Scarecrow’s Dream (20 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

I snuck inside O’Bannion’s behind a patron who opened the door wide enough for me to slip by. The pub wasn’t crowded and I was able to slide into a small booth near the phones and restroom. I figured it would most likely remain empty due to its cracked and peeling ancient vinyl seats.

I was nervous. Nervous the four people Shane had called wouldn’t show up. Nervous they
would
show up. Nervous about the call Shane would make in an effort to uncover our killer’s identify. Nervous that no helpful information would be forthcoming. Nervous because one of these four might be a murderer. Nervous that none of them were. No one was immune from suspicion.

I needed to stop worrying. We were making progress. It was vital for me to keep Shane safe and everyone else blissfully unaware of our motives.

The bartender nodded at the new customers and then changed the CD playlist to a set of “oldies”. Only they weren’t old to me. They were the songs I’d heard every day on my stereo and the radio and right here at O’Bannion’s
forty years ago
.
I wasn’t paying a lot of attention until he cranked up the volume on one of my favorites—“Nights in White Satin”.

I closed my eyes—and remembered.

April 1973

“I have good news and bad news, Holly luv.” Shane leaned down and kissed me.

I tensed. “Do I need to order another Irish coffee? A large this time?”

“Now, darlin’. I said bad
and
good. Hear me out before you start tossing scones at me. You’ve a deadly aim, lass. The Yankees could use you as a relief pitcher.”

“Oh, jeez. Go ahead and spill. When you start shoveling the blarney, I know I’m not going to be thrilled.”

Shane slid into a seat across from me. He’d gotten his ale from Davey the minute he stepped inside the pub and now took a large swig. “The good news is Wynn went to the ends of the earth and found another decent movie script for me.”

“Not some Shaft-style cop or pimp?”

“Not even a gladiator in sandals whackin’ away at some poor lion. I’ll play a lawyer who runs afoul of the mob. It’s like a mystery within a mystery, and the bonus is the director is someone I’ve wanted to work with for years.”

“Shane, that’s fantastic! So what’s the problem?” I asked.

“The bad news is it’s pretty much settled Rob’s play isn’t going up this year.”

“Why? Are you going to have to bow out of the play? Because of this movie? Shane, you can’t do that to Rob and to everyone. You’re the glue for
Basement
. Have you signed a contract for the film yet?” I wasn’t pleased and Shane knew it.

Shane took another swig. I waved at Davey to freshen up my coffee, preferably with an extra shot of whiskey. “Holly, you need to listen to me for a second and hold off tossing what’s left of your drink in my face before believin’ I’m some kind of disloyal quitter. The play and the movie have nothing to do with one another. Derek called me yesterday to let me know he still hasn’t received a script from Rob and he’s lost the final backer. It’s April. Derek can’t keep postponing the opening. We’ve only had one cast meeting since this began, and, as you recall, we had to cancel rehearsal after Rob showed up without scripts. Rob’s practically been in hiding since he was mugged, and that was nearly three months ago. People have gone on to other projects. It’s time. Unless you’ve heard from Rob and he’s got something solid to show? As in today?”

I was furious. “Trust Wynn to get you out of anything controversial. Hell, first he sent you to California for some film. I wouldn’t put it past him to have mugged Rob himself just to sabotage everything.”

“Holly. Hon, you’re still not listening. Look at it from everyone else’s point of view. I mean, I’ve done a couple of shows that started as workshops. They were thin. Shoot, I did a musical once where the songs were written before the playbook. Talk about backwards! But
Basement
is almost non-existent. And while I agree that Rob is brilliant and the little we’ve seen is fantastic, there’s not enough there to persuade a group of poor actors to stick to it. It’s time to face this as the end. At least for another year or so.”

“But, Shane, Rob and I are supposed to meet tomorrow to discuss the script. He’s close to a final product. Really.”

