

Shane stared at the ceiling for a long moment, obviously trying to keep his emotions under control. “The bike was out of control, and I didn’t care. I went spinning into the guardrail on the bridge and flipped over. I managed to cling to the rail, then climbed back over and shoved the bike off the bridge. I spent a few minutes looking for Holly, but I was afraid if I shouted her name the killer would realize I was alive and start shooting at me again. Or at Holly. And really, I knew… I mean, from that height and in the cold, she had to be dead. I hoped the killer would assume I’d also landed in the water and drowned, but I wasn’t taking any chances. I stayed hidden in the bushes until I felt sure he was gone and then I made my way to Tarrytown. I had a friend there.”

Shane smiled a bit sheepishly. “He’d been in a bit of trouble with the law before and, well, let’s just say he had connections. He helped me start a new life. I became Jordan Matthews, got a job on a freighter bound for Australia, and spent the last forty-three years Down Under.”

“Why come back to the city now?” Frannie asked.

Shane appeared embarrassed. “Are you at all spiritual? Forgive me for asking but somehow I believe you must be after seeing those photos you take. There’s a quality in them that shows you your own soul.”

“I’d say yes to spirituality if you’re asking if I believe there are things beyond human control. Things we don’t understand.”

“Good. You won’t be lookin’ at me like I’m a loon, then. I kept feeling as though something—or someone—was telling me it was time. There were answers to be found, and whatever’s the truth could keep more people from dying. I have to find those answers and find justice for Holly, and for Rob.”