Stacey And The Haunted Masquerade (7 page)

"There's no tree on that side," Carolyn said.

"Maybe it’s the wind," Claudia suggested.

"There's no wind today," said Marilyn.

"Could it be the house settling?" Claudia asked hopefully.

"Nope," said Marilyn. "I know what that sounds like. My dad explained that, once when I heard scary creaking noises at night. This is nothing like that."

Each of them put an ear against the wall again and listened. Finally, Claudia gulped. "It's moving," she said. "Now it sounds as if it’s coming from high up. Is the attic above this room?"

The girls nodded.

"I'm going to go up and check things out," said Claudia. "Where are the stairs?"

"I'll show you," said Carolyn. She ran out of the room, and Claudia and Marilyn followed.

"We'll come with you," Marilyn offered, when the three of them stood at the bottom of the stairs.

"No," said Claudia. She was feeling more than slightly terrified, but she knew this was something she had to do on her own. "You two wait down here. But can I borrow your flashlight?"

Carolyn detached the flashlight from her detector and handed it over. "Be careful," she said solemnly.

"I will be," Claudia answered. Then she turned and headed up the stairs, flashlight at the ready.

"I would have hated to be the girls at that point," she told us later. "All they saw was me disappearing up the stairs. But then, a few seconds later, they heard me scream. They must have been scared out of their wits. So was I. When I saw those eyes staring back at me I nearly passed out!"

Luckily, Claudia did not pass out. Instead, she shone the flashlight at the eyes and caught sight, just in time, of a fat, gray squirrel as it

turned to run out of a hole in the eaves of the roof. After that scare, I don't know how she had the presence of mind to stick a piece of cardboard over the hole, but she did, and the squirrel was locked out, at least temporarily. (The Arnolds could deal with it in the morning.)

After a comforting dinner of macaroni and cheese, Claudia spent the rest of the evening helping the girls make "Professional Ghost-buster" signs for their doors. Then she made one for her own door. The three of them were pretty proud of themselves. After all, it’s not every day you actually bust a ghost!

Chapter 9.

"Twenty-eight years ago?" Sharon, Mary Anne's stepmother, raised her eyebrows. "You're asking a lot. I can't even remember what I had for dinner last night."

Mary Anne and I looked at each other and raised our eyebrows. I had to work hard to stifle a grin. Sharon can sometimes be a bit of a flake. It’s true that she's a wonderful, smart, loving person. It’s also true that she's not very organized, and she's always losing her keys or forgetting to turn on the oven when she's baking potatoes.

While Claud was sitting for the Arnolds that Thursday evening, Mary Anne, Logan, and I had gone to Mary Anne's house after our emergency meeting. Why? Because I had blurted out my theory that the vandalism at school might have something to do with that last Mischief Night dance twenty-eight years

earlier. Mary Anne had picked up on the idea immediately, and pointed out that her dad and stepmother had both lived in Stoneybrook at that time and might remember something about the dance. So there we were, sitting in the living room, asking questions.

"I remember plenty of dances in high school," said Mary Anne's dad, smiling softly at Sharon, as if he were remembering romantic moments the two of them had shared long ago. "But middle school? I don't remember going to many dances at all, and I certainly don't remember anything 'tragic' happening at a dance."

"Are you sure?" Mary Anne pressed. "This would have been a Halloween dance, or at least a Mischief Night dance."

"Halloween . . . you know, I do remember something," Sharon began slowly. "Richard, wasn't there a dance once where a teacher was hurt?" She frowned. "Or even killed?"

Mary Anne, Logan, and I exchanged glances.

"A teacher was killed?" I asked.

"Mr. Green, wasn't it?" Richard said in a far-off voice. "You're right, Sharon. I do remember something, but it’s hazy. I know I wasn't at the dance. I would only have been in — let’s see — sixth grade, and most dances

back then were for the older kids."

"So what happened?" asked Mary Anne, to urging her father along.

"You know, I'm really not sure," he said. "I'm trying to remember, but not much is coming back. Something happened, and that teacher — Mr. Green? — died because of it. But I can't recall what it was."

We swiveled to look at Sharon. She shook her head. "I can't remember either," she said. "It was pretty terrible, though. I seem to recall girls crying in the halls." She closed her eyes for a moment, and I could tell she was thinking as hard as she could. Then her eyes popped open. "But Richard, you're wrong about the teacher's name. It wasn't Mr. Green. It was Mr. — Mr. Brown."

"That’s it!" he cried. "Mr. Brown. Absolutely. Now that you say it, I know that’s right."

"Mr. Brown," I said, making a note in the little notebook I had brought with me. "Wow, thanks for your help. Now that we know something really did happen, maybe we can find out more about the specifics."

"But how?" asked Logan.

"Maybe we could find some old issues of the SMS Express," Mary Anne began, but her father started shaking his head.

"You won't find any old enough," he said.

"The school didn't have a paper then."

"But the town did," Logan said. He glanced at his watch. "If we hurry, we can make it to the library before dosing time and look through some old issues of the Stoneybrook News," He stood up, and so did Mary Anne and I.

"Let us know what you find out," said Richard. "Now I'm curious, too."

We left Mary Anne's at a trot, and kept it up all the way to the library. I already had a strong feeling we were onto something. If a teacher at SMS had actually died at that dance twenty-eight years ago, well, that was big stuff. I still didn't know exactly what we were looking for, but it seemed dear that we needed to find out as much as we could about that dance.