“Well, Rob’s now been told about the finances. I’m sure he plans to tell you it’s time to pack it in.” Shane took my hand in his. I did not
pull away. “Look, darlin’, this could be a good thing. The two of you will have time to finish the script without a deadline. In the meantime I can do the movie, and in a year or two, with any luck, we can get
Basement
up and running again. If Wynn can get the salary he’s asking for me for the film, I’ll help with production costs. Okay?”

I didn’t like it but Shane was making a lot of good points. Chances were my anger was more about my ongoing feud with Wynn, since he was always trying to get Shane away from me. I needed to listen and forget how awful I felt for Rob.

“Okay. Um, where would you be filming? California?”

Shane beamed. “Nope. Right here. Some shots on location around Manhattan but a lot of work will be done at the Brooklyn studio. Word has it we’d be sharing space with one of your favorite soaps.
Temptation Terrace
.”

I perked up a bit. “So I could come visit?”

Shane laughed. “Absolutely! Crimson took off to Europe last week to do her own film but I’m sure you’d have a great time meeting the rest of the cast. I know the head writer. I’ll put in a word with him and see if he’d be interested in one Holly Malone coming up with a storyline or two. Like it?”

“Well, I’m still not happy about
Basement
but I love hearing you got a great movie deal. I’m soooo happy you’ll be doing something good while still getting to stay in Manhattan.”

“Well, I’ll make you a promise—the next flick I get on location elsewhere, you’re coming with me.”

I bit my lip. “Right. Like Paul Malone is going to let me go gallivanting around the world with you? Been smoking more than plain cigarettes, Mr. Halloran?”

“Never, darlin’. And if you’ll stop going in tangents, you’ll see I’m proposing to you, but I suppose I’m not goin’ about it correctly.”

I was speechless. Speechless and ecstatic.

Shane was never speechless. He reached across the table and took my hand in his. “Holly Jordan Malone, will you marry me?”

I finally found my voice. “Oh yes. Oh most definitely yes!”

Our waiter must have been psychic. He brought over a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The eight other customers enjoying their late lunches and ales stood and applauded since it was pretty obvious what was happening.

“Holly, I don’t have your ring. Not today anyway. I’d planned on a more romantic setting, like up in the park on Friday. We’ll see if we can get Joey the eagle to be lookin’ on.”

“Why Friday?”

“That’s when I’m picking up the ring. It’s an Irish claddagh. The jeweler has been sizing it for you because I wanted it to be perfect.”

“I’d expect no less,” I teased him. “So why did the best laid plans go ‘aft agley’? If I can steal from a Scots poet without my Irishman getting jealous.”

“Perhaps because I have a tendency to be a mite impulsive?”

“True.”

“And you look so beautiful and I couldn’t stand waiting another second to be certain that you’d say yes and we could start making our plans.”

“I do love you, so much. I hope we can have an outdoor wedding in Inwood Hill Park. I’ll bet Father Clancy from the Newman Center at NYU could swing it with the diocese to turn the Nature Center into an ‘official’ church.”

I was about to get very mushy and wax eloquent about how I’d fallen in love with Shane Halloran before I ever met him, but was interrupted when I heard the opening chords to “Nights in White Satin”, our favorite ballad.

Shane rose and held his hand out to me. “Care to dance, Holly soon-to-be-Halloran?”

He took me in his arms. He sang to me and we glided almost as one as the patrons watched. I hoped they were thinking of their own special loves. I’d never been happier, held against Shane’s chest, wanting the dance to go on forever.

Yet, when the song ended and Shane and I remained standing I felt cold.

“What’s wrong?” Shane asked.

I couldn’t answer him. I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I was not going to have my fairy tale ending. At least, not in this lifetime.

Chapter Twenty-Six

April 14, 2016

When I snapped back to the present, Chandra, Wynn, Rick, and Derek had all arrived, and were thick into the process of greeting one another. For the first twenty seconds of air kissing and hand shaking I barely noticed.

Shane and I had been engaged! I needed a moment to process the thrill, which was as exciting as if it had just happened. Shane hadn’t said a word over these last few days. He’d realized I hadn’t yet recalled that memory. He’d known finding out we’d been engaged would only add to the pain—for both of us.

With effort, I brought my focus back to the group, who was now settling into a booth. This was important. Did one of these four have the information we needed to bring a killer to justice?

Chandra was still a stunning beauty. She wore very little make-up—she didn’t need it. She’d obviously taken great care to keep her body in perfect shape. I might be dead but I couldn’t help it—I still disliked the woman.

Wynn, another person who wasn’t on my “besties” list, still looked forty-seven. He’d looked forty-seven when he was twenty-seven and nothing had changed in the last forty-three years.

Derek, now in his seventies, had aged quite nicely, with the classic good looks of a Cary Grant, including a full head of hair and a dimple in his chin.

Rick’s hair was pure white but his face was unlined and his brown eyes twinkled with the impish look of someone who saw the humor in almost every situation.

The waiter appeared and took down an order for appetizers, a mix of ales for the guys, and a martini for Chandra. I’d have loved to have been able to order a large gin and tonic to calm my nerves.

Derek was the first to ask, “Am I the only one with major misgivings about this meeting? I can’t help feeling we’re all victims of a damned cruel hoax.”

Silence. Followed by pragmatic, practical Wynn stating, “Let’s wait for this phone call before we start speculating. Like the rest of you, I have no idea if Shane is really alive but I must admit, I’m curious enough to have shown up to find out. We should table all discussions and questions until we hear from…whomever.”

There were nods, and then a casual “what have you been up to?” conversation filled the void until the drinks and nachos were delivered. Chandra proudly announced she’d been nominated for a Daytime Emmy for her soap opera. Wynn was repping two Oscar-winning actors. Rick was in talks to direct a revival of
Miss Saigon
on Broadway. Derek was producing two Off-Broadway shows and teaching a graduate seminar at NYU.

I felt an unreasonable resentment. These people had been able to go on with their lives while Shane had gone into hiding, afraid to even take a role in a community theatre.

I forced the thought out of my mind and pulled the cell phone Shane had bought for me out of my bag. I dialed one of Shane’s burner phones. Time for Shane to hear the group was together. Time for Plan A. Or B. I wasn’t keeping track. As long as some plan worked I’d be happy.

It didn’t take long for Shane to respond to my text. Wynn’s cell rang.

“Shane?” Pause. “Well…wow. So it is you. Well…damn, man! Where are you?”

Shane asked Wynn to put him on speaker. “I’m assuming all four of you are there?”

A chorus of agreement.

“Shane? Thank God! I still can’t believe you’re alive. What’s going on?” Derek asked.

“A lot. Let me answer by reciting a bit of a fairy tale. Or perhaps I should say nightmare since it’s closer to something from the brothers Grimm.” Shane’s voice shifted to storyteller mode. “Forty-three years ago it was reported I was killed riding my motorcycle on the Henry Hudson Bridge. An accident was the verdict. There was never a hint it was a deliberate attempt at murder. Holly Malone and I were shot by someone who was determined
Trapped in the Basement
would never be finished. The same person killed Rob by shoving him off the catwalk.”

“The cops said Rob’s death was an accident,” said Rick, leaning in. “There was no evidence of foul play. How do you know it was murder?”

“Start with Rob’s fear of heights. Fast forward to bullets shooting out a tire on a fast- moving motorcycle a few days later,” Shane countered. “Follow up with Crimson Cloverly dying in a car accident a few weeks ago. Someone, knowing about her allergies, sent her into anaphylactic shock while driving. Coincidence? Consider, this happened right after she’d found an original script of
Basement
and asking Derek if there was a possibility of it finally being produced. Derek, honestly, I’m amazed you’re still alive.”

Shane didn’t give Derek time to respond. “And the last event, folks, was someone taking a shot at me in the park yesterday evening.”

I moved toward their booth in order to see the expressions on their faces. Shock. Pure, simple, and dead honest shock.

Chandra took a long beat, then asked, “Shane? Where the hell
are
you? Why aren’t you here with us? This is crazy! I can’t believe you left without a word. And you now believe someone is trying to kill you?”

“Hello, Chandra. Nice to hear your voice. To answer your question—I’m in hiding because what I just told you is all true, and because this isn’t over.” Shane went on to give the four a bit more detail about the attempt on his life at Inwood Hill Park, leaving out any and all mention of Holly Malone, ghost girl. They were in enough shock as it was without dragging in the supernatural.

Rick nodded at Wynn and pointed to the phone. “Do you mind? I need something tangible to speak into so I’m not shouting across the table.” Wynn handed it to him.

“I’m still damned confused. Why are you so sure these deaths are related to a show that never happened?”

“It’s the only logical explanation,” Shane said. “It started with Rob getting mugged on his way to the theatre with what had been an actual script. Then, a few months later, after the play was put on hold, Rob takes a header off a catwalk. There was no reason for him to be up there, and he wasn’t dressed for tech work. The police called it an accident and we all assumed they were right because we weren’t looking for anything sinister. Except for Holly.

“What none of you knew was Rob had asked for her help to finish the script. He was terrified. It’s the whole reason for all the delays in getting
Basement
off the ground. What the killer didn’t know was that Holly hadn’t seen a final copy, with all secrets revealed. Holly only knew Rob had recognized someone from his past. Someone who was a murderer. Someone who would have been prominently featured in the finished version. And then…” Shane’s voice cracked. “Holly gets killed.”

Silence for a long moment. Finally Derek asked, “Shane, do you honestly believe someone working on the show was involved? I’m sorry, but this seems crazy. Yeah, we all talked about the plot being controversial, but shoot—
Hair
was winning Tonys four years before Rob ever brought
Basement
to me.”

Heads nodded. Shane was losing them. Then his voice sounded again, clear and rich, even with the distortion of a speaker phone. “
Hair
was fiction. Not the war but the characters. No one was outed as a killer. Rob based almost everyone in
Basement
on real events and real people, and one of them was a stone-cold murderer and a possible traitor. That’s why I wanted all of you to get together, to jog any memories of anyone else who had knowledge about the play. Try to recall if Rob confided something to one of you about the story or your character. Something innocuous, but innocently repeated to the wrong person. And what could be most important, someone who knew Holly was helping Rob finish the script.”

Chandra closed her eyes and moaned. “Oh no.”

Wynn turned to her. “What?”

“It’s me.”

April 6, 1973

I waved at Davey. “Irish coffee, please.”

Davey Nolan,
O’Bannion’s young manager who was working double duty this afternoon as waiter, winked at me. “Still not a fan ’a the ales, are ya?” He nodded at Rob, who’d just joined me at my table. “A Killian’s fer you?”

Rob nodded. “Thanks. With any luck, it will keep me from becoming dull and boring. I need a spark of the Irish when I’m around Miss Malone here.”

I laughed. “Rob, you are loved no matter how dull and boring you are when you’re not writing. Davey? Bring a good waterproof pen with his next brew. You’re going to want to keep this napkin and get Rob to autograph it for you. You can slap it on the wall when he’s famous.”

Davey laughed. “I’ll hang on to it. Rob, I’m just sorry yer play seems ta be on hold for a bit.”

Rob tensed. “What have you heard?”

“Shane was tellin’ me about some problems the other day. He was still grinnin’ from ear to ear over gettin’ engaged but he wasn’t happy about the play.”

“You’re engaged? Holly! Congrats!”

“I
was
about to tell you once the drinks arrived and we could toast, but of course Davey has to be first with all the news.” I fluttered my lashes at him. “Fink.”

Davey winked. “It’s part o’ me charm. And Shane knew I wouldn’t keep it secret when he proposed to ya in front of God, man, eight other customers, and meself.”

We waited until the drinks had been brought to the table, chatted a bit with Davey about whether
Pippin
would be the big winner at the Tonys this year and then Davey took off to take orders from a table of five. Once out of hearing distance, Rob and I talked about the uncertain fate of
Trapped in the Basement
.

“Should we avoid doing any writing until you can do something about this man you saw? Get him arrested? And I hate to ask but are you
sure
he’s the one?”

