Owens had patiently served his time, but now it was over. Things could get back to normal.
Lightning lit up the sky, and for a brief second, the lane through the lower woods was visible. Owens gasped. In that blink of an eye, he imagined that he saw Dancer and Mousie James, riding down the lane through the woods, from the direction of the Caseys’. Just like they’d ridden many times before.
Owens blinked. His forehead beaded with sweat and his pulse raced. He could almost feel his blood pressure rise. He dropped his feet to the floor and peered out the window, squinting. He grabbed his binoculars off the hook and focused them on the lane. No sign of horse or rider. He breathed deeply, calming himself. It had been a long, tiring day.
He turned the binoculars to Wick Farm, and then toward the Casey property. This is what he’d thought about again and again at the hospital. He would own all the land he could see from any window in his house. He would purchase total privacy. It was essential to his happiness. This was his goal, and he was going to achieve it. He’d thought a lot on how to proceed.
He would give the beautiful divorcée, Helena Casey, a call. In the next few days, he’d drive over for a little visit.
He rang the silver bell for his manservant. It was time for a Chivas, his first in five long years. Owens dangled his arm over the wastebasket and deliberately dropped the full bottle of lithium. It landed in the empty brass container with a satisfying clunk.
Hilary and Dancer were thoroughly soaked, but not cold. They were moving quickly. They’d run along the road and cut cross-country toward the trail. When they got to the point where the paths crossed, they headed south. First they checked the fields north of the Caseys’ where her stepfather, Rory, had pastured his prize Herefords. The fields were empty now. Rory had sold the beef cows after his divorce from Helena.
They had galloped past the Casey mansion, where Helena continued to live. The lights were on in the sitting room, but the rest of the house was dark. Hilary imagined Helena sitting elegantly in the pink Queen Anne chair, wearing a tastefully expensive couturier ensemble. She’d be sipping her drink and clinking her ice cubes as she harboured resentments toward Hilary for being engaged to her son, and toward Christine James for marrying her ex-husband.
Hilary had never understood how such a cold mother could produce a son as warm and understanding as Sandy. And Rosalyn, Sandy’s sister, was growing into an engaging young woman. She was fourteen now, and when Mousie had seen her last Christmas, she could hardly believe how the chubby, insecure little girl had changed into a confident, bubbly teenager.
On they ran, through the fields behind the mansion and into Samuel Owens’ woods. Hilary noted the exact spot where Dancer had been stabbed. The memory was fresh, even five years later. Suddenly a surge of raw fear shot through her body. She felt that someone was watching her. Her eyes darted toward Owens’ house at the top of the hill. The lights were on, and she detected a slight movement in the large window.
Was Owens home? Not possible, she thought. He’d be locked up for years to come. It was likely a servant. A flash of lightning lit up the woods, momentarily blinding her. The following thunder rattled the trees, scaring Dancer and sending him lunging forward. “Okay, Dancer. Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
They sped through the woods and over the fields, up the rise and past the craggy bluffs with the river below. Hilary slowed Dancer as they started into the woods, trotting him through the trees as trunks groaned and branches bent and swayed with the storm.
“A forest isn’t always the safest place in a storm, but neither are the open fields,” Hilary said aloud to Dancer. She was trying to keep them both calm by talking. “A branch can break off and kill you in the woods, and lightning can strike when you’re the tallest thing around. Right-y-o. I think I’ll shut up before I scare myself to death.”
Once out of the woods and onto the Wick Farm fields, the ground became treacherous with mud. Hilary slowed Dancer to a trot, and looked around for signs of Abby. The rain continued to pour down, obscuring any possibility of tracks.
“I wonder what we thought we’d accomplish, Dancer,” said Hilary to the steaming stallion. “We might as well go back and count ourselves lucky to get home safely.”
Dancer stopped dead. His ears pricked up and his head raised sharply and swung to the right. Hilary felt tension travel throughout his body.
