Scarecrow’s Dream (14 page)

Chapter Seventeen

Shane and I spent the next hour catching up on what had been forty-three years of his life as a bartender and roadie named Jordan Matthews. Then we moved on to my more recent existence as a ghost.

I told him I remembered meeting him at this very bench. How, after seeing him at the protest and following him to the diner and the theatre, I’d been hit with flashbacks at each of those places. I told him I’d experienced the same feelings of frustration and anger and pain when I’d relived our encounters with the police. Which led to the question I’d been dreading to ask but needed to for my own sanity.

“Shane, did we really break up? That flashback I had seemed to indicate we did. So did a later vision of my dad and me. Yet we were together in another memory I had of down at Rob’s place in the Village. I thought you’d gone off to California for an audition. Or you were planning to. Did you?”

Shane nodded. “I did. Worst two weeks of my life, up until the bridge. We did break up and it was my own entire stupid, stubborn fault. You were very gracious and lovely. You didn’t scream or throw things at me, which made it worse. What you
did
do was tell me I was wrong and acting out of fear and if I was going to be a craven coward—your words—then I could bloody well go to sunny California and play Mr. Movie Star again.” He smiled. “You finished up with a few choice words.” The smile turned into a laugh. “I’d had no idea such a well-brought up lass knew those
particular
choice words. But I deserved every one of them.”

“So what happened next?”

March 1973

“Holly, thanks for meetin’ me here.”

“Hey, you called. I came. I figured this is a great spot. Joey can run interference in case I renege on my decision to throw things at you and start pitching large rocks from the creek.”

Shane’s damned piercing inky-midnight-blue eyes stared into mine. The only thing I wanted to throw at him was me. But I tried to stay firm. I didn’t need to dissolve into a mass of bones melting into liquid, which was a mixed metaphor at best, and a ridiculous concept at worst.

“So, Shane. Why are we here? I don’t mean geographically; I mean here, at this moment, as in now, why did you want to see me? What the hell is going on? Why did you call me?”

“Because I couldn’t stand another minute without you. Because you’re right. I’m a coward and a fool.” Shane grabbed my hands and held them. “Holly, I arrived in Los Angeles and checked into a hotel and almost checked out two hours later. I was so miserable and feeling so stupid. I only stayed because I felt I had an obligation to Wynn to at least do the audition. Which I did.”

“And?”

“And it’s a great part. It wasn’t a caricature or a stereotype. Plus, it pays really well.”

“So, you’re going to take it?” I inquired as off-handedly as my shaking voice would allow.

“No.”

“What? Really?”

“I turned them down.” Shane laughed. “Wynn is having a fit. Screaming like the proverbial banshee. He’s that pissed. But I couldn’t do it. It would be filmed on location in Italy and I couldn’t leave you. I’ve been wanting to apologize for bein’ crazy enough to abandon you for these last two weeks. Holly, I love you. I always have, and I always will and I’ll face anything or anyone, as long as I can be with you.”

I started to cry. Shane held me and whispered soft words into my ear and kissed the tears away. “Shane, I love you too. So much. I wanted to die these last few weeks. I didn’t care about anything but finding a way for you and me to be together. I guess we could move? Find a country that doesn’t care about mixed-race couples. Lord, what a ridiculous term. Mixed-race. So stupid and it means nothing. We’re the same heart and the same soul.”

Shane wiped a few of his own tears away. We continued kissing until we noticed more people starting to roam around the park. Shane and I drew apart, but continued to hold hands.

Shane winked at me. “It’s okay. Some things are better done in private.”

We started to walk back to the park entrance. “Shane? What about the play? Is it still on? Have you talked to Derek at all? I’ve been super busy with classes and no one has been in touch with me. I’ve assumed it’s been postponed again.”

Shane nodded. “Derek’s worried because backers are pulling out. And I’m worried because Rob still doesn’t seem to have a script. Hasn’t Rob said anything to you? I thought you were going to help write at least a working draft.”

I shook my head. “Rob and I keep planning to meet but something always seems to interfere. He’s scared, Shane. I’d swear he doesn’t want this play to go on.”

April 2016

“Holly? Are ya still there?”

