This story is (c) Copyright 2002 by Noelle Leithe. "The 
X-Files" universe, and all related characters and plot
elements, are the property of FOX Broadcasting and 1013
Productions and are borrowed here without profit or intent
for profit.

==========

No Business
By Noelle Leithe
noelleleithe@comcast.net


CLASSIFICATIONS: X-file (really!), Humor, MSR, Rated PG

SPOILERS: Through "Je Souhaite." 

SUMMARY: Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of men? Only the 
Merman knows ...

DISCLAIMER: Who, me?

NOTES: At the end.

=====

No Business
By Noelle Leithe

=====

"I can never remember being afraid of an audience. If the 
audience could do better, they'd be up here on stage and I'd be 
out there watching them." -- Ethel Merman

=====

8:45 a.m.

Scully had always hated Ethel Merman.

Well, hate might be too strong a word. Disliked, perhaps. Maybe 
it was the voice, loud and brassy, the antithesis of Scully's 
own carefully modulated tones. Maybe it was the songs 
themselves, or the movies. Scully liked classic films, but of a 
kinder, gentler sort than the Hollywood extravaganzas Ethel 
Merman preferred. "Singin' in the Rain," not "There's No 
Business Like Show Business."

Sighing, she tuned back in to Mulder, mindful of the several 
layers of glee running through his voice as he recapped the 
case.

"It's a complete mystery, Scully," he said, deftly whirling a 
pencil between his fingers. "The theater's been shut down for 
decades, and this was to be the first production. Something 
called 'Once Upon a Mattress' was the last performance, in 1968, 
so they decided was perfect for the revival."

Scully pursed her lips. "Except for the part about the ghost," 
she drawled.

Mulder bobbed his head once, undeterred by her lack of 
enthusiasm. "Exactly! The cast was only a few days into 
rehearsals when it started. Nothing serious so far, just some 
twisted ankles and one concussion-sprained ankle combo." He 
grinned, and she saw it coming. "They're starting to give 'break 
a leg' a whole new meaning."

Success in fighting off the urge to roll her eyes gave Scully a 
true sense of accomplishment. "And this is an X-file because ..."
she prompted.

"Unexplained phenomena, Scully, that's why we're here," he said, 
dropping the pencil into the cup on his desk and reaching for 
the jacket draped across the back of his chair. "And why we're 
gonna be *there* in seven hours."

Caught off guard, Scully crossed her arms and leaned forward. 
"We're going?" she said. "*Now*?"

Mulder nodded toward the file. "Already got a 302, signed and 
ready to go."

Scully's eyebrow lifted. "And you blackmailed Skinner with 
*what*, exactly?" He opened his mouth to reply and she raised 
her hand to stop him. "No, on second thought, don't tell me. I 
don't think I want to know."

He chuckled and she allowed a quick smile. The last thing he 
needed was encouragement, but considering their activities 
earlier that morning, she wasn't surprised at his high spirits. 
She was having a hard time keeping her cool, too. 

Staring at him wasn't helping matters, she scolded herself. 
Breaking away, she swiveled to pick up her briefcase and drew in 
a breath before turning back to face him.

"Let's get going, then," she said lightly.

=====

Theatre Albany
Albany, Georgia
5:33 p.m.

With a suddenness that caught her off guard, as she stood in the 
middle of the stage and stared down at row upon row of empty 
seats, Scully realized exactly why she'd hated -- disliked -- 
Ethel Merman for all these years.

She could do what Scully only dreamed of.

Sure, Scully'd slipped into a few school productions, although 
her "performances" mostly involved melting into the chorus and 
singing sotto voce so as not to stand out. But what she'd really 
wanted was to be here, center stage and center of attention, 
belting out some high-energy number with a voice like a 
bullhorn.

She fought the unfamiliar urge to burst into song right then and 
there. It wouldn't go over well with the locals; worse, Mulder 
would never let her live it down.

"Have you seen any pattern to the appearances?" Mulder was deep 
in conversation with the theater manager, Mark Carson, whose 
face showed a fascinating blend of worry and embarrassment, 
concern for the performers warring with the decidedly unusual 
nature of the complaint.

"No, not really," Carson said. "It's been different points in 
the play every time. Amy's was the worst; she was ready to jump 
down from the mattresses when the ... apparition appeared. It 
threw her off balance, and she fell."

The concussion, Scully recalled, only half-listening as Mulder 
asked about Amy Martin, the original lead in the play. Her 
attention focused on Carson, who she thought looked less like a 
theater manager and more like an accountant, although she 
probably wasn't one to judge. Did *she* look like an FBI 
pathologist?

"... Scully?"

Her mind registered the question Mulder had asked only when he 
added her name to it. "That's fine, Mulder," she replied. "We 
can get checked in and have dinner before rehearsal starts, then 
talk to Ms. Martin afterwards."

Carson nodded in agreement. "Seven-thirty sharp. Everyone will 
be here," he said. He chuckled, the sound related to a laugh 
only by rumor. "The cast has been thrilled about the theater 
reopening and the production. This ... situation is making 
everyone nervous." 

Scully watched as Mulder tilted his head and smiled his most 
professional charming smile. "We'll do all we can, Mr. Carson," 
he said, shaking the other man's hand before turning to lead 
Scully toward the stairs. Leaning down so his mouth was just 
inches from her ear, close enough for her to feel his breath 
and smell his ever-present Altoids, he murmured, "So, have you
ever had ambitions to the stage, Agent Scully?"

She resisted the urge to laugh. "Are you going to start 
referring to stage fright as 'performance anxiety,' Agent 
Mulder?"

He groaned as he pushed the door open ahead of them. "Those are 
two words you should *never* say to a man, Scully," he said. 
"Especially not --"

"Shut up, Mulder," she said, softening her words with a quick 
smile.

=====

Theatre Albany
7:22 p.m.

Mulder and Scully slipped silently into a row halfway up in the 
theater, having chosen to observe first. The stage was scattered 
with people, some holding scripts, others pushing around 
furniture or sticking pieces of tape to the floor.

Scully watched, captivated despite herself. It had been years 
since she'd been in a theater for anything other than a finished 
production, and even those had been few and far between. She'd 
always loved the theater, in all its many incarnations; her 
mother had taken her to everything from school plays to 
community performances to professional shows while she was 
growing up. She'd gazed up at the people on the stage and 
dreamed of joining them, reciting lines with feeling, belting 
out classic show-stoppers to standing ovations.

She'd never gathered the nerve to so much as audition.

She jumped as Mulder's voice came from just over her shoulder. 
"Reliving past glories, Scully?"

She shrugged. "Not much to relive, unless the 'face in a crowd' 
part has suddenly grown much bigger than I recall."

Mulder chuckled softly, his arm settling across the back of her 
seat, just short of holding her, as he settled in to watch. "I 
have to say that theater was one thing I never got into."

Scully turned to look at him, surprised by that. "Never?"

Gaze shifting to meet hers, he shook his head. "Never," he said. 
"Had to do some play thing in about fifth grade for a gifted 
student program, but other than that ..."

She pondered that. Mulder was a born ham with a near-perfect 
memory; he'd be a natural for the stage.

"Why not?" she asked.

He lifted one shoulder in a semblance of a shrug, his attention 
back on the stage. "No real reason," he said, lips quirking. 
"Just not my thing. I was playing baseball in the summer and 
basketball in the winter. Didn't leave much time for anything 
else."

Scully felt herself smiling. "No great story of personal angst 
that kept you off the stage?" she asked in a teasing tone.

He glanced at her again and laughed softly. "Not this time, no," 
he said, his fingers brushing the back of her arm. "Nice change, 
isn't it?"

"Okay, everybody!" The loud voice from the stage drew their 
attention, and Scully settled back to watch, still feeling 
Mulder's hand against her arm.

Mark Carson stood center stage, back to the house, the cast and 
crew gathering in front of him. "Glad you all made it," he said. 
"We'll be finishing up the blocking for the final scenes 
tonight, so we'll need everyone on their toes." He flipped some 
pages on the clipboard he held, then nodded to a short woman who 
wore a headset. "Carol, you check over the props, make sure 
everything's ready, while I run through a few things with Beth 
and Mike."

Scully scanned the stage, taking in the setup, which was 
dominated by a huge pile of mattresses just to the left side of 
center. Tapestries hung on the walls, which Scully knew were 
actually constructed of thin plywood. Otherwise, furnishings 
were scarce, but then, she didn't suppose anyone made ten-foot-
high nightstands.

She felt Mulder leaning toward her again and wrestled for a 
second with competing urges to flinch away or move closer. After 
seven years of practice with it, she didn't budge. Yes, things 
had changed, but they were working, she told herself. Hands off.

"I'm not familiar with this play, but all I can gather from all 
those mattresses is that maybe it has something to do with 'The 
Princess and the Pea'?" he asked, and she smiled.

"Your deductive reasoning serves you well, Agent Mulder," she 
replied. "A community theater in San Diego put this one on when 
I was about twelve, and my mother took me and Missy to see it. 
It's a musical farce, and if I'm not mistaken, the original 
production starred Carol Burnett as the princess."

"Mmmm, another redhead," he intoned. "I sense a pattern 
developing."

She dipped her head in acknowledgment. "Anyway, I don't remember 
all the details, but I do remember laughing all the way 
through."

"Right up there with 'Caddyshack'?"

She cut him a look, feeling herself warm at the memory of what, 
exactly, had interrupted their movie-watching that night. "No, 
that was *you*," she retorted.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a murmur. "My usual 
witty repartee aside, I don't think 'laughter' quite describes 
your reaction to anything I did that night," he said, and she 
shivered despite herself.

Not. Now. she thought, and he sat back so quickly that for all 
of a second she thought she'd said it out loud. Then she saw 
someone walking toward them from the side of the stage and 
understood his reaction. 

She felt a rush of warmth again, this time for his 
consideration. They'd only discussed it once since their 
physical relationship began several months before, agreeing 
easily on the boundaries between work and play. Mulder's main 
concern had actually been for her reputation; he knew she'd 
fought to distinguish herself on her own merits, and he said 
wanted more than anything "to make damn sure no one thinks I 
keep you around for the sex." He'd said it with a grin she'd
had to return, and that was that. In public, on the job, they 
looked no different than they ever had -- close, professional 
partners -- and no one had raised so much as an eyebrow.

Well, no more so than they had before, at least.

The person approaching them was a woman, blonde and slim, and 
she was limping, Scully realized. This must be Amy Martin, the 
original princess now forced to watch her understudy play the 
lead. The tiny seed of unfulfilled actress in Scully 
sympathized.

Mulder was standing up by then, and Scully followed suit, 
stepping into the aisle as he moved toward the stage. "Amy 
Martin?" he asked, mostly unnecessarily, and the woman nodded 
and grinned.

"I guess I'm pretty recognizable," she said, stopping in her 
slow climb and allowing the agents to come to her. "It's only a 
sprain, but it hurt like a ... well, it hurt a lot."

Mulder smiled, then gestured toward an aisle seat a few rows 
from the stage. "Please, have a seat," he said, his manner 
typically solicitous. Amy slid into the second seat, though, and 
gestured for Scully to sit next to her. Mulder slipped into the 
row ahead and sat sideways in the aisle seat, turning to face 
Amy obliquely.

"I suppose you want to know what I saw," Amy started.

"Actually," Mulder said. "If you could start a few minutes 
before what happened. Set the scene, if you'll excuse the 
expression."

Amy grinned again. "Right. Well, it was near the end of the 
first act, and this was the first night we'd actually had the 
stack of mattresses on stage. We ran through the basic blocking 
first -- that's going over who stands where, what kind of action 
we'll be doing, and so on -- and then we started the scene from 
the beginning. We weren't running lines or anything; Mark read 
off our cues, and we just did the action."

Mulder nodded. "Did you see anything unusual?" he asked, and Amy 
shook her head.

"No, like I said, the mattresses were new, but the rest of the 
set was the same as it had been the night before," she said. 
"Everyone was there who was supposed to be there. So I start the 
scene on top of the mattress -- it's in the morning, when they 
come in to wake the princess up after she's slept with the pea 
under the mattresses. So I sit up, like I'm supposed to, and 
just as I'm supposed to climb down, I saw this ... this woman 
appear, right in the center of the stage. She didn't fade in 
or anything like that; she was just not there one second and 
there the next."

Scully leaned forward. "Did the ... woman look familiar?"

Amy shrugged. "Sure," she said. "It was Ethel Merman. And before 
you ask, no, I don't know why an apparition of Ethel Merman 
would show up in a community theater in Albany, Georgia." 

Mulder chuckled. "Not exactly the kind of thing you see 
everyday." He tossed a glance Scully's way. "Well, not most 
people, anyway."

She ignored it, as she knew he expected. "Amy," she said, her 
tone gentle. "Have there been any ... disputes within the 
theater group recently? Controversy of any kind?"

Amy frowned. "Well, there was some disagreement over the theater 
renovations, but nothing major," she said. "The last time I 
remember anything serious was about three years ago, when Carl 
Thomas and Pete Enbright got in a fight backstage."

Scully leaned forward. "A fight?" she encouraged.

"Yeah, it wasn't serious," Amy replied. "Carl was a bully and a 
bigot, so it wasn't surprising to anyone. Including Pete."

"Okay guys, let's get started." Mark Carson's voice interrupted, 
and the trio turned to face the stage as cast members trickled 
on from the sides. Scully felt herself smiling as she watched 
them take their places under Carson's direction, going through 
their paces smoothly.

She wondered for a moment how Mulder would react to seeing her 
onstage. She hadn't told him that one of the productions she'd 
done in college was one of her favorite musicals, "The Music 
Man." She'd even taken on a handful of lines, the one time she'd 
stepped out of the background lineup and into the spotlight.

She'd never been so terrified and exhilarated at the same time -- 
at least, not until she'd joined Mulder on the X-files.

The production was in full swing when Scully returned her 
attention to the stage. The cast was running through the final 
number, singing unaccompanied and moving between their blocking 
spots, no choreography or orchestra yet.

It took Scully a moment to realize that the figure at the edge 
of the stage didn't fit.

And then she realized it was translucent.

"Scully ..." Mulder's voice held a note of wonder and awe Scully 
could remember hearing only a handful of times before, several 
of them in moments best left tucked away in the very back of her 
mind while she was on the job. She felt herself sliding forward 
in her seat, only peripherally aware as the others in the house 
turned their attention to the woman now standing at center 
stage.

Silence took over the room. The woman turned slightly in place, 
surveying first the cast and then the three in the audience, her 
eyes seeming to linger on first Mulder and then, a bit longer, 
on Scully.

"Scully." Mulder murmured again, his words slow. "Does something 
look not quite right about her? I mean, not like Ethel Merman."
 
"Yeah," she replied. "She's much too thin, for one thing." 

She wasn't really thinking about what she was saying. There was 
something about the woman ...

Mulder snorted softly. "Been studying up on Ethel, Scully?"

She ignored him, concentrating on the apparition, which seemed 
to be fading. She squinted a bit, and just as the ghost 
disappeared completely, she had it.

It wasn't a woman at all.

==========

9:42 p.m.

"Peter Enbright died six months ago," Scully said, eyes on the 
small notebook she held, as Mulder navigated the light late-
evening traffic through a drizzle of rain. "He'd been fairly 
active in the theater until he graduated from high school and 
moved to Atlanta three years ago." She glanced at Mulder. "The 
other three cast members I spoke agreed with Amy that Peter 
suffered some abuse here."

"So he was gay," Mulder said, fingers tapping on the steering 
wheel as he waited out a traffic light.

"Yes, although by all accounts most people knew and didn't seem 
to care," Scully said, her gaze turning to the wet road before 
them. "He was teased more for his interest in theater, and 
specifically the fact that he loved old movies and old-time 
actors." She ticked off on her fingers. "Gene Kelly, Fred 
Astaire and Ginger Rogers, Debbie Reynolds, Judy Garland ..."

"And, let me guess -- Ethel Merman," Mulder cut in, quirking a 
half-smile.

"Yep," Scully confirmed, turning back to her notes. "One of the 
highlights of his Theatre Albany career was an impersonation he 
did for a show a couple years before he left."

"And no one made the connection until now?"

Scully shrugged. "No, not until we asked the right questions," 
she said. "Only a few people in the theater now were around 
then. Even Carson's only been here two years."

Mulder nodded. "So what happened to Peter?"

"He was working in an art gallery in Atlanta last anyone heard. 
Someone thought he might have died in a traffic accident." She 
flipped the notebook shut and sighed. "His sister apparetnly 
still lives near here. Guess we need to make some phone calls 
tomorrow."

They rode in silence for a moment, Mulder's forefinger still 
tapping on the steering wheel, before he spoke.

"You've always kind of reminded me of her, Scully."

Scully looked at him. "What?"

Mulder shrugged, his eyes still on the road, a hint of a smile 
playing on his lips. "Smart, self-assured, unapologetic about 
being herself, not to mention redheaded," he said, tilting his 
head to the side at the last. "She was a hell of a woman, 
Scully."

