It's a Marvelous Night for a Moondance

By Flo Fitzpatrick

1997. Autumn in Texarkana and the Harvest Moon is shinin’ on. Boston native Sybil (Mac) MacKenzie, in town to choreograph a local theatre’s production of 'South Pacific,' is becoming moonstruck. Mac's falling in love with Johnny Chandler who plays Lt. Joe Cable, even though he’s fifteen years younger, the pair are entering the annual fall swing dance contest and she's rethinking career plans when forced to take over the lead role in the show. Life gets twisted when Mac and Johnny begin reliving events that involve a pair of teen-age lovers and images of Texarkana in the grip of the Nineteen-Forties Phantom Moonlight Killer. As their past-life memories grow stronger and a copycat Phantom tries to outdo the original, Mac and Johnny learn their Forties counterparts met a violent death in 1947. Events seem destined to repeat themselves unless Mac and Johnny find a way way to confront the past and embrace the present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flo Fitzpatrick
• Release date: Jan 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458185822

Flo Fitzpatrick

Flo Fitzpatrick was born in Washington D.C. and quickly moved a chateau in France (Army brat). She's certain the Gothic setting sparked her desire to write. A performer, teacher and choreographer, Flo holds degrees in dance and theatre. Much of her adult life consisted of shuttling from Texas to New York and she loves each state for spawning richly diverse and often extremely wacky characters. Her time travel romance Haunting Melody was recently optioned for film.

Book preview

Chapter 1

August 1997

Bloody Mary’s hut was a nightmare of pink plastic. Pink plastic palms, pink plastic orchids, pink plastic pineapples and pink plastic parakeets. Every cliché associated with someone’s hallucinogenic vision of a Pacific paradise had been resolutely displayed. One truly obnoxious plastic parakeet, colored fuchsia rather than the candy-blush of its fellows, kept staring at me from across the stage. It was fast changing from almost to past annoying. I spied a pink plastic machete peeking out of a pink plastic urn and inwardly debated the merits of disconnecting that pink plastic bird from its pink plastic perch.

Before I could do battle, I was accosted by a young blonde, who was sausaged into very tight jeans and a very tight tube top. She was standing beside her clone, a slighter taller blonde similarly sausaged into very short cutoffs and a very tight halter top.

Blonde number one : Are you Sybil Mackenzie? I really didn’t think you’d fly down from Boston just for us. Jeez. Our brand-new choreographer came to show us all in backwater Texarkana how it’s done. Well, that’s just so sweet!

Yes, I’m Sybil. And - you are?

A pink-lipsticked smile as plastic as the one of the birds covered the girl’s entire face. Sheri Bixley. I’m playing a nurse. I should be playin’ Nellie Forbush, but apparently our director wanted someone, she paused for great dramatic effect, else.

An inane Q and A began. Do you ever eat? You’re just horrifically skinny. And pale. I guess there’s just no sun up north, is there? Do you just starve yourself?

By end of the week the theatre gossip grill would doubtless be serving up juicy tidbits claiming that Sybil Mackenzie, ashen dancer from ‘up north’ was suffering from a severe case of anorexia and some sort of sun phobia.

I considered telling Sheri my physique was due to A) being blessed with a really fast metabolism that easily survives devouring a stack of hot dogs and at least seven non-diet sodas during nine innings of a Red Sox game at Fenway Park. B) My classes at the Tae Kwon Do studio near Fenway Park where I sweat on a biweekly basis. Or - C) Engaging in unsafe sex with the entire Red Sox team in the locker rooms behind Fenway Park thus working off any extra calories. (A and B were true. Option C, sadly, was not.)

At five-feet, ten inches, my weight generally hovers around one-twenty. Models consider me obese. Didn’t matter. These girls didn’t like me.

The inquisition continued. Are you just crazy coming down here now?

Wha - what? I’m sorry, what are you talking about?

Well, this just isn’t a good time to be in Texarkana, I mean with this crazy lunatic just running around attacking people. I personally am just avoiding all parking lots with my boyfriend. Aren’t you just beyond scared? I am.

Candy-pink blonde number two: Sheri! Stop it! You’re scaring me now! Hi, Sybil. I’m Tiffy White. Wow. We just can’t figure Zach going all the way to Boston for a new choreographer. Of course, who in Texas is dumb enough to come here with all that’s going on? She smiled sweetly. Dennis was just such a doll, you know. We all just loved his choreography. Just look, Sheri, she’s just really, really tall too. Are you six feet?

I quickly interrupted before either girl had the chance to say just another ten times in the same sentence.

Sorry, Tiffy. Five-ten and likely to stay that way for a while. I turned forty several months ago. Age-related shrinking probably won’t hit until I’m at least forty-one.

Huh?

The combined I.Q’s of this pair must measure significantly less than that of any plastic pink bird nesting over this stage.

Undaunted, Sheri cooed. Don’t you just love the set? Tiffy and I did it ourselves after Dennis’ boyfriend just up and left. Of course, now Zach has another guy. Ethan Somebody.

She pointed at the table hidden just behind the stage left curtain. We even have refreshments for the cast during breaks. They match!

I was neither hungry nor thirsty but any excuse to get away from this decorating tag team was worth the sin of a white lie. Looks - uh - really - uh - pink. Thanks so much, girls. I need to uh, go find Zach now. Nice to meet you.

I disappeared behind that curtain, stared in horror at the swirling pink concoction, then quickly popped back out in time to take note of the various other cast members tacking plastic wildlife onto innocent set pieces. I began to cross the stage to search of Zach, the director, but paused midway for about fifteen seconds while I asked any and all theatre gods - ‘why me?’

Heads up!

The warning was welcome but almost too late. I dove under a huge wooden canoe mere seconds before a pink potted palm, hurtling from twenty feet above, hit a few inches from where I’d been standing. I looked to my left. Strong males paraded by juggling more plants, boat-pieces chairs, huge door flats and a wooden ramp. When I saw the nail jutting out six inches from the top of a flat, I grabbed an ankle belonging to a husky mover and pointed out the weapon to him. I finally emerged from my secure little den only to be knocked in the ribs by a long pole bearing a variety of shrunken heads that looked way too real.

My position was growing more precarious by the second. Time to find safer ground. Maybe Boston? I picked up my bag and headed for the stairs leading into the audience, found a quiet spot and began to study music for Nothing Like a Dame, which was slated for this afternoon. The cast been forced into an advanced rehearsal schedule because the Texarkana Players had very recently lost the services of their choreographer, Dennis Montclair and a set designer named Tony.

Very recently was the day before yesterday.

I’d been sprawled ungracefully on the den rug in my little garage apartment, flipping through wallpaper samples that were now all scattered all over the room. When the phone rang, I waded through the books and fabric, cursing as the shrill rings insisted I answer. Difficult. I couldn’t find the phone. Ten rings in, I discovered it buried under a pile of ugly violet squares in an peach organdy fabric.

’Yo! I answered.

MacKenzie! Whacha doin’ for the next couple of weeks?

Lovely to hear from you too, Zach. You’re calling - why?

Chat. Make conversation. So - whacha doin’?

Suspicions of doom flooded my mind. This was no social call. Zach wanted something.

Repainting my apartment, ripping up wallpaper samples, ripping up job applications, ripping my hair out after ripping up the samples and the stupid application forms. Why?

I heard a chuckle from the other end.

Good. Nothing vital. You’re wanted. I’m going to beg without shame. We’ve been abandoned by Dennis Montclair. The cast is already in rehearsal. What’s left of ‘em. I’m still in the process of recasting the folks who left when Dennis did. How soon can you fly down?

Zach. You’re about twenty steps ahead of me. Forget that you’re severely A.D.D. Breathe. Focus. First of all, you know I get crazy on a plane. It’s nearly impossible to get me out of Boston. So forget whatever it is you think you can con me into. I stopped. Curiosity took over. Uh - mind telling me what show?

Sorry - thought I had. And yes, you’re a wimp. I don’t care. I’m nuts. I need you. Desperately. Oh South Pacific. The show.

Opening when?

Two and a half weeks.

I paused.

Two and a half weeks?

He paused.

Yep.

I paused.

What’s left to choreograph?

He paused. This one was longer.

Everything.

Excuse me!

I know, I know! Dennis Montclair is now Numero Uno on my hate list. But, Mac? It pays - not too shabbily, either. The cast is lovely. I only have to find a Bloody Mary and a Luther Billis and where was I? Oh. Lovely cast dying for competent choreographer.

I’m truly confused. I thought Montclair was a god amongst Texas choreographers. And now? Not only absent but incompetent? I took a breath. "Look, Zacharius, aside from my total fear of anything out of my comfort zone, I’m supposed to teach at Littleton this fall. Three lousy classes - which is better than no lousy classes. Plus, even if I managed to drug myself into oblivion to get on a plane and fly to Texas, uh, well, not to belabor the point but I really am busy redecorating.

I looked around the living room and shuddered. I had absolutely no desire to begin this particular design project.

Groans. Mac. I implore you. Forget painting and papering. Darlin’, I’m not above offering bribes. I’ll pay your plane fare to Texas. I’ll even put you up in a sweet little apartment. Already has a fun painted kitchen and wonderful non-floral wallpaper. It’s a garage apartment, but it’s much nicer than that fleabag your sister rents to you. And free. Please? Have I mentioned that we need you?

The idea was becoming quite enticing, but I didn’t think Zach needed to be aware as yet that I was about to shove down all fears, buy a ton of airsick meds - and accept.

So, what happened to Dennis? Specifically.

The sound of teeth grinding came over the wire. Sonuvabitch decided to teach aerobics on a cruise ship bound for Russia and points even further north.

Aha. You’re telling me that Dennis is getting paid big bucks for whipping bodies into shape over the ocean?

Zach snorted. The only body Dennis is whipping is some misguided crew member with S & M tendencies! Or my set designer’s, whom he stole when he left. Fink.

I admit I envy him. Not the whipping. The sailing. Endless days and nights on a veritable Love Boat.

I closed my eyes for a second, envisioning a gorgeous cruise ship gliding serenely through blue waters while I lay on deck basking in tropical sunshine reading all the mysteries I’d saved for a year. I’d been contemplating a cruise myself - only mine was something more akin to a slow boat to China. A fishing boat, perhaps, on which, if I was lucky, I could stoke furnaces, swab decks or cook brownies to earn passage. Cutbacks at Littleton, the conservatory in Boston where I taught, had been fierce this year. No summer dance classes. No summer drama program. No notice until late April.

I’d frantically sent out my resumé, knowing it was too late. Hiring of staff for most productions is done early, often a year in advance of summer shows, especially for choreographers who don’t want to travel past their own back yard. Consequently, a summer with no salary.

I was broke. I was bored. I was blue. If something creative didn’t materialize, I’d spend the next few months accompanying the man I’d been dating, Kurt Westlake, while he schmoozed at political fund-raisers for the latest candidate he was managing. I’d be in a corner - hiding.

I wondered if Chinese fishing boats served General Tsao’s chicken - extra spicy - and if they were hiring.

MacKenzie? You there?

Sorry. Considering my options.

He chuckled. You have none. Come on, whaddya say? You know you miss Texas. It’s been the home of your heart since your college days.

True. So, are you sincere about having a nice place for me to live that I wouldn’t have to fix up? I’m currently expecting to see myself on a reality TV series with carpenters screaming at me to leave the island or something.

Hell, yeah! To be honest, most of the guys playing Seabees are more at home nailing shingles and planting floor tiles than dancing across the stage. They’d be thrilled to come fix any rotting stairs you might encounter at your home away from home. He chuckled nervously. Crap! Not real enticing to my prospective employee, is it? A cough. Uh, I also have to be honest about something else because I adore you and I want to get this over with before you come happily tripping down here then immediately fly back for not knowing everything.

And that would be?

There’s been an. . . incident in town. A couple was attacked.

What? I felt faint. Chinese fishing boats were safer. No way I was coming down.

Two kids were assaulted when they were out parking one night. I guess parking is still the operative word for making out in cars?

Wouldn’t know. My parking days are long behind me. I tried to breathe. Tried to focus.

Police think it was a revenge thing on some guy’s ex-girlfriend so shouldn’t be a deterrent to you heading on down. And I promise to have big strong college guys escort you to your cars after rehearsal each night. You’ll be absolutely safe. Really.

I wasn’t thrilled by this news. I’d experienced hell on earth some years back when a friend had been attacked in New York and I had no desire to walk into a dangerous situation. Yet, something within me cried, ‘Go. Be brave for once.’ I winced whenever I thought about redoing the apartment. Choreographing South Pacific was good for at least a month and infinitely more enjoyable than playing stowaway on that mythical boat bound for Hong Kong. Shoot - I can’t even speak the language. Doubtless I’d wind up in a house of ill repute and get booted out for noncompliance to some client’s request for sex in a bed of mayonnaise.

The silence from Zach became impatient. He coughed. MacKenzie? Hello? Don’t say no because of the boogeyman. Please?

Um – Just for grins - anything after South Pacific?

I could hear the wheels clicking. Well, sort of, maybe. I’m planning to have some musical theatre classes this fall after school starts for kiddies. And you could choreograph the Christmas show.

Not exactly a firm offer with a 401K and vacation time.

We’ll find something extra. Actually, I know where you could teach. Deborah Collier mentioned to me a few weeks ago she was looking for new talent at her dance academy. Perfect. Anyway, I’ll see you at seven tomorrow, darlin’. Ticket for you at Logan.

Wait! I haven’t said I’ll do this. Jeez. Um, didn’t you once tell me that the Players Theatre is un-air-conditioned? Yow. Working on a show in Texas in August and on into September? No wonder Dennis took off for Russia. Not too dumb.

Zach growled, Don’t say that. I’m so pissed that he dumped us, I keep wondering if we can bring back the old Soviet Union complete with KGB. The vision of Montclair spending a year or two in a Siberian gulag truly gladdens my heart. I’ve already started notifying everyone I know who might even be considering hiring him and informing them that he’s defected to the Red Army. With his buddy Tony Montevallo - traitorous set designer.

I almost howled. Red Army. Yep. From what I’ve heard, that’d be Dennis’ dream job. He’d be in his element among a troop of wild Slavic warriors.

He deserves a rock quarry a la Les Miserables.

You’re a hard man, Zacharius. I pity Montclair if he ever returns. Not that he will. Cool ocean breezes or Texas heat. Hmm. Which would you choose?

Zach ignored this blatant denigration about the lack of cold air at the Texarkana Players Theatre. I will admit, and only to you, but I’m thrilled he left. I’d much rather have you and I do apologize for throwing you into such a total mess. Dennis didn’t complete one damn dance. And, darlin’, the theatre does have air-conditioning during dress rehearsals and performances. I keep about ninety fans cranked to the max the rest of the time so my actors don’t pass out. Have I said, ‘Bless you,’ for taking over - which you will? And I’m damn proud of you. And I’ve missed seeing you since I was last in Beantown?

Aww, Zach. Stop it. I smiled. I’ve missed you too, you charmer!

Perfect. Give me a firm yes.

All right, all right! I cave. I’ll do it. God help me and I mean that literally. But I can’t leave until tomorrow so don’t schedule choreography rehearsals yet.

I’d hung up the phone, jumped to my feet, tapped out a triple time step in sheer glee (in my socks) then proceeded to pile every last wallpaper sample into one big heap. I’d let my sister take all this junk back to the foo-foo decorator I couldn’t afford anyway.

Mac! You’re lounging. Get your buns over here and check out this great old piano!

I quit flashing back to the day before and followed Zach’s voice toward the stage left wings where four burly college-age kids were hauling a Steinway that had to be over sixty years old. I was so thrilled with it I nearly tripped.

Fantastic! I crooned. Is this our orchestra?

Zach snorted. Shoot. This is going in the Honey Bun number. Isn’t it cool? Left here from the theatre’s previous existence as Big Bobby’s Hideaway - a 1940s juke joint. Adore it?

I love it, I promptly exclaimed. I can smell the cigarettes, Jungle Gardenia and gin! The odd thing was - I could. I whispered to Zach. Don’t repeat this, but I’m damn glad I’m here.

I was.

South Pacific. Much better than a boat, slow or fast, to anywhere.

Chapter 2

May 1944

Dammit, Kate it’s almost eleven. I’m tellin’ ya, we’re in trouble again if we don’t make tracks in the next fifteen minutes or so. I’m already grounded ‘til I’m about sixteen but Mama says she’s gonna start locking my door and the windows if I don’t quit coming here.

Yeah? So? What else is new? Kate suddenly pointed at the bandstand. Wait! Talk about new! Take a gander at the musicians? That’s definitely not the same piano Willie was poundin’ last week. Wowzer. How long we been here tonight? And I just now noticed. Both of us have been too busy worryin’ all night instead of havin’ fun. Now, Clansey you’re gonnna sing with Willie tonight. Just the same as me. Nothin’ for it but to relax. You’ll make it home with your mama none the wiser if you’ll learn not to sing outside your house right before you sneak back in!

I sat back in my chair and inhaled. The scent of gardenia perfume was musky and sensuous and made me feel grown-up. It even blended pretty well with the odor of tobacco and booze.

A lady dressed in a flouncy red satin dress with a peplum waist leaned over our table. Her raspy tone seemed enchanting and very sophisticated to me.

She nodded at Kate. Hey chile, you singin’ tonight?

I answered for her. Hell, yeah. Go on. We’re in the soup anyway. Might’s well stay.

I still don’t know what to sing.

Do that song by Lena Horne.

Kate almost crooned. I love her. She’s who I wanna be. Look, I’ll make a deal with ya. I’ll go on up and sing Stormy Weather but then you gotta do I’ll Be Seeing You. Whacha say?

Okay - I’ll do it if you get up there with the band first. You sure nobody’ll mind? I don’t wanna be tossed outta here.

You’re fine. Everybody here loves you.

Kate sashayed toward the front of the club where five musicians sat. Piano - new - drums, guitar, saxophone and trumpet. Big Bobby’s Hideaway had them all. I loved listening to the small band play jazz and swing tunes - but when Kate sang? It was like was traveling to other times; other places. As though I’d left behind the horrible fears we’d all felt about our dads and brothers since the war started when I was twelve. Ironic though. One reason I’d been able to sneak out and join Kate at Bobby’s this past year was that my dad had been in the South Pacific and my mother spent most of her time in their bedroom crying. I missed him terribly.

I glanced up to the front of Big Bobby’s and the bandstand. Kate was whispering to the piano player, the leader of the Rhythm Flyers. These musicians had fought together; got wounded. They’d decided to form a band after they came back from the war. They were potent. Knew all the latest tunes coming out on the radio and didn’t even need charts to play.

Kate stepped in front of the piano and held her hand up for silence. She got it, too. She was fierce, talented and even had that special zazz boys liked. She was the hepest girl I knew and my best friend in the world. She was also the tallest - which I envied.

The first notes of Stormy Weather came wafting through the smokey haze of Big Bobby’s. There wasn’t a sound in the place outside of Kate’s amazing voice. Not a beer sloshing onto a table, not a scuff of a shoe on the floor.

The thought came to me that if I’d been a lifelong atheist, Kate’s voice would convert me overnight. I blinked. Where had I heard that? It was like someone was talking in my head. Or a memory from somewhere. I shook off the odd sensation and focused on Kate.

I couldn’t even tell my mom how fantastic Kate was as a singer. She was too busy yelling at me for being way too young to to be out half the night every Saturday, and she wasn’t thrilled that out meant an all-Negro juke joint. She kept trying to come up with new ways to punish me for my many sins. Not a one of them ever worked.

