Backstage with a Ghost

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “He’s replaced a few broken windows and patched a small hole or two. Fortunately, the roof is sound and hasn’t leaked.” Miss Beezly smiled, and for a moment her thoughts seemed far away. “Tyrone has made sure that everything in the theater remains just as the actors left it.” She smiled. “There are still costumes in the wardrobe, makeup in the dressing rooms, and even some cans of paint once used on stage sets.” She sighed. “The Culbertson was like home to Tyrone. He still stops by almost every day to relive happy memories. I don’t know what he would do if that theater were ever torn down.”

  “He wasn’t there today,” Sean said.

  “I told him we were going to visit the theater, but he said he had other plans and couldn’t join us.”

  “When can we meet Mr. Peabody?” Brian asked. “I hope he can answer some questions for us.”

  “And give you a backstage tour,” Miss Beezly suggested, clapping together her hands. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon? Would you like to return to the theater then and meet Tyrone? I know he’s always free on Tuesdays. That’s the day we play bridge together at the senior citizens center.”

  “Thank you, Miss Beezly,” Brian said. “Going through the theater with Mr. Peabody would be a good idea.”

  “W-w-what?” Sean sputtered. “You want to go back in there with that horrible g-g-ghost? Why don’t we just let Dad solve this case?”

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “The ghost made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want us inside the theater.”

  “That’s why we can’t give up our investigation,” Brian told them. “There’s a logical explanation for the accidents. There’s also an explanation for whoever—or whatever—was chasing us out. We just have to find the answers.”

  “Good for you,” Miss Beezly said. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, as soon as school is out.”

  After they left Miss Beezly’s apartment, Brian said, “The county courthouse isn’t far from here. Let’s go. I want to find out who owns the property around the theater.”

  Inside the courthouse, the boys made their way to the records department, where a clerk was seated behind a desk.

  “How do we find out the names of property owners?” Brian asked.

  “Do you have lot numbers or property addresses?” asked the clerk.

  “Uh, no,” Brian said. “It’s the old part of town around the Culbertson Theater.”

  “I’ll give you plats of that area.”

  “Plats?” asked Sam.

  “Plats are maps that give the recording numbers of each lot,” the clerk explained. “You can use those numbers to look up the property owners.”

  With the clerk’s help, the boys located the plat they were looking for.

  “Look,” said Brian, pointing at a section of the map. “Except for those two lots, Mr. Marconi owns most of the two blocks west of the theater.”

  “Those blocks have nothing but old rental houses on them,” Sam said. “What would he want with those?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Brian answered. “He’ll probably evict the tenants, tear down the houses, and build something else on the land.”

  “You mean like apartments or office buildings?” Sean asked.

  Brian nodded. “With a mall under construction, the value of that property would go way up.”

  “Who owns the other two lots?” Sam asked.

  Brian jotted down the lot numbers, looked them up, and whistled. “Robert Hemsley.”

  “Hey!” Sean shouted. “Wasn’t Hemsley the name of one of those women from the historical society?”

  “Right!” said Brian. “Let’s find out who owns the Culbertson Theater.” He studied the plat, then shook his head. “It’s held in trust by a bank. I don’t know what that means. I’ll ask Dad about it later.”

  The clerk who had assisted them earlier returned. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks,” Brian said.

  The clerk gathered up the material and returned it. Brian, Sean, and Sam left the courthouse. On the steps outside they came face-to-face with Al Duggan.

  “Well, well,” Al said. “What brings you boys to the courthouse? Looking for ghosts?” He smiled. Brian thought he sounded condescending. Brian was used to adults acting like that. They rarely took anything a kid did seriously.

  “Just doing some research,” Brian answered.

  “For your father?” Al asked, suddenly interested. “Want to tell me what you found?”

  “Sorry,” Brian said, “that’s confidential information.” He ran down the rest of the steps, with Sean and Sam right behind him.

  That evening at dinner Mr. Quinn asked, “Did you boys have a good day?”

  Sean nodded. “We had a big math exam, and I think I’ll get an A, and I even managed to eat the cafeteria food without dropping dead.”

  “Where were you after school?” Mrs. Quinn asked.

  Sean grinned at Brian. “Watching Debbie Jean practice her hundred-yard dash. She could make the Olympic team.”

  “Well, well,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I didn’t know Debbie Jean was interested in athletics.”

  Sean snickered into his glass of milk, getting some of the milk up his nose, until he caught his father’s frown.

  “Dad,” Brian said, “we found out something interesting today,” and he told his father what they had discovered at the courthouse. Brian asked his father about the bank owning the Culbertson.

  “Actually,” explained Mr. Quinn, “Mr. Marconi and a group of wealthy investors are trying to purchase the Culbertson. Until the city council votes on whether he can tear it down, the bank is holding it in trust.”

  “Sounds complicated,” said Sean.

  Mr. Quinn smiled. “It is. By the way,” he said, “when you were at the courthouse, did you check the tax rolls, too?”

  “No,” Brian said.

  “If you had, you would have found that Robert Hemsley owns quite a bit of property in the outlying area around the Culbertson, under a corporation name.”

  “Is Robert Hemsley related to the woman from the historical society?” asked Sean.

  “They’re married,” said Mr. Quinn. “Why?”

  “Just curious,” said Brian. “Dad, I understand how Mr. Marconi could profit if he develops the area, but if the mall isn’t built, how could that help the Hemsleys?”

  “I’m not sure exactly,” said Mr. Quinn. “But it’s a good question.”

  Sean spoke up. “Remember last summer when we were on vacation and Mom wanted to see those historic houses? And there was a restaurant and gift shops and antique shops and a motel? Maybe that’s what the Hemsleys have in mind.”

  “You mean restoring the theater so they can make money from the tourists who come to visit?” suggested Brian.

  “And don’t forget that by having the city council vote to preserve the theater, the value of the property around it would skyrocket,” said Mr. Quinn. “And because it would be a historic landmark they would get special tax breaks from the city.”

  “But I don’t understand what all that has to do with the theater and the gho—”

  “Sean!” Brian said sharply. He realized the last thing his father wanted to hear was more talk about ghosts haunting the theater. Sean saw his brother’s look and nodded.

  “What were you going to say about the theater?” Mr. Quinn asked.

  Sean said the first thing that came into his head. “Uh…about the sandbag that fell,” Sean said. “I don’t get it. Why was a sandbag hanging on a rope in the first place?”

  “A theater has a variety of curtains,” Mr. Quinn told him. “The old Culbertson has a painted asbestos curtain that used to hang just behind the footlights. It was raised before each play began. Behind that curtain is a red velour curtain called the act curtain, which closes off the stage. It was opened for each act and closed between acts.

  “Behind the act curtain are black curtains that hang to the stage floor. They’re called legs and are used to hide the wings of t
he stage where the actors enter and leave. Then there are the black curtains, called borders, that hang above the stage, and drops that—”

  “Dad!” Sean interrupted, trying to escape one of his father’s long explanations. “You haven’t said anything about the sandbags.”

  “I was about to,” Mr. Quinn said. “In the older theaters the curtains were raised and lowered on pulleys, and sandbags were used for weights.”

  “So backstage there’d be lots of ropes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is it hard to cut through a rope?”

  “Not if you have a sharp knife.”

  Sean dropped his fork. The ghost had a knife!

  Sean looked at Brian, but Brian gave a slight shake of his head.

  Brian was right to warn him, Sean knew. Now was not the time to tell Dad that a horrible glowing monster-ghost had risen right out of the stage floor. They’d have to find out more about what they had seen before they told Dad about it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE NEXT MORNING, WHEN he arrived at school, Sean met Debbie Jean. He grinned and said, “I never saw anybody run as fast as you did yesterday.”

  “Yeah?” she said. “Well, don’t forget you were running right behind me!”

  “You should have stuck around. We got cookies and lemonade.”

  “Oh, sure,” she scoffed. “From the ghost, I suppose.”

