Backstage with a Ghost

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “A beautifully restored haunted theater would bring tourists and benefit the entire town of Redoaks,” Mr. Duggan suggested to Mr. Marconi.

  “Here! Here!” chimed Mrs. Hemsley and Mrs. Rodriguez.

  “If you want to benefit the town,” Mr. Marconi countered, “then stop these tiresome old busybodies from getting in my way, and let me build my mall! Think what the town would gain in additional taxes!”

  “Old busybodies!” the two women fumed.

  Mrs. Hemsley, Mrs. Rodriguez, and Mr. Marconi began arguing louder and louder. It was like a contest to determine who could outshout the other.

  Sam nudged Brian. “Check out the reporter. He actually seems like he’s enjoying this.”

  Mr. Duggan was taking notes as fast as he could, and he had a huge grin on his face.

  It wasn’t the reporter Brian was worried about. His father looked very angry, and it didn’t take a genius detective to figure out why. Brian and Sean had helped their father on cases many times, but Brian knew his father would be unhappy that they hadn’t talked to him first before showing up at the theater. It didn’t help, either, that they had been responsible for spreading the story about the ghost.

  “It’s kind of noisy in here, Dad,” Brian said. “We’ll see you at home.” He murmured to Sean and Sam, “Come on. We’d better get out of here…fast!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  MR. QUINN DIDN’t ARRIVE home until seven that evening, just in time for dinner. It appeared to Brian that his father was now in a better mood. He just hoped they could get through dinner without anyone mentioning ghosts.

  “John,” said Mrs. Quinn as she dished up plates of spaghetti, “what’s all this about a ghost in the Culbertson Theater? A story in this evening’s Redoaks News reported that a string of mysterious accidents had occurred there. It also said that the theater is haunted and even quoted Nora Ann Beezly. Is it true you think a ghost is responsible for the accidents?”

  Brian groaned and sneaked a look at Sean, who was too busy cramming pasta into his mouth to notice.

  Mr. Quinn sighed. “It’s just a ridiculous story from a reporter more interested in headlines than the truth.”

  Mrs. Quinn smiled. “For many years Nora Ann Beezly starred in plays at the Culbertson. When I was a little girl I thought she was so glamorous! My goodness, she must be well over eighty years old now.”

  “Miss Beezly was nice,” Sean said. “We met her in front of the theater. She told us the ghost is named Horatio Hamilton, and she even invited us to come visit her sometime.” Sean took another bite of spaghetti and mumbled through it. “And Miss Beezly said Horatio didn’t cause the accidents because he’s a polite, kind ghost.”

  “Sean,” Mr. Quinn said, putting down his fork and looking at his son. “We don’t talk with our mouths full, and we don’t believe in ghosts. There is absolutely no logical explanation for ghosts.”

  Mr. Quinn went on to discuss people who thought they saw things because they allowed their imaginations to get out of hand, but Sean stopped listening and began wondering what it would be like to meet Horatio Hamilton. Miss Beezly had said Horatio was polite and kind, he remembered, but wouldn’t the ghost look scary anyway?

  “By the way, Dad,” Sean said, “Miss Beezly asked us to tell you to be considerate of Horatio.”

  Mr. Quinn gave a long, patient sigh. “Were you listening to one single word I said?” he asked Sean.

  One single word? thought Sean. “Sure, Dad,” he answered. He knew he’d even listened to more than just one word. “I was only giving you a message, that’s all.”

  “There’s more to the message, Dad,” Brian said. “Miss Beezly doesn’t trust Mr. Marconi.”

  “Did she say why she doesn’t trust him?”

  “She doesn’t want him to tear down the theater,” Brian answered. “She seems to think he misled the city council in his report on the conditions of the building.”

  “Miss Beezly does have a point,” Mrs. Quinn said. “The theater’s a beautiful building. It was built back at the turn of the century, when the style was to add lots and lots of elaborate decoration. I can still remember the cupids and roses that were painted on the ceiling.”

  “According to what Mr. Marconi told me, it would cost a fortune to restore the theater,” Mr. Quinn said. “For one thing, the building would have to be completely rewired and all the seats replaced. New carpeting, new lighting fixtures…You can see how expenses would add up.”