“Absolutely. He’s a killer. And I saw him as clearly as I see you. My doctor wasn’t wrong. I
was
on a load of painkillers, but I’ll never forget that face. But, Holly, what’s scary is he recognized me as well.” He dropped his volume to a point where I had to strain to hear him. “I have proof, though I doubt it’s enough to arrest him, let alone convict. Plus, there’s a part of me that still doesn’t want to believe the man’s a traitor. I keep hoping he was a double agent or something and that I imagined what happened at the hospital.”

“Wait. Take it back a step. You said proof. Proof of what?”

“What happened in Vietnam. And to a far lesser extent, in the hospital.”

“What kind of proof?”

“A photo, which really only proves we all knew each other and were at the VA at the same time—and a cassette recording. Mike… Mikhail Cherstvennikov…Crimson’s younger brother…” He stopped.

“Rob, go on. Please, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I know. In case something happens to me, although I’m serious about not wanting to put you in danger.”

“Let me deal with that. Go on.”

“Right. Proof. Well, Mike did some work with one of the armed forces radio shows when he was in ’Nam. He used a cassette player for interviews and managed to record a conversation between our captain and Commander Dac Kien Tran, not long before Mike landed in our own little version of hell.”

“They knew about the tape? I mean this captain and Tran?”

“They must have. Why else kill him? Mike’s gear was sent back to the States when he was released and ended up in the hospital here. I’m still not sure how it all came about and I’m not sure I care. Anyway, Crimson found his cassette player a few weeks after he died. He’d stuffed a bunch of tapes inside his trunk and she discovered one labeled ‘Music from the Summer of Love’ but was anything but. It was proof of treason. She was terrified to have it in her possession so she gave it to me. I listened to it and then hid it away for three years.”

“What are we going to do?” I whispered.

“No idea. And not
we
, Holly. Me. I don’t want you dead because I’m determined to tell this story to the world. Hell, I should just grab Frannie and go into hiding. Send you the script along with everything else from Aruba or someplace in about a year and let you give the final product to Derek.”

“You’re scaring me, you know that.”

Rob smiled, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “You
should
be scared. Hey, you could say all this stuff showed up on your doorstep and you had no idea where it came from after you finish working on it.” He stopped. “Unfortunately, I think I’m running out of time. Look, I’m going to send you the proof and my final script this week. But I won’t use my real return address. You’ll be safer that way. Okay?”

“That’s fine. I’ll keep an eye out for it. But, Rob, you should also get the tape and the photo to military intelligence or something…if there’s time. Shoot, you’re telling me someone got away with murder. If this is true, then forget the play. Concentrate on justice.”

Rob downed what was left of his drink. He seemed lost in another world. I wasn’t sure he’d heard my suggestions. He muttered, “Bastard. He knew the minute he saw me who I was. I don’t know how he found out about the play but at least he’s still not aware of what I’m holding on to. I’m amazed he had the balls to show up at a veterans’ support group.”

Rob was rambling. He sounded completely paranoid. I was almost grateful to hear a voice above the booth. “Well, well. Looks like a conspiracy of two here.”

Chandra Petrie. She and Derek’s wife, Angela, had been making their way to a back booth in
O’Bannion’s when they spotted us.

Rob and I froze. How much had they heard?

“Hi, Chandra.” I nodded to her companion. “Angela.”

Chandra stared at me. “So, what’s up?”

“Not much,” I said. “Just hanging out enjoying a few brews.”

“That’s bullshit, honey. Looks like you’re knee deep in something. Still plotting the script? Talk about optimists. That sucker is dead in the water. I could have sworn I heard the words ‘veterans’ support group.’ Not what I’d call normal for a friendly bar chat.”

Rob looked to me for guidance.

I tried to cover. “More like plotting the next picnic for some of the vets involved in the program. Both Rob and I feel it’s so wrong. Some of the protestors are calling these poor guys every name under the sun. They need to understand most anti-war folks care about them. It’s not their fault they got sent overseas. We blame the government, not the boys suffering the consequences.”