  “No, from Miss Beezly,” Sean said. “She invited us to her apartment, and she told us about Tyrone Peabody, who’s a caretaker at the theater. He’s going to meet us there after school today.”

  Debbie Jean gasped. “Are you kidding?” she said. “You’re going back to the theater? Even after that awful ghost thing came after us yesterday?”

  “It may not have been a real ghost, just somebody pretending to be a ghost. Investigators have to check out everything, including ghosts,” Sean bragged. “Anyhow, I don’t think he was coming after all of us. He was headed toward you. Your singing probably drove him crazy.”

  Debbie Jean frowned as she thought. “That might not have been a ghost? Well, if you’re going to the theater, then I am, too,” she said.

  Sean gave up and grumbled, “If you insist on coming, then bring back my flashlight.”

  “I will. And I’ll bring my dad’s superspotlight, too. Whoever that was—ghost or not—we have to get rid of it. Someday I may want to star in a play at the Culbertson Theater!”

  Sean imagined Debbie Jean acting on the Culbertson stage. People would be glad to pay not to come. “If you do, I’ll be in charge of the box office,” he offered, and almost doubled over laughing.

  “You’re weird,” Debbie Jean said.

  “Thanks.”

  That afternoon, when Brian and Sam arrived at the theater, they joined Sean, Debbie Jean, and Miss Beezly. They were talking to a tall, thin white-haired man whose unhappy expression made it obvious that he didn’t like them being there.

  Unconcerned, Miss Beezly smiled at Brian and Sam from under a straw hat swathed in clouds of pink veiling and introduced them to “my dear Tyrone Peabody.”

  “I think we’ve met before, Mr. Peabody,” Brian said, “but I don’t remember where.”

  Mr. Peabody looked startled. “I’m sure we haven’t,” he said. “You’re too young to have seen me onstage.”

  “Miss Beezly tells me you’re the caretaker for the theater,” Brian said. “By any chance were you in the theater when the sandbag fell and hit Mr. Marconi’s inspector?”

  “No, I wasn’t,” Mr. Peabody said. “If I’d been on hand, I would have hurried to help him. I know first aid.” He turned his attention to the others in the group. “Against my better judgment I accepted Miss Beezly’s invitation to give you a backstage tour, so let’s get started.”

  “I remembered to bring my camera,” Sean whispered to Brian. “Who knows? I may get a picture of the ghost.”

  “Come, come, let’s start the tour,” said Mr. Peabody as he led them into the lobby.

  Inside the theater Miss Beezly sank into one of the aisle seats in the back row. “I know the backstage of the Culbertson as well as I know my own name,” she said, “so there’s no point in my taking the tour.”

  Brian felt uneasy about leaving her alone. “I think we should all stick together,” he told her, “in case that—uh—thing comes back.”

  “If it does,” Miss Beezly said in a theatrical voice, “instead of running I shall confront it and find out who it is and what it wants!” Her face crinkled into a smile, and she patted Brian on the hand. “Now run along and enjoy the tour. I’m sure you have a little ghost hunting in mind.”

  “We are not here to go ghost hunting!” Mr. Peabody scowled down his long nose. “Over all these years, I have never seen a single ghost in the Culbertson Theater—not even the ghost of Horatio Hamilton.”

  “So you say,” sighed Miss Beezly as she wiggled into a comfortable position. “Off you go!” she said, shooing them on their way.

  Brian would have felt better if they had all stayed together, but there was nothing he could do about changing Miss Beezly’s mind, so he followed Mr. Peabody.

  “To begin with,” Mr. Peabody explained as he walked down the aisle, “the ornamental arch that separates the stage from the auditorium is called a proscenium arch.”

  “Is it true that you’ve never even seen Horatio?” Sean asked.

  Mr. Peabody stopped. “Do you want a backstage tour,” he barked impatiently, “or do you want to talk about ghosts?”

  “Both,” Brian said. “We want to understand more about the theater because we want to help our dad solve the mystery of who—or what—has caused the accidents to Mr. Marconi and his inspector. We’d like to hear whatever you can tell us.”

  “Even though you don’t believe in ghosts,” Sean added.

  “As for the inspector,” Mr. Peabody said, “he should have known better than to walk under hanging equipment.”

  “Where did the sandbag fall?” Brian asked.

  Mr. Peabody pointed. “There,” he said, “right center. If he had been standing just a foot closer…” He gave a shudder. “As to the existence of ghosts,” he said, “I didn’t say that I didn’t believe in ghosts. I said I hadn’t seen them.” Lowering his voice, he leaned forward and murmured, “Lately I have noted a few…odd occurrences that might cause some people to think that ghosts may indeed haunt the Culbertson.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Sean, his eyes widening. Mr. Peabody nodded gravely.

  “For example,” he said, “certain objects in the dressing rooms have been moved. Since the building is locked, there was no one here to move them. Just this afternoon I found the wardrobe door hanging open in one of the dressing rooms.”

  Sean shivered. “Do you think Horatio was responsible?” he asked.

  Mr. Peabody shrugged. “It’s hard to say.”

  Brian was less interested in ghosts than in discovering more about the theater. “The women from the historical society said a city inspector classified the building as structurally sound,” he said. “Would you agree?”

  “Hmmmph!” Mr. Peabody snorted. “Given half a chance those dreadful women would bring decorators in here to change the character of the theater completely.” Mr. Peabody sighed. “On the other hand, if the theater is torn down, it will be even more of a tragedy. The Culbertson is a magnificent old building. It should be left in peace exactly as it is.”

  Mr. Peabody took a deep breath to steady himself. “Okay. Let’s get a move on,” he said. He snapped on a flashlight and puffed his way up the stairs to the stage. The kids flicked on their flashlights, too, and followed him.

  “Watch your step,” he called back. “And whatever you do, don’t touch anything, especially the ropes.”

  “Jeez,” Debbie Jean whispered to Sean, “what a grumpy old sourpuss.”

  A forest of ropes ascended into the darkness. Mr. Peabody insisted that the kids stand back as he pointed out the tattered remains of the different kin
ds of curtains and showed them the pipes with lighting instruments hung on them.

  “These things are called battens,” he explained, “and they’re pulled up and let down by the stagehands who are in charge of moving the scenery.”

  Sean made sure the flash was in the On position on his camera and began snapping pictures. He took pictures of the ropes, the curtains, the sandbags, and the battens. He even accidentally photographed Debbie Jean posing as a famous movie star.

  “Guess who I am?” she cooed.

  “Quasimodo?” said Sean.

  “The battens look heavy,” Brian said, changing the subject.

  “They are,” Mr. Peabody told him. “Now come along and I’ll show you the stars’ dressing rooms, which are just behind the stage.”

  Sean wanted a closer shot of the battens, so he stepped over some equipment and steadied himself by grasping one of the ropes. As Sean aimed his camera, Mr. Peabody turned, and a look of terror suddenly came over his face. “Look out!” he yelled. The battens above Sean’s head began to waver.

  “Sean!” shouted Brian.

  He grabbed Sean’s arm and jerked him to one side of the stage just as one end of the battens snapped and slammed to the floor.

  Sean stared, his heart banging so loudly it hurt his ears. “It crashed right where I was standing!”

  “I told you to stand back!” cried Mr. Peabody. “I told you not to touch the ropes!” Brian noticed at once that Mr. Peabody was as frightened as Sean.

  “I was just taking pictures,” Sean said.

  “Where you shouldn’t have been!”

  “The battens didn’t fall by themselves,” Brian said.

  Mr. Peabody walked out to center stage and looked up before he answered. “They might have. The ropes are old, and the equipment is probably unstable.”

  “I’d like to look at that rope,” Brian said.

  “No! Stay back! It may not be safe,” Mr. Peabody warned, but Brian had already taken the end of the rope in his hand and stepped far enough back so that he was no longer under the hanging equipment.

  “It’s frayed,” he said as he studied the feathered ends of the rope.

  “I told you all this equipment is old,” Mr. Peabody said.