  “On the other hand,” said Brian, “the new mall would mean more taxes paid into the city treasury. The city council would like that.”

  “The newspaper article claims that the historical society plans to come up with most of the restoration money,” Mrs. Quinn said. “They know it’s going to take time, but once they get approval from the city council they can start raising the money.”

  “Dad,” Brian said, “those women from the historical society said a city inspector classified the building as sound, but Mr. Marconi says it’s dangerous. Are you going to find out who’s right?”

  “My job is to find out for Mr. Marconi if the accidents really were accidents and if they weren’t, then who’s to blame.”

  “Did you complete your investigation of the theater?”

  “Yes. I looked through every inch of the backstage area this morning,” Mr. Quinn said. “I couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary, and the theater equipment seems to be safe enough.”

  “Is that what you told the police?” asked Brian.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Quinn. “They were more than satisfied with my report.”

  “Then are you going to do a computer search, the way you usually do?” Brian asked.

  “I’ve already begun,” his father said.

  “How can you find a gho— I mean, anything about the accidents on a computer?” Sean asked.

  “The computer gives me important background information about the individuals involved in the case—even my own client,” Mr. Quinn said. “For example, I can find out if Mr. Marconi has ever been involved in lawsuits and if he and his backers have acceptable credit ratings. And I can do the same check on the members of the Redoaks Historical Society.”

  “But Dad,” Brian persisted, “what if someone really did push the flat on Mr. Marconi, or take the screws out of the railing, or even cut and pulled an old piece of rope so it looked like it was frayed? Isn’t all that possible?”

  “Yes,” his father said, “it’s possible. But what would the motive be?”

  Sean looked at Brian, who smiled. He knew that his older brother had already begun figuring out an answer to exactly that question.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WHEN WE BEGIN OUR investigation of the theater it won’t do any good to take fingerprints,” Brian said as he rummaged through his private investigator’s kit.

  “Right.” Sean was flopped across Brian’s bed. “Ghosts don’t leave fingerprints.”

  Brian laughed. “Forget about Miss Beezly’s so-called ghost,” he said. “I’m talking about human fingerprints. Mr. Marconi and his inspector, the police, and the paramedics have all been in the theater. Their fingerprints will be all over everything.”

  Next to his notebook and pen, Brian placed two flashlights, a magnifying glass, three small plastic sandwich bags, and a pair of tweezers. “All set,” Brian said.

  Sean pointed at the bags and tweezers. “Do you really think you’re going to find some kind of evidence?”

  “I don’t know,” Brian said. “Remember, Dad told us that a criminal always takes something away and, in turn, leaves something behind. It could be an oil stain or grass from his shoes or…”

  “Ghosts don’t wear shoes.”

  “The kind of ghost we’re hunting for might.”

  “I don’t get it,” Sean said. “Are we going to try to find Horatio or not?”

  “Let’s just say that we need to take a good close look at the theater,” Brian told him. “Can you meet me there after school tomor
row?”

  “Just you and me?”

  “And Sam and Miss Beezly,” Brian said. “I’m going to call her and ask if she’ll come with us. Remember, she has a key.”

  The next day Sean couldn’t stop thinking about Horatio.

  Who cared that Brian didn’t believe in ghosts! Sean thought. The idea of maybe meeting a real ghost was so exciting that Sean couldn’t keep it to himself. At noon, in the Redoaks Elementary School cafeteria, he told his friends Matt and Jabez what he and Brian were going to do. “Want to come?” he asked.

  “No way,” Matt said. He dumped some ketchup on his gooey macaroni and cheese and stirred it up. “I read about that ghost in the newspaper. If he’s causing accidents, then I don’t want him coming after me!”

  “Me, either,” Jabez said with a grin. “Ghosts are sickening, with their bones hanging out and their arms and legs dropping off.”

  Sean laughed. “Where’d you ever see a ghost like that?”

  “Everywhere,” Jabez said. “The movies…MTV.”

  Debbie Jean Parker plopped onto the bench beside Sean. “Don’t be dumb,” she said in a superior tone. “Real ghosts kind of shimmer around, and you can see through them. Everybody knows that. I’ll go.”

  “Huh? You’ll go where?” Sean asked.

  “With you,” Debbie Jean answered. “You asked who wanted to go. Well, I’ve always hoped to see a real ghost, so I’ll meet you at the theater.”

  Matt rolled his eyes at Jabez. “Debbie Jean and Sean are going on a date.”

  Everyone said that Debbie Jean Parker was Sean’s girlfriend. The truth was, Sean thought she was just about the grossest girl on the planet. In the universe!

  As Jabez hooted, Sean scowled at Debbie Jean. “You weren’t invited,” he said.

  “You invited Matt and Jabez.”

  “That’s different.”

  “The only thing that’s different is they’re too scared to go, ha-ha, and I’m not.”

  “Take her with you, Sean,” Jabez told him. “If the ghost drops chunks of decaying flesh all over the floor, make Debbie Jean pick them up.”

  “Yeah,” joked Matt. “There are rules against littering in a theater!”

  Matt and Jabez whooped with laughter.

  With a sniff of disgust, Debbie Jean stood up and glared at Sean. “I’ll see you there,” she said, and walked away.

  That afternoon Sean concentrated so hard on his math test that he forgot all about Debbie Jean. He didn’t remember her until he rode his bike to the theater and saw that she’d managed to get there before he did.

  Miss Beezly, whose hat was trimmed with purple roses, turned from Debbie Jean to smile at Sean. “I’m so glad you invited this dear little girl to join us,” she said.

  Dear little girl? thought Sean. Yuck! As Miss Beezly beamed at Debbie Jean, Sean crossed his eyes and pretended to stick a finger down his throat.

  Brian and Sam rode up. They chained their bikes to the railing, next to Sean’s bike, and greeted Miss Beezly.

  As Miss Beezly unlocked one of the main doors to the theater, Debbie Jean clapped her hands together and gave a squeal of delight. “I hope the ghost shows up. I’ve always wanted to see a ghost!” she said.

  Sam took her arm and pulled her aside as the others entered the building. “You don’t know what the ghost is like,” he said in a creepy tone of voice. “He has claws for hands and eyes that burn right through you.”

  “Oh yeah?” Debbie Jean said. “Well, don’t forget the decaying arms and legs dropping off, and the chains rattling, and the moans and groans.” She pushed past Sam and entered the theater.

  Sean and Sam had brought flashlights so they could explore backstage, and Brian had brought an extra one for Nora Ann Beezly.

  “I’ll just borrow this for a while,” Debbie Jean said, and took Sean’s flashlight.

  She led the procession down the aisle, shining the beam of her flashlight on the stage. “What a great place to put on our class play!” she said, and turned to Miss Beezly. “Did I tell you that I’m an actress, too? I had a major part in our last class play.”

  “It was Old MacDonald Had a Farm, and Debbie Jean played the pig,” Sean said.

  “Quiet!” Brian held a finger to his lips. “I thought I heard something.”

  “Was it metal, and did it clink and rattle?” Sam whispered.

  “Sam, be quiet!” said Brian.

  Everyone stood without moving, listening intently. Finally, Brian said, “I guess it was just my imagination.”

  Miss Beezly spoke firmly. “Brian is right about being quiet,” she said. “Horatio is not going to appear if you’re making unnecessary noise, and I think it would be a good idea to contact dear Horatio and discover what he can tell us about the cause of the accidents.”

  “Wow!” Debbie Jean said.

  “Uh, Miss Beezly,” Sean suggested. “Why don’t we explore the backstage area instead?” He had been excited by the idea of meeting a real ghost, but now that it might actually happen he wasn’t so sure it was a good idea.

  “We can do that, too,” Miss Beezly said.

  She pointed toward the nearest row of seats. “Suppose we all sit down and close our eyes and try to become receptive?”

  Sean wasn’t at all convinced that he wanted to become receptive—as Miss Beezly had put it—but Miss Beezly sat down and closed her eyes.

  Brian shrugged and sat down. So did Sam and Debbie Jean.

  I might as well get it over with, sighed Sean as he sat down, too. He closed his eyes and hoped for the best.