“Steady, boy.” Dancer spun to the right and stopped again. Abruptly he whinnied loudly and deeply. He listened. A far-off echoing whinny caught Mousie by surprise.
It came from the old Wick barn. Hilary knew that no animals had been there for years. She heard another whinny, followed by a higher-pitched call. There was definitely more than one horse over there.
Excited, Hilary strained her eyes, trying to see what Dancer saw across the dark field. Ears alert, Dancer trotted hard through the thick muck toward the abandoned barn, heading directly to the nearby shed.
Hilary could now make out the heads of two horses looking over the Dutch door. The one on the left was definitely Moon Dancer, with her looks so strikingly like Dancer’s. And that was Moonlight Sonata, for sure, with her fine, dark head and beautiful, dreamy eyes.
“Good work, Dancer!” She praised him as she slid to the slippery ground. “Bloodhounds have nothing on you.” Hilary led Dancer through the gate up to the Dutch doors. The horses sniffed and blew their introductions.
“Abby?” called Hilary loudly. No answer. She could see that the horses were dry and untacked. A saddle and a bridle were neatly propped up and a saddle pad was hung to dry. A riding cap and windbreaker confirmed that Abby had arrived with the horses, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Hilary walked Dancer into the shed, out of the pelting rain and raging wind. At the rear were two narrow stalls where horses could stand. She backed Dancer into one and closed him in securely. He could watch the action but be separate from the mares. She didn’t want any trouble while she searched for Abby.
Hilary looked outside through the rain, wondering where to begin. A light was on in the barn. She hadn’t seen it when she arrived. As she looked more closely, she saw why. Black-out drapes covered all the windows except the one beside the door.
3
THE GHOST
“DON’T WORRY, ABBY,” reassured Mr. Wick. “He’s been here for years and has never harmed a soul. Which nobody knows, by the way. Don’t let on he’s a friendly ghost, Abby.”
“Why is there a ghost? How long has he been here? Were there plays in here and all that? Why was the theatre ever closed down, and when? Actually, who is the ghost and how do you know there is one?”
Mr. Wick chuckled. “One question at a time!”
“Well, then,” replied Abby seriously. “The first question is about the ghost. Who is it? Or who was it when it was alive? And why did it come here?” Abby was fascinated. She was talking to someone who actually knew a ghost. She wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass her by.
“You’re still asking more than one question at a time, but I’ll answer anyway,” said Mr. Wick with a smile. “His name is Ambrose Brown and he was a real person. He was an actor who for some reason preferred this theatre to any other. He was absolutely wonderful on stage. He had a commanding presence and played an amazing range of characters.”
“Did you know Ambrose Brown?”
“Sure did. He worked here for twenty years, as often as there was a part for him. He loved this stage. Said he wanted to be buried here.”
Abby’s eyes grew large. “And is he?”
“No. His family has plots in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. They buried him there.”
“Is that why he haunts this theatre? Because he wants to be buried here?”
“Could be. I’ve wondered that myself. But you can’t just dig up a body and move it. There’s a lot of paperwork involved and his next of kin won’t even consider it.”
“That’s too bad, but it might not help, anyway.”
&
nbsp; “That’s the thing. How are we to know why he’s haunting us?” Mr. Wick’s brow furrowed. “He was devastated when we had to close the theatre down. It may have been the saddest thing that ever happened to him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he died on closing night, after the final show.”
“Really? Can people die of sadness?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
Mr. Wick looked so sad himself that Abby changed the subject. “Why did you have to close the theatre?”
“It wasn’t making enough money to sustain itself. I’m not a rich man and I couldn’t afford to subsidize it.”
“When was it closed down?” Abby asked, absorbed by the story.
Mr. Wick scratched his head under his hat. “Must be fifteen years or more. Maybe close to twenty.”
“And you said the theatre ran for twenty years?”
“Yup, about that. Those were the days, Abby. I wanted to go into show business myself, you know, when I was a boy.”