The comparison sunk in slowly, and Scully wasn't sure if the 
inherent compliments outweighed her own apprehension. Ethel 
Merman? She reminded him of Ethel Merman? Why couldn't it at 
least be Ginger Rogers, or a redhead like Maureen O'Hara, one of 
the beautiful-yet-intelligent actresses she'd always admired?

Still. Smart, self-assured ... a hell of a woman?

She smiled to herself. I suppose I can live with that, she 
thought.

==========

Clarion Inn
8:53 a.m.

Scully clicked to another page on the search engine. Half an 
hour and three Enbrights so far, but no Peter yet.

A scraping sound at the door heralded Mulder's return, but 
Scully keep her eyes trained on the laptop screen until she 
caught a whiff of the coffee scent that preceded him. She looked 
up and smiled a moment at the sight of him balancing a cup 
holder and fast-food bag, before standing up to help him.

A few minutes later, coffee and bagels spread out before them, 
Scully filled him in on her progress, or lack thereof, in 
finding information on Enbright's death.

"I did, however," she said, "find his sister's address and phone 
number. She lives just north of town. We can call her after we 
eat, see if we can talk to her."

Mulder nodded and swallowed. "I'll do that and let you find that 
obit," he said, grinning. "You're the Lexis/Nexis whiz."

She chuffed out a laugh and looked down at her bagel, picking at 
a rough edge. "You know, for someone whose best friends are a 
team of hackers, you have a pretty deep streak of computer 
phobia going."

His hand on her chin surprised her, and she raised her head at 
in response to the gentle pressure of his fingers. "No," he 
said, his eyes soft. "My best friend's sitting right here."

Heat rose on her cheeks, and she broke from his gaze. His hand 
fell away, and in a few moments she heard a rustling sound and a 
balled-up napkin landed on the table in front of her. She looked 
up in time to watch him crossing the room, but he seemed as 
relaxed as ever, and she let out a short breath of relief.

Things hadn't been smooth sailing between them. Each of them had 
been surprised by their own sore spots, triggers they hadn't 
even known existed. Triggers that probably wouldn't have 
existed, if they hadn't been so close already. That meant each 
of them had stung the other with something as innocuous as what 
she'd just done, pulling away from his open statement of 
affection.

She was glad he didn't seem to have reacted badly this time.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, she turned back to the laptop 
and started searching again. She could hear the gravel of 
Mulder's voice from across the room as she worked, and just as 
he finished and hung up, the record she needed surfaced.

Bingo. Peter Enbright, 26, active in community theater, art 
gallery employee. Killed by a hit-and-run driver in late March.

Mulder slid back into the seat across from her. "Mary Enbright 
is home and said we could come by around ten," he said, picking 
up a leftover napkin and starting to shred it on the table in 
front of him. Scully's eyebrow lifted at the obvious sign of 
nervous energy; out of the corner of her eye, she noted that his 
left knee was bouncing up and down, too. 

Maybe he should cut down on the caffeine, she thought, letting 
her eyes wander across his body. He was still wearing the soft 
sweatpants and t-shirt he'd slept in the night before, the first 
night they'd slept in the same bed on the road since they became 
lovers. His room down the hall sat unused and empty, existing 
only to satisfy curious Bureau eyes, and although they had truly 
only slept that night, just the memory of how his warm body felt 
spooned behind her when she woke up was enough to send a shiver 
down her spine.

Scully realized Mulder had stopped talking and snapped her gaze 
back to meet his. He was grinning that lopsided smile that sent 
her stomach whirling, his eyes dark and sparking.

"Good thoughts, Scully?" he rumbled out, the tone and timbre of 
the words exactly right to send out sparks of electricity across 
her skin. She managed to hold back from a shiver, though, 
knowing the last thing she should do was encourage him.

Not now, anyway.

Maybe later.

She straightened up in her seat, all business. "I found Peter 
Enbright's obit," she said, shifting the laptop around so Mulder 
could see the screen, too. "Date of death is three weeks before 
rehearsals for the play started, a month before the apparition 
began appearing."

Mulder read through the text, chewing lightly on his lower lip 
as he often did when he was deep in thought. Scully tried to 
ignore it, as she always did. Somehow it didn't work as well as 
it used to.

Apparently finished, Mulder rose to his feet. "I'm going to grab 
a shower and get dressed," he said. He reached out to touch the 
still-damp back of Scully's hair. "I'd ask you to join me, but ..."