  For a few minutes there was only silence. Then, in a stage voice that carried throughout the theater, Miss Beezly called, “Horatiooo? Horatio Hamilton? It’s Nora Ann. Are you here, my dear?”

  Sean clung to his seat. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat.

  “Horatio, we’re waiting,” Miss Beezly called.

  If Horatio did choose to answer, Sean knew he’d set a speed record racing out of the theater.

  The wait grew longer and longer. “I’m afraid it’s no use,” Miss Beezly said finally. “Apparently, Horatio is not willing to join us.”

  Sean secretly sighed with relief, but Debbie Jean jumped to her feet, crawled over the seat in front of her, and scrambled across the orchestra pit and climbed up the stairs to the stage.

  She stood at center stage in front of the broken footlights and held her flashlight up like a microphone. “This is a great place to perform,” she said. “Listen to how the sound carries.”

  “The Culbertson was noted for its perfect acoustics,” Miss Beezly said.

  “I’m going to sing,” Debbie Jean said. She proceeded to wail out a popular country tune: “My Phone Is as Dead as My Love Life.”

  Sean clamped his hands over his ears. “If you don’t stop, we’re going to puke!” he yelled.

  Then something strange began to happen. As Debbie Jean continued to sing, an odd, scraping sound came from somewhere at the rear of the stage and a peculiar greenish light began to glow upward behind her. It was a hideous, grimacing, glowing head! And as the head rose from the floor, a body dressed in tattered, shimmering robes rose with it—Horatio’s ghost!

  “My phone is broke, and my heart is, too!” Debbie Jean was singing so loudly that she was unaware of the ghost that towered behind her. The ghost raised one clawlike hand—in which it held a large, gleaming knife.

  Sean tried to shout a warning, but he was so scared his voice didn’t work. He tried to jump up, but his legs didn’t work, either. It was as if they were frozen.

  Suddenly Debbie Jean stopped singing. “Hey!” she said. “What’s with you guys? Don’t you even know a great singer when you hear one? I—” She turned and for the first time saw the ghost that was looming over her. Debbie Jean let out a bloodcurdling scream and bolted from the stage.

  Terrified, Brian and Sam grabbed Miss Beezly’s arms and whisked her up the aisle and out of the theater. Sean ran right behind them.

  B
rian slammed the theater door closed, and Miss Beezly handed him her key so he could lock it.

  “My stars!” she exclaimed as she fanned herself with one hand. “That certainly wasn’t Horatio!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THAT WAS SO cool!” said Sam.

  “Cool indeed,” said Miss Beezly as she straightened her hat. “And most exciting.”

  Brian, Sean, and Sam gratefully accepted Miss Beezly’s offer of cookies and lemonade and walked with her to her apartment. As they piled their jackets on a chair and crowded onto the sofa in her tiny living room, she said, “I’m so sorry the ghost frightened your dear little friend.”

  Sean chuckled. Now that he was away from the theater, his encounter with the ghost didn’t seem nearly so frightening. “I never saw anybody run so fast!” he said. “She won’t be back to bother us.” He held up his glass of lemonade like a microphone and imitated Debbie Jean. “You huuung up the phone like you huuung up my hearrrt!”

  “Now, now,” Miss Beezly said. “Never be unkind to a performer who is trying her best. Debbie Jean’s voice may need training, but you must admit it has clarity and power.” She took a sip of lemonade and smiled. “Mmmm, lovely,” she said. “This time I remembered to put in the sugar.”

  “It’s very good lemonade,” Sean said politely. He put his glass down and reached for a cookie.

  Abruptly changing the subject, Brian said, “I’d like to know what caused that apparition. And why it appeared.”

  “Maybe we can find out by talking to Tyrone Peabody,” said Miss Beezly.

  “Who’s Tyrone Peabody?” Brian asked.

  “A very old friend,” Miss Beezly answered. “Tyrone starred opposite me in three—or was it four?—plays. No one loves the Culbertson Theater more than he does. Why, he’s even appointed himself the unofficial caretaker of the building.”

  “The theater doesn’t look like anybody’s taken care of it for a long time,” Sean said.

  “What does Mr. Peabody do to take care of the theater?” Brian asked.