“You?” Abby realized after she spoke how that must have sounded. “I mean, I always thought of you as Farmer Wick, not really showbiz, you know?”
Mr. Wick laughed, stopped, then laughed again. He laughed so hard, he started to scare Abby. Tears rolled down his face, which had grown quite red. Abby began to worry.
“Don’t look so, so, so alarmed!” he managed to sputter. “I can’t stop. Oh! Oh! I haven’t had such a good laugh in years. In the theatre days, people who came here were so refreshing, so jolly. We laughed like this all the time. I love actors. They’re mimics, they’re monkeys, they never grow old and cynical. They’re always hoping for the big break, and it’s always coming tomorrow. It’s always Christmas Eve, with big presents ready to open the next day. Oh, Abby, how I miss those days.”
Abby now feared that the old man would start to cry. She wanted to avoid that altogether. “Tell me why you built this place, forty years ago,” she said.
“That’s a long story.” Mr. Wick’s eyes misted over and a lovely smile crossed his face. “Gladys always said it was nuts to do it. She was my wife. But since I was a child, I had dreamed of acting in theatre.
“My father thought I was weird because I was interested in the arts, and tried to beat it out of me. He was a tough old goat, my dad. I gave up to keep the peace in the family. Became a farmer just like Dad.
“He was suspicious of me all his life, just because I wanted to bring life to the written word. He never understood why I wanted to create magic for people. Lights and illusion. I read about famous actors in England, who were honoured and knighted. Why couldn’t I get just a little respect at home?
“Anyway, with the money he left me when he died, I converted the barn into this theatre. Call it my own form of revenge, if you like.”
Watching Mr. Wick as he spoke, Abby saw the young man under the old farmer’s face. She felt his hurt, his turmoil over his father, and his great love for the theatre.
“Why did you laugh so hard just now?” Abby gently asked. She didn’t want him to laugh again, or to cry, but she wanted to know.
He paused before he answered. “Because I have become my disguise. We all wear disguises, Abby, in one way or another. You made me see myself as you see me, and that’s not what I am underneath.”
“That wouldn’t make me laugh, Mr. Wick. It sounds kind of sad.” Abby examined her dirty, chipped fingernails. “And anyway, now that you’ve revealed your true self to me, I’ll always see you differently.”
“Will you? Good. You should always look for the person under the disguise, Abby.”
Abby nodded, wondering how many people had disguises. “Can we get back to the ghost? Is he friendly?”
“Absolutely. He keeps me company when I’m here and I always know where to find him. If he wants to be found, that is.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Abby, excitedly. “Second row from the back, second seat in, on the right side of the theatre when you stand on the stage looking into the seats.”
Mr. Wick stared. “You’ve met him? He showed himself to you?”
“Yes! Well, I didn’t see a person, really, only a sort of a light.”
“Then you have a special quality, Abby. Ghosts know.” His eyes reassessed her as he spoke. “And it’s called stage right.”
“What is?”
“The right side of the theatre. When you stand on the stage and look out into the house—that’s what you call where the audience sits—what’s on your right is called stage right, and what’s on your left is called stage left. And when you’re in the middle of the stage, you are standing at centre stage.”
Mr. Wick walked up to the stage and climbed the stairs. He stood in the exact middle of the stage. “You see? I’m at centre stage. If I go back a step or two, I’ve gone upstage. If I step forward, like this, I’ve moved downstage.” Mr. Wick stepped as he spoke, illustrating with his actions. He swung his right arm out.
“Stage right.” He swung out his left arm. “Stage left. Upstage, downstage, centre stage.”
Abby was transfixed. As she watched, Mr. Wick turned from a farmer into an actor. Not a sloppy actor, either. His motions were economical, his voice was clear and well-modulated, and his bearing made even this rudimentary lesson in stage direction fascinating. His farmer’s clothes were the same. What was different was underneath.
