Netherworld: Drop Dead Sexy(76)
A soaring soprano from the auditorium implored us to think of her, a song that was familiar but I couldn’t quite place. The season had ended prior to my death with a hilarious British comedy set in a fur shop. I couldn’t imagine why a musical would begin rehearsing in March when the new season didn’t start until October.
It suddenly occurred to me that maybe the singer wasn’t among the living. We were above ground, but perhaps the Ritz had a second life, one not seen among the still breathing. “Shows are done here?” I asked Dan.
He nodded. “We have quite an ensemble cast among the dead. They’re performing Phantom next month.”
“How appropriate,” I sniffed, but I couldn’t deny I looked forward to it. I adore the theater.
Dan led the way to the auditorium, where the only ones there were the singer and a man I supposed to be the director. The soprano sang to the empty seats as if an audience filled it, hanging on to her every note. The director sat midway in the seats, his eyes closed as he listened to her.
Seeing no one else, we backed out silently. Once we had descended the staircase, Dan explained, “Tristan and Patricia love the rehearsals as much as the performances. I thought they might be here, but no sign of them.”
“Where else could they be?” Weariness replaced my earlier excitement.
“I can think of two more places. Hold on.”
He transported us next to the county commission offices. Only daytime denizens haunted those hallways. Our next stop was a real surprise.
Sea breeze made the leaves of the giant Southern oaks rustle, but they didn’t dare fall on the pristine carpet of trimmed lawn. I looked out at the yachts plying the waterway before me, at the cyclists rolling down the shaded bike path that wandered the nearby waterfront. We were on Goose Creek Island, a state park and former playground of train barons, financiers and shipping magnates.
I turned to look at Sanderson Cottage behind me. Imagine the most precious Victorian dollhouse ever constructed, with cream-colored gingerbread trim, sapphire shutters and roof, and carnation pink walls. Now blow it up to life size, and you have
Sanderson Cottage, the turn-of-the-century winter home of Josiah Sanderson, the former king of shipping for the eastern seaboard. One of a dozen cottages that dotted the north end of the island, it was a popular tourist attraction.
The ‘cottages’, which were bigger than most people’s houses, all belonged to the state now. As I watched, a trolley full of tourists pulled up. People tumbled out, snapping pictures of pretty Sanderson Cottage and the large hump of ground that rose improbably on the otherwise impeccable front lawn.
The tour guide, a long-limbed tanned blonde, called out as people posed in front of the oversized dollhouse. “The mound you see in front of the Sanderson Cottage is known as the Indian Mound. The Native Americans who lived on this island before the area was settled by Europeans would harvest oysters from the water right over there and dumped the shells in a pile here. Eventually, the oyster shells were overgrown, resulting in this mound. Come on in, and I’ll show you folks around the cottage, where we have a lot of the original furnishings that belonged to Josiah Sanderson.”
Like ducklings following their mama, the tourists trooped into the cottage, chattering, oohing and ahing as they went.
I’d done the tour. Three times. Getting a little impatient with our lack of progress, I turned to Dan. “What are we doing on Goose Creek Island?”
He nodded at the cottage. “In life, Tristan and Patricia worked for the Sandersons. This place is special to them. Let’s see if they’re home.”
Oh. Now that wasn’t in the tour guide’s rap. I wondered if it was common knowledge that the Keiths had such a link here.
We transported in rather than walking and dodged around the group ogling the grand piano in the conservatory. Sure, we could have walked through them, but that was just weird to do. Even with my aversion to passing in and out of the living, I couldn’t help but brush against the close-packed group. I passed right through one man’s camcorder and energy sizzled through me. The camcorder died with a tiny beep.
As we left the knot of people behind, I heard the man exclaim, “Hey, my battery just died, and I swear someone touched me. You got ghosts in this place?”
“Oops,” I said to Dan and giggled, a little giddy from the hit I’d gotten.
Dan snickered. “Don’t worry about it. The belief that Sanderson is haunted helps bring tourists in and makes the county money.”
We searched both floors with no sign of Tristan or Patricia roaming their former stomping grounds. Dan was fit to be tied. “Damn, where are those two?” Catching my glare, he held both hands to placate me. “Language. I’m sorry.”