She flashed him a grin, watching his eyes light up as she knew 
they would in response. "We'd never make it by ten," she said 
lightly, and he chuckled in acknowledgement, running his index 
finger down her cheek before retreating to the bathroom.

=====

Lee County, Georgia
10:18 a.m.

The apparition must be Peter Enbright, Scully thought, taking 
another look at his sister Mary as she settled into a chair. He 
looks just like his sister.

Well, except for his bright red wig.

Mary Enbright was tall and slender, with angular features and a 
cap of short brown hair. She had the grace of an athlete, or a 
dancer, and Scully thought perhaps Peter wasn't the only family 
member who'd caught the theater bug.

Mary confirmed that quickly. "Peter and I started at the theater 
together, in the youth troupe, when I was twelve and he was 
eleven," she said. "We were in probably ten shows together, some 
for the youth troupe, some as kids in the regular productions. 
He was always more into the whole thing than I was, though. He 
was a real natural." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she 
took a deep breath, obviously trying to stay calm.

Mulder leaned forward. "I know this isn't easy, Miss Enbright," 
he said, his voice taking on the soothing tone Scully knew so 
well from so many years of witness interviews. "But anything you 
can tell us could be helpful." She nodded and he went on. "Did 
Peter have trouble with other theater members?"

She shrugged. "Yes, sometimes," she said. "Albany is still a 
small town in many ways, and even the theater crowd can be 
prejudicial. Peter was never overt or promiscuous, but he knew 
he was gay by the time he finished high school, and he never 
tried to hide it. We were lucky to have parents who accepted his 
choice. He had difficulties, but overall he adjusted well."

Scully stepped in next. "After Peter moved to Atlanta he joined 
a theater troupe there," she said, waiting for Mary's 
acknowledging nod. "What kinds of productions was he in there?"

Mary's gaze dropped to her hands. "Mostly classic musicals, a 
few variety-type shows," she said. "It was a standard community 
theater, really. There were gay theater troupes, of course, but 
Peter always preferred the classics." A soft smile slid across 
her face and she looked up at Scully. "Well, except that he did 
like doing the Ethel Merman impersonation. He did it fairly 
often in Atlanta, at different theaters. I think it was because 
he could be more outrageous that way. It was his way of relaxing 
and letting everything go."

"Did he ever talk about his goals?" Mulder asked. "Was there 
something he wanted to do he never got to do?"

Mary shook her head. "He never mentioned anything directly," she 
said. "I think what he wanted more than anything was to be 
accepted for who he was, and I don't think he ever felt he had 
that here, outside his family. That's part of the reason he 
left; he never felt like he fit in with the theater crowd here. 
And since he loved the theater so much, he needed to feel a part 
of it. He knew he could find that in Atlanta." She smiled sadly. 
"But he didn't have it here, not really."

Mulder nodded slowly as he rose to his feet, and Scully could 
almost see the gears churning in his mind. "Thank you, Miss 
Enbright," he said. "I think that's all we'll need."

Mary leaned back and crossed her arms, an eyebrow lifting, and 
Scully had to hold back a laugh, the position looked so 
familiar. "So are you telling me you think my brother is 
haunting the theater?" she asked, her tone somewhere between 
incredulous and amused.

Scully fielded that one. "We don't really know what's going on, 
Miss Enbright," she said as she stood up. "We're simply 
gathering information as part of our investigation. We'd 
appreciate it if you'd remain available to us for further 
questioning."

Mary stared at her, then shrugged and stood up as well. "Sure," 
she said, heading toward the door. "I just think it sounds like 
a lot of hooey."

Scully shot Mulder a look of warning, but he didn't seem to have 
heard. "Thank you again for your time," she said. "We'll call if 
we need anything more."

She remained silent as they got in the car, taking over the 
driver's seat automatically. Mulder was in deep thought mode, 
and she knew it would easier for them both if she let him finish 
processing before she tried to talk to him. Too soon and his 
responses would be distracted at best, and more likely clipped 
and remote.

It was a good ten minutes and they were nearly back to their 
hotel before Mulder blew out a breath and she knew he was 
finished. "So," she asked before he spoke, keeping her eyes on 
the road, "you think this is the spirit of Peter Enbright?"

"Well, technically this would be classified as poltergeist 
activity," Mulder said, his speech gradually speeding up as it 
always did when he was explaining his ideas, as if he was afraid 
he'd be interrupted and never get to finish. "They're not always 
malevolent, like in the movies, but they do have the greatest 
ability to affect the physical world. Some more current theories 
contend that poltergeists are not truly ghosts, that poltergeist 
activity is actually the result of mental energies from the 
living, caused by emotional torment or stress. Poltergeist 
activity does seem most often to center around adolescents, 
particularly females. It's theorized that this is the result of 
emotional turmoil and wide fluctuations in hormonal activity, 
both very common in teenagers." He glanced over at her. "Half 
the cast of this production are adolescents, Scully," he said. 
"That certainly fits the bill."

Scully pursed her lips, long beyond trying to dissuade him by 
saying ghosts didn't exist. "All right, so if we were to assume 
that our ... apparition is indeed a poltergeist," she said, "how 
would we go about removing it?"

Mulder, she was pleased to note, did not react overtly to her 
qualified acceptance of his statements, too caught up in 
spinning out his theory. "Well, that would depend on the 
specific reason why Peter Enbright's spirit felt the need to 
remain on Earth," he said, one hand making small gestures in the 
air as he spoke. "It could be as simple as a feeling of 
unfinished business, one of the most common reasons behind 
standard hauntings. Peter never got to realize his goal of 
performing as Ethel Merman before a truly appreciative audience, 
so even after his death he's still trying."

"But why this theater?" Scully asked. "Why not the one in 
Atlanta?"

Mulder shrugged. "This is home," he stated. "This is where he 
got his start as a performer. He's back now, looking for the 
acceptance, the applause, he never had here when he was alive."

Scully sighed. "That still doesn't tell me what we're supposed 
to do about it."

This time, Mulder flashed her a full grin. "Why, we've got to 
gather up an appreciative audience," he said. "Good thing 
there's another rehearsal tonight, isn't there?"

=====

Theatre Albany
7:32 p.m.

"All right, everyone, settle down." Mark Carson held up a hand 
to silence the chatter going on among the members of his cast. 
"Agents Mulder and Scully are here and have a ... well, request, 
I suppose." He turned to the agents and nodded. "Agents?"

Mulder glanced down at Scully before facing the others. "This is 
probably going to sound strange," he began. "But we think what 
may be causing the apparition you've seen here is a poltergeist. 
Now, before you get worried, relax; this isn't going to devolve 
into a horror movie." A murmur of soft laughter came back at 
him. "We think the apparition may be a former theater member, 
and what we believe we need to do is find a way to bring out the 
apparition and encourage it to, well, perform for us."

"And that'll make it stop?" The question came from Amy Martin, 
who stood to one side, leaning on her crutches, and Scully 
turned to face her.

"We're not entirely sure," Scully said, glancing at Mulder and 
lowering her voice. "To tell the truth, I'm not entirely sure 
about this at all," she said.

Mulder chuckled. "Agent Scully and I don't always agree on such 
matters," he told the others. "But she does agree that this is 
worth a shot, anyway. If it doesn't work, well, we'll consider 
Plan B."

"Which is?" Carson asked

Mulder grinned. "I'll let you know when I figure it out," he 
said, getting another round of mild laughter from the cast. 
Scully smiled herself; she didn't even want to consider where 
Mulder's mind might go next, if this didn't work.

When the laughter died away, Mulder ran his gaze across the 
cast. "Okay," he said. "Anyone want to get us started?"

No one moved. Mulder waited, then laughed, a little shakily, to 
Scully's ears. "C'mon, guys, no one willing to take a chance 
here?"

Everyone just stood there and stared at them, each face 
displaying an expression Scully had seen dozens, maybe hundreds 
of times. Hell, she'd *worn* that expression dozens of times. 
Disbelief, mainly, with a healthy mix of incomprehension that 
anyone would even suggest such a thing. Never mind that these 
people had asked for help.

Dammit. If no one else was willing to do it ...

Scully turned on one heel, stepped to the middle of the stage, 
threw her arms out to the sides, and started to sing.

"There's NO business like SHOW business like NO business I know! 
Everything about it is appealing! Everything the traffic will 
allow!"

She heard the voice join hers halfway through the third line, 
but she didn't stop or move, just waited and kept singing.

"Nowhere can you get that special feeling, when you are stealing 
that extra bow!"

The other voice had completely overcome Scully's mostly on-key 
but not at all powerful efforts, and she gradually trailed off 
in wonder as a figure began to materialize next to her and the 
song continued without her.

"There's NO business like SHOW business like NO business I 
know!"

Moving slowly, Scully slipped stage right, where Mulder stood 
with the cast and crew, watching the otherworldly performance. 
She turned back to look and blinked in astonishment. Had she not 
known better, she would have sworn Ethel Merman herself was 
performing center stage.

The song went on, as complete a performance as Scully could 
remember seeing. Music blended with movement, short of dancing 
but just as graceful, as Peter Enbright put on the show of his 
afterlife.

Finally, he came to the end, and the last note cut off, Peter 
staying in his final triumphant pose. Silence held for only a 
brief second before hands started clapping. Within moments, a 
roar of applause and cheers resounded through the theater, and 
Scully joined in, catching Mulder's eye as he whooped and 
clapped, grinning.

She turned back to look at Peter, taking his bows like a pro. 
But then he held out a hand to her, beckoning her out onto the 
stage, and her eyes widened. She shook her head furiously, 
holding up her hands, palms out, but hands at her back pushed 
her forward. She turned to glare at Mulder, knowing it was him, 
but the calls of "Go, Agent Scully!" and "brava!" registered, 
and she realized they were cheering for her.

She stood in shock, embarrassed and unsure, and looked once 
again to Mulder for guidance. His smile softer, he bowed toward 
her slightly, raised an eyebrow in challenge, and mouthed, "Go 
with it, Scully."

Facing his smile, all she could do was react with her own. 

She smiled, gave a little bow, then lifted a hand to direct the 
attention back to Peter, where it belonged. When she turned in 
his direction, though, he smiled and bowed back to her, then 
started to fade away.

In seconds, he was gone, only the echo of the cheers left 
behind.

=====

Epilogue

Final notes 

The reports of apparitions and the injuries at Theatre Albany 
have ended; however, many aspects of this case remain 
unresolved. As stated in the report above, Agent Mulder believes 
Peter Enbright's unfulfilled ambitions kept him tied to Earth 
after his death -- the reason for the apparition's appearance, 
as well as the inadvertent injuries that resulted. Given a 
chance to perform to an appreciative audience, he achieved his 
goal and was able to continue on into death.

While there is no hard evidence to support these findings, Agent 
Mulder's statement may be categorized under the basic human 
understanding of regret. Like many people do, Peter Enbright 
died having never pursued his one true dream. His life, and 
death, provide us with a lesson: that we should never put off 
our desires if we have the ability to make them come true. We 
can never know with any certainty what time we have, and the 
opportunity for fulfillment will always make the inherent risks 
worthwhile.

As the sightings at the theater appear to have ceased, this 
case, #X051500, is closed.

Special Agent Dana K. Scully, M.D.
Violent Crimes Unit, X-Files Division


=====END OF THE WHOLE STORY=====


AUTHOR'S NOTES:

Interesting facts I learned while doing a bit of research for 
this: Ethel Merman's real name was Ethel Zimmerman; she got her 
own postage stamp in 1994; and there's an Ethel Merman Memorial 
Choir (http://www.whimagency.com/ethelmermanmemorialchoir.htm). 
I am not making this up.

As for the story itself, I place every last bit of the blame 
squarely on the head of Maggie McCain, for encouraging my 
insanity. All I said was that I really wanted to write a funny 
casefile ... *sigh* ...

Anyway. What's done is done. I must acknowledge the brilliant 
work by authors such as Jess M. and Kel for being the impetus 
for me to attempt a casefile with some humor involved. Special 
thanks to The Bad Crack provided by JHJ Armstrong and 
EPurSeMouve, which helped *immensely*. ;)

Oh, and Shari? That spooning moment was just for you. <g>

Thanks go to:

-- Maggie, of course, who started it all in IM one crazy day 
about, oh, a year ago. <g>

-- Alanna, who, when I first described the story idea, said, 
"Can you, like, write this yesterday so I can read it *now*?"

-- Dreamshaper, for beta and for laughing in the right places. 
Her suggestion for the next installation in the series: Doggett 
sings "Whatever Lola Wants" to Skinner in the unisex bathroom at 
the airport. I'm gonna make *her* write that one. ;)

-- And, of course, Emma Brightman for ongoing encouragement and 
general insanity. I finally finished it! Yay! <vbg>

Feeback? Sure thing! Hit me: noelleleithe@comcast.net