When we arrived at the library, we headed for the reference room and for the microfilm of the back issues of the Stoneybrook News. It wasn't hard to find the spool for October and November of twenty-eight years back. We've used microfilm before, when we were working on other mysteries, so we're pretty good at looking up subjects.

Logan worked the microfilm reader, while Mary Anne and I leaned over his shoulders, scanning quickly. Suddenly, I spotted something that made my heart race. "Stop!" I said.

"What’s that?" I pointed to an obituary headline dated November first. "Educator Jack R. Brown, 62, Died During Stampede."

"Stampede?" Mary Anne and Logan asked together. We leaned forward to read the text of the obituary.

"This has to be the guy," Logan said. "It says he was a civics teacher at SMS. And it gives the date of his death as October thirtieth."

"He died of a heart attack," Mary Anne said, as she read ahead. "And doctors think it was brought on by the 'unfortunate incident’ at the school dance."

"The stampede," I repeated. "What stampede?"

"There must be an article about it somewhere," Logan said. He started scanning again.

"Whoa! Stop!" Mary Anne cried. "Check it out." She pointed to the screen, and we saw the headline, which was in a paper dated October 31st, Halloween. "Masquerade Takes Tragic Turn," we read out loud, together. Then we read silently, as fast as we could.

Here's what we found out: There was a Halloween masquerade that year, and it was held on the night before Halloween, Mischief Night. Attendance was high; most of the eighth grade was there. A band called The

Groovy Tangerine was playing. Suddenly, the lights went out in the gym — and in the whole school. The crowd panicked. Somebody pulled a fire alarm, which caused even more panic, and then a stampede. Several students were injured, and Mr. Brown suffered a heart attack and died before he could be taken to the hospital.

The police believed the blackout was a prank, and that the fire alarm might have been pulled as a prank as well. They questioned many of the students at the dance, and found out that several members of the SMS football team might have been involved. But the police had no proof, and it was likely that the investigation would go no further. The chief of police was quoted as saying he was positive that certain students — they weren't identified by name — knew exactly what had happened, and that he wished they would come forward.

"Wow," breathed Mary Anne.

"Wow is right," Logan said. "This is wild. I never expected to find anything quite this — quite this serious."

"Let’s see if there are any follow-up articles," I suggested, and Logan started scanning again.

But we didn't find a thing. It seemed as if the police hadn't been given any information, and the matter had been dropped.

"Now that we know this much, what next?" asked Logan. "We stall have a long way to go if we want to find out who's trying to ruin our dance."

"Yearbooks!" I said, snapping my fingers. "Let’s go to the school library at lunchtime tomorrow and look through yearbooks from back then. We might find something interesting."

"Keep turning the pages," Kristy said impatiently, as she looked over my shoulder. She'd been excited to hear what we'd found out so far, and so had the other BSC members. We had gathered in the library at lunchtime (all except Jessi and Mal, that is, since the sixth-graders eat lunch at a different time), and we'd found the old yearbook from the year of the dance.

I was holding it, and everyone else had gathered around. I was turning the pages especially slowly, making sure not to miss anything, but I turned a little faster when Kristy said that. Suddenly, I stopped and let out a gasp.

"What?" asked Mary Anne. She moved closer, so that she could see better. "Oh!" she said, echoing my gasp.

We were looking at a full-page picture of an older man in a suit. At the bottom, within a

black border, were the words, "In Memory of Mr. Brown."

"That’s him," said Mary Anne. Everyone clustered around to look at the picture.

"I bet he was strict," said Claudia. "Doesn't he look it?"

He did. His mouth was a straight line, and his eyes, behind black-framed eyeglasses, looked serious.

"What if he's the one tearing up posters and painting on the walls?" Abby said.

"He's dead!" cried Kristy.

"I know," Abby said, with a tiny smile. "But maybe he's not totally dead, if you know what I mean. Maybe he's haunting the school, because his murder was never solved." She raised her eyebrows.

"Stop!" cried Mary Anne. "You're creeping me out. Stacey, turn the page. I can't stand the way he's looking at me."

I turned the page, and we started looking at the eighth-grade pictures. Immediately, we forgot about Abby’s ghoulish idea. The pictures were hilarious. "All the boys look so geeky!" cried Kristy. "Look at those haircuts."

"And the girls have such big hair," Claudia said. "How about those cat-eye glasses, too?"

We paged through the pictures, laughing at how strange the kids looked. The funny thing was that they didn't really look like kids at all.

They looked like miniature grown-ups. The boys had short hair and wore suits and ties, and the girls looked as if they were about thirty. I kept turning pages.

"Whoa," I said suddenly, looking at one of the pictures more closely. "Check it out!" I pointed to a picture in the upper left hand corner of the page, of a relatively cute but still geeky-looking guy with black, curly hair.

"What about him?" asked Kristy.

"Look at the name," I said. Underneath the picture, the caption read "Michael Rothman." "How weird. That’s the name of the teacher who's advising the decorations committee." I bent to give the picture a closer look. "Wouldn't it be wild if this was really him, twenty-eight years ago? I didn't know he went to SMS. But it could be him. He's still just as skinny, and he has that black, curly hair." I stared at the picture. I couldn't believe my eyes.

Mary Anne was looking, too, but Abby and Kristy had already shifted their attention to another picture in the lower righthand corner of the page. "What do you think?" asked Kristy. Abby shrugