Backstage with a Ghost

To Katherine Joan McGowan, with love

—J.L.N.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

A
S BRIAN AND SEAN
Quinn locked their bikes to the rusty railing outside the old Culbertson Theater, Sam Miyako, Brian's best friend, rode up and jumped off his bike. He jerked a thumb toward the ambulance and police car that were parked at the curb behind the handful of curious onlookers who had gathered in front of the theater.

“I came as soon as you called me,” Sam said breathlessly. “What's going on?”

A paramedic trotted out of the theater and flung open the ambulance doors. The crowd leaned forward expectantly.

Brian asked Sam, “Do you remember reading about Clyde Marconi? He's the developer who wants to tear down this block of buildings and build a supermall.”

The Culbertson Theater was located at the end of a row of old brick buildings that had been boarded up for nearly ten years. The area had been deserted when shoppers and sightseers became drawn to the more modern and convenient malls and restaurants on the other side of Redoaks. A recent editorial in the local Redoaks newspaper had complained that the buildings were an eyesore and demanded that something be done to revitalize the old part of town.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Brian explained, “Mr. Marconi telephoned Dad. One of Mr. Marconi's inspectors was onstage in the Culbertson Theater when a sandbag fell and hit his shoulder.”

“Your dad told you that?” Sam asked.

Brian smiled. “Well, not exactly. Dad wrote down the facts of what Mr. Marconi said on a pad of paper. The pen he used left an imprint in the soft paper. After he left, I rubbed a pencil over the paper and was able to reproduce the message.”

“Cool,” said Sam. “But why did Mr. Marconi call your dad?”

Sean broke in. “Last week he hired Dad to investigate some accidents in the theater.”

“Accidents?” Sam said. “Like what?”

“A stair railing suddenly broke,” Sean answered, “and Mr. Marconi fell. Later he nearly got squashed by a large stage flat that had been propped against the wall, only he jumped out of the way in time.”

“What's a stage flat?” asked Sam.

“You remember that school play we were in last year?” Brian said. “Well, a flat's a piece of scenery that's fastened to a wooden frame.”

“Yeah,” said Sean, grinning. “Like that door that got stuck and wouldn't open when it was supposed to.”

Brian nodded. “Well, in this case Mr. Marconi didn't think the broken rail and the falling flat were unrelated accidents, and he doesn't think the falling sandbag was, either. He's sure that somebody's doing this stuff on purpose, and he's worried about the safety of his crew if he gets approval from the city council to tear down the building.”

Sam narrowed his eyes and made his voice sound scary. “Mr. Marconi is right. They weren't accidents. Everybody knows the theater's haunted, so you can blame the ghost.”

Sean stiffened. “Ghost? What ghost?”

“Cut it out, Sam,” Brian said. “Sean and I are here to help Dad with his investigation. We haven't got time to listen to another one of your ridiculous stories.”

“Yeah,” Sean added. “We're not little kids anymore, you know. I'm nine now. Anyway, nobody believes in ghosts.” The fact is, Sean
did
believe in ghosts, especially the kinds of ghosts that always appeared in Sam's stories. Sean couldn't help it. The scarier the story, the more he believed it.

Sam grinned. “It isn't a story. It's true. The ghost suddenly appears onstage, and he has claws for hands and eyes that burn like fire and… Ouch!”

A tiny elderly woman who had been standing nearby rapped Sam sharply on the shoulder with the handle of her umbrella. “Nonsense,” she declared. “Horatio was always a gentleman, and his spirit is an inspiring presence.”

The boys all turned and stared at her openmouthed.

“Horatio?” Sean asked. “The ghost's name is Horatio?”

“That's correct,” the woman said. “The ghost of the actor, Horatio Hamilton. Horatio was in very poor health during one of our productions back in 1940. Or was it '41? But he was quite considerate about waiting to die until after the final curtain.”

“I am Miss Nora Ann Beezly,” the woman declared. The faded red silk poppies on her straw hat bobbed up and down as she nodded. “I'm a former actress, director, and occasional playwright.”

Brian, Sean, and Sam introduced themselves to Miss Beezly.

“Hey, look!” said Sean suddenly. The paramedics were wheeling a man with a heavily bandaged shoulder out of the theater and loading him into the ambulance.

“Cool!” shouted Sam as he watched the ambulance speed away with lights flashing and siren blaring.