“Yes.” I stared at Shane. The seventy-five-year-old Shane. “I’ve been flashing back to the night we made up after you got back from California.”

“I’ve been tryin’ to talk to you for the last five minutes. I began to worry that you’d disappeared on me or if I’d gone totally off my nut and only imagined you’d been here earlier.”

“I did in a way. Disappear, I mean. Okay. This is loony. I’ve got to quit zoning out and we’ve got to figure out what we need to do next. Shane, I overheard your conversation with Frannie Stutzgraft earlier and peered over your shoulder when you were searching the Internet for the people involved with
Trapped in the Basement
. You’re still thinking what I’m thinking.”

“We always did connect, luv.” He smiled. “But back to the play. Someone made certain it would never be produced. It’s the one thing that makes sense—although it doesn’t make any sense.” He shook his head. “Sorry. Convoluted statement made in frustration.”

“I get it. Same here. And I agree. It makes sense the play was the motive for murder. The only thing Rob and I had in common, outside of one class at college and a few demonstrations, was the
Basement
script. I heard you and Frannie talk about the possibility of this person being one of the ‘real’ characters, and Rob later seeing this person. Which leads to the question of where did Rob see him, and where in the script he included enough information to label someone as, well, what exactly
are
we saying?”

“How much of the script do you remember?” Shane asked.

“None.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yep. I haven’t had a memory of working with Rob apart from one short conversation on his stoop, talking about it being based on actual events when he mentioned murder and a traitor. I’ve been hoping for a big blaze of recollections but so far, nothing. I’m not certain if it’s because my memories seem to occur when I’m around you or visiting a place that’s really important, like our bench here.”

A thought hit. “Hang on. When I remembered going to see you in
Carousel
I was in the apartment with Addie, not anywhere near you or where you did the show.” I sat up straight. “It was strange, but we’d just watched an online video of you in the show. I have no idea how someone was able to tape it but there it is on Songfest. Anyway, I guess I could say you were around me for that particular memory.” I sank back down. “Then again, I’ve watched your movies and they didn’t trigger anything.”

“Perhaps because we hadn’t met each other when those movies were made?”

“Maybe. At any rate, it’s as plausible as any other explanation. It’s interesting though. I also had a memory of being with my dad and you weren’t there. But we did talk about you. It’s maddening because I have no idea how to force these memories, especially of events that are becoming more and more important.”

“I sympathize. So, Miss Holly Malone, where do we go from here?”

“Ah, such a great question. My best idea, and I use ‘best’ loosely, is to revisit some of the places you and Rob and I were together when I was working on the script. Try to recall bits and pieces in my head and hope one of those pieces provides an answer. I have to believe I was sent back to do something more than write a soap opera for Addie’s friend.”

“Back it up there. You’re doing what?”

I told him about
Salacity City
and how I was secretly having a truly groovy time coming up with outrageous plots and characters to match.

Shane laughed. “So my darlin’ radical investigative journalist is writing about love affairs and bad divorces and greedy takeovers of companies by evil oil tycoons or the big bad military industrial complex? Of course, you always did love your soaps.”

“Well, as I told Addie, I want to earn my keep. She laughs and tells me I’m nutty for being Miss Independent when I don’t exist anymore. But you’d be proud of me. I’m the same sweet hippie chick I’ve always been. Besides, I’m sneaking in real issues wherever I can. Peace and love, man! Of course, I’m also trying to find ways to get the heroine tossed into jail on a false charge of murder, which I’m sure you know is a staple of soaps, so I can write a cool trial scene.”

“Murder. Damn! I wish you could write a scene to explain Rob’s murder, and yours… I can’t begin to tell you how ridiculous I feel saying ‘your murder’ out loud.”

“Join the club.” My voice shook. “Shane, you need to include attempted murder in there, too. You were a target too forty-three years ago—and this evening.” I shuddered. “My God. I can’t believe I just watched some maniac try to shoot you.”

Shane said, “I’m so sorry you saw everything you did. While also being terribly grateful to you for warning me. Funny, if I hadn’t been staring at the eagle, reminiscing, I’d’ve been shot in the back. How did he know? The eagle I mean.”

“You.”

“What?”

“Shane, you can call me delusional, but I’m convinced he was following you because he was aware that man would try to kill you.”

“So our friendly eagle decided he’d better act, make sure you were ready to scream?” Shane’s voice was a mix of astonishment and mild amusement.

“Don’t ya be scoffin’ at me, now, Mr. Halloran,” I said, in my best Irish accent. “Ya know damned well the first Joey acted as matchmaker right at this very spot.”

Shane laughed. “He did, didn’t he?” He stood. “Dammit. I want to see you. I want to hold you for hours on end and how the hell do I do that? Can I feel you? Or is that possible?”

I stood as well. “Not sure.” I told him about Addie’s indescribable physical perception of me. “And I can pick things up but I haven’t tried human contact. I have no idea what happens if I try. Anyway I know I can touch you, but I don’t want you to experience some kind of electrical shock or for it to feel creepy.”

“Nothing with you could ever be less than marvelous.” He held his hand out in my direction and I lightly placed mine over it.

“Wow! Tingly—but in a good way. I do feel you, but it’s like a wisp of a breeze.”

“Well, that’s as nice a description as I’ve heard so far.” I sighed, wishing for a miracle that would let me touch him for real. “Dammit, Shane, Addie and I believe I came back for justice. To fix what went wrong. I have to be honest. It scares me because if we
do
figure out who was responsible for all the hell we’ve lived through…or died through, I’ll suddenly go
poof
and disappear into the light. But there’s one thing I’m sure of.”

“Which is?”

“It isn’t over. The danger still exists.”

“Wait. Are you saying you believe what just happened was more than a simple mugging gone wrong? That this guy targeted me?”

“Didn’t you see his gun? Muggers don’t use silencers. It was an attempted assassination. And he called ‘Halloran’ to get you to turn around. I was shocked he didn’t shoot you in the back but when he yelled I figured he wasn’t completely convinced you were the one he was supposed to kill.”

Shane lapsed into silence for about a minute. “My God. He was going after Shane. Not Jordan.”

“Yes.”

“But, how did he know about me? I’ve been in Manhattan less than two weeks. And the only person who recognized I was Shane was Rob’s widow. You don’t think…?”

“No! She’d have to be the best actress on the planet. She was genuinely puzzled as to who killed Rob and she was so pleased you were alive and kicking. If she’d wanted you dead, why not do it while you’re there? A lot easier than hiring a hit man.”

“How? Poison?” Shane shook his head. “Nah. I imagine I’d’ve tasted arsenic if she’d spiked my tea.”

“Well, how about Coumadin? I was wandering around her apartment while you guys were talking and I couldn’t help noticing she had pills on the kitchen counter.”

Shane’s eyes widened. “I’m almost afraid to ask why you’re looking up the lethal effects of Coumadin.”

“Research. Remember?”

Shane laughed. “You worry me, Holly. Bloodthirsty little ghostwriter that you are. And of course, I mean that literally.”

I laughed with him, thankful he could hear me. “Well, I still say scratch Frannie from the suspect list.”

“I agree. So we’re left with the question of ‘who else knows Jordan Matthews is Shane Halloran?’”

“No idea.”

Shane thought for a moment. “We should concentrate on playing sleuth for a while. Try to figure out who spooked Rob so much he was afraid to finish the play.”

“Our nameless collaborator?”

Shane nodded. “I assume so. Although digging into information from something forty-odd years ago could be dicey.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I stared at the colors of the sky above, admiring the mix of orange and blues and pinks, and the slash of scarlet creating one beautiful sunset.

“Scarlet.”

“What? Are ya goin’ all
Gone with the Wind
on me, Holly?”

“Nope. I’m going all
Temptation Terrace
. It hit me watching this gorgeous sunset and its array of colors that scarlet is another word for crimson. And Crimson Cloverly, the star of one of the cheesiest soaps to ever hit daytime TV, was killed just six weeks ago. Car crash.”

“That was around the time I thought about coming back to New York,” Shane mused.

“I can’t recall if she ever officially became part of the cast of
Trapped in the Basement
. My flashbacks haven’t included her. Not in person, anyway. Do you know if she finally agreed to do the play?”