“If you upstage someone, that means you’ve forced an actor to look back at you by standing upstage. If his face isn’t visible to the audience, his importance in the scene is diminished. Ham actors are often guilty of this.” Mr. Wick illustrated this by becoming the upstager, and then the upstaged actor, looking away from the audience.
Cody’s head popped up from under a seat on the other side of the house, where he’d been hiding. He let out a low, rumbling growl of warning and bared his long, white canine teeth.
“Your coyote scares me, Abby,” said Mr. Wick softly as he backed away toward the stairs.
“Don’t worry. He’s like your ghost. You have to get to know what he’s all about. What he’s saying now is that someone is coming. And whoever it is is cautious and creeping around, making Cody suspicious.”
“So, Cody himself is no threat?” asked Mr. Wick as he cautiously moved off the stage and back to his seat beside Abby. “He’s not angry?”
“No, he’s being protective.”
“Good. So now we must find out who’s creeping around.”
“Right,” said Abby. “Why don’t I turn off the lights, and we’ll wait for him to come to us. We’ll have the advantage of surprise.”
“You are one brave girl, Abby Malone,” said Mr. Wick admiringly. “With a great sense of the dramatic.” He chuckled with pleasure. “I like your plan.”
Abby crept quickly over to the wall with the light switches and turned them off. The theatre was immediately pitch black. Abby felt her way back to sit beside Mr. Wick. They waited.
Hilary saw the lights go off. She had been about to open the door, but now she waited, unsure of what to do. It was windy and she was starting to chill in her wet clothes. Taking a deep breath, she pressed the thumb latch. The door opened. Now what? It was very dark inside, with the windows covered in thick black fabric.
“Hello?” she called feebly. “Hello? Abby?” Hilary called out louder with each word she uttered. She was gaining confidence, since nothing had sprung out at her. Yet, she thought.
Abby called out. “Who’s that?”
“Me. Hilary James.”
“Hilary? Mousie?”
“Yes. Is that you, Abby?”
“Yes! Just a minute, I’ll get the lights. Don’t move or you might stumble.” Abby was at the switch within seconds and the theatre was bathed in light. “That’s better, isn’t it?” she said, grinning.
“Much better. Thanks, Abby.”
The two young women smiled at one another. In the two years since they’d last met, Abby had grown taller and filled out. They were the same height
now, and of similar builds.
“It’s good to see you,” said Abby. “It’s been a while.”
The older girl nodded. “Since the steeplechase, I think. Just a minute, what is this?” Hilary took in her surroundings. She looked around, amazed. “Holy! The old theatre! I heard about this when I was a kid.”
“Yes!” confirmed Abby. “Oh, and this is Mr. Wick, the man who owns it.”
Mr. Wick had risen from his seat and was making his way up the aisle to the girls. He put out his hand for Hilary to shake.
“Robert Wick,” he said.
“I’m Hilary James. Pleased to meet you,” said Hilary as she took his hand.
“I’ve heard all about you, young lady. You and that sensational beast of yours. You made us all proud.” His blue eyes glittered in his smiling face. Abby could see that it was sincere praise.
“Thank you,” said Hilary. “I’ve heard about you, too. From my grandmother, Joy Featherstone.”
Robert Wick blushed. “Well, I’ll be. Joy Drake. She’s talked about me?”
Hilary grinned. “She said you were the one that got away.”
“She didn’t! Well, that’s nonsense. She turned my head from the moment I spied her. She was a little young for me, that’s all. I was in my last year of high school when she started grade nine.”
“Four years difference doesn’t seem much now, though, does it?” commented Abby slyly.
“You stay out of this,” said Mr. Wick. “You girls are ganging up on me. It’s not fair.”
They all laughed, happy to share a joke and ease the tension.
“Now that the threat of a monster is over, girls, I must be on my way. The rain seems to have stopped, so you can get home dry.” He looked fondly at Abby. “It was nice to see you again, Abby.”
“I feel like I’ve met you for the first time, Mr. Wick.”
Stagestruck Page 3