Why she was so poisonous about me coming to the Hideaway, I didn’t know. I was treated great here. I really felt like I belonged. Big Bobby himself brought me cokes and didn’t even charge for the first one. I guess he could have gotten in dutch for having a couple of teens in his place but the war had loosened lots of restrictions. I knew two girls, musicians, who played at some of the white dance halls and they were only fifteen or so themselves. Two years older than me. Neither Kate nor I ever tried to drink booze and we didn’t dance with older men. In Big Bobby’s Hideaway we just listened to the band and imagined ourselves up on a stage in New York singing for huge crowds.

I even got to dance with Kate’s kid brother now and then when a really jumpin’ swing was played. He was eleven and had started sneaking out with us about a month ago. I’d been surprised and not exactly pleased the night Kate met me down the road from Big Bobby’s because she’d been yanking along super-tall, skinny kid male version of herself.

Remember Silas?

Yah. Hi. I’d politely and nicely responded. Then nice ended and I exploded. What’s the matter with you? Why are you bringing a little kid? I yelled in my most adult voice. This’ll get us thrown out of Bobby’s for sure.

Nah. Silas has been here a bunch a’ times. Everybody likes him cause he’s a great dancer and all the women without partners are dyin’ to jitterbug with him.

Oh. Well - okay.

Silas hadn’t said a word. Kate’s whole face lit up. Besides, this way I figure I can split up the whuppin’s. He can go first so Mama’ll be tired by the time she gets to me.

Silas nodded. Apparently chitchat wasn’t his strong suit.

I stood up now and cheered when Kate finished Stormy Weather. Thunderous applause from the crowd of forty or so. She waved at me and yelled, Get up here! The band knows I’ll Be Seeing You. They’re set to play. She raced over to our table. You sing or I’ll tell my Mama you’re the one who keeps bringin’ me here. She’ll get a whole new belt out and whup you too!

Blackmail. Or was that extortion? Didn’t matter which, I was going to sing. I had no desire to become part of a trio of Monday afternoon ‘whuppins’ with Brother Silas included. (Sundays were out for getting smacked, since their Mama felt that would abuse the Lord’s day. ) I rose and headed for the platform. I might be tiny but my voice was strong and big.

I stumbled on the second step leading to the platform and nearly fell to my knees. Could have sworn someone else was on that step with me. Maybe all the perfume had clouded my mind and balance? I shook off the feeling, leaned on the new piano, opened my mouth and let my voice carry across Big Bobby’s. This was where I needed to be. This was what I needed to be doing.

Chapter 3

August, 1997

Zach moaned, I’m down to one. One lousy part left to cast which happens to be a role that’s beyond damn important. Bloody flippin’ Mary. Sings one of the biggest songs in the show and has to be awesome to the ‘Enth’ degree. Hell and damnation. He gritted his teeth. Billy, I hate to ask. You did say Acacia Jones is still available, right?

‘Bad’ Billy Burns, our musical director nodded. Yep. Footloose and fancy free. Zach, face it. She’s the best singer any of us have ever heard. We need her.

Zach glared at him. We do. I know we do. But. Acacia Jones? Oh Lord. Fantastic singer, great sound, but . . .

Billy rose from the table in the theatre’s greenroom, added water and two extra tea bags to his cup then began squishing them with his spoon. He stayed silent. Zach kept moaning.

I had to ask. Zach? Billy? Yo? Talk to the clueless choreographer who doesn’t know this person. I quote, ‘Acacia Jones has a great sound, but . . . ’ What’s up? What’s the ‘but’?

Billy looked like a toddler caught smearing jam on mom’s Oriental rug. Acacia can kind of be - uh trouble.

Zach snorted. Hello? Understatement of the millennium. ‘Can kind of be trouble?’ Holy shit. Try ‘Danger! Do Not Enter!’

Will you guys get to the point? Do we want this lady or not? And if not - why not?

Zach