Then the bystanders began drifting away. Miss Beezly sighed. “I'm sure all this frightful commotion at the theater has quite unnerved poor Horatio.” She turned to Brian. “You know, of course, that some perfectly dreadful man is planning to tear down the theater? Horatio is awfully upset.”

Brian whipped out his notebook and pen. “Miss Beezly,” he said, “are you saying you actually believe in this Horatio?”

“Why, of course, dear.”

“You've actually
seen
him?” asked Sean.

Miss Beezly shook her head. “No. Not
seen.
But I've felt his presence many times. I regret not visiting the theater to pay my respects to Horatio. I'll try to find a nice quiet time soon to come by and chat.”

“You probably won't be able to get in,” Brian said. “They must keep these old buildings locked.”

“Oh, yes. I know they do,” Miss Beezly answered, “but that doesn't matter. I still have the key I was given years ago when I worked day and night on our wonderful productions.”

Sam said, “Our junior high drama teacher told us that actors believe all theaters are haunted by ghosts.”

“
Most
theaters,” Miss Beezly corrected. “By the way,” she said, frowning at Sam. “Young man, that description you gave of Horatio having claws and burning eyes is utterly ridiculous! The truth is that a ghost who is in residence in a theater is considered by actors to bring good luck.”

“Why would a ghost bring good luck?” Sean asked.

“It's like having someone on hand to watch over the performers,” she explained, “to keep them from coming onstage at the wrong cues, or flubbing their lines, or tripping over the scenery.” She shook her head. “Theater ghosts certainly don't cause accidents,” she said. “If you ask me, that terrible man who wants to demolish the theater is responsible.”

“Mr. Marconi?” asked Brian. “Why do you think that?”

“Yeah,” added Sean. “He's the one who hired our dad to investigate all the accidents.”

“Accidents, smackcidents…” Miss Beezly blurted out. “I don't trust that Mr. Marconi one bit.”

“Why not?” asked Brian.

“He didn't tell the truth when he informed the city council and the press that the theater building is unsound,” she said. “The Culbertson was built to last forever. Just like me. You tell your father not to trust him, either.

“And would you be so kind as to ask him to please be considerate of Horatio,” she added. “If he's treated with respect, dear Horatio might even lead your father to whoever is responsible for the accident.”

“How would he do that?” asked Sean.

“Why, through a ghostly message, of course.”

“We'll tell my dad,” Brian said politely.

Miss Beezly smiled. “I live just two blocks away in the Tinsley apartments,” she said. “Why don't you boys come to visit sometime? I'll make lemonade and tell you lots of stories about the Culbertson Theater.”

“About Horatio, too, I hope?” Sean asked.

“Oh, yes. I have many stories about dear Horatio.”

“Cool!” Sam and Sean said together.

Brian wrote down Miss Beezly's address and phone number in his notebook. After the old woman had gone, Brian looked over his notes. Much of what she had said sounded like nonsense, Brian thought, except for the stuff about Mr. Marconi and the city council. He would have to check that out later.

“My mom knows Miss Beezly,” Sam said. “She goes to our church. Mom says she's real nice but kind of dramatic, and she's always forgetting things.” He saw Brian frowning over his notebook. “I don't know why you bothered to write down all that junk she told us. You don't believe what she said about Horatio?”

“Of course not,” he said. “But a good investigator checks out everything. Among other things, I want to find out as much as I can about the history of the theater and its current condition. Miss Beezly could be a valuable resource for that.”

Sam grinned. “You mean like, is a ghost living in the attic?”

Brian smiled as he tucked his notebook into the pocket of his jeans. “Why not?” he said. He and Sean had learned from their father that a good investigator doesn't rule out any information without checking it first—even if that means tracking down a ghost.

“Okay,” said Brian finally. “It's time to meet Horatio.” He began walking toward the theater door.

“Won't your dad be mad if we show up?” asked Sam as they walked toward the theater.

“Heck no,” said Sean. “We've helped him out on a bunch of cases before. He'll be happy to see us.” Then Sean had second thoughts. “I hope so, anyway.”

“N
EAT,” WHISPERED SAM
. The boys were standing at the top of the main aisle that led down to the stage. It was dark except for thin slivers of light that came through the broken shutters that partially covered the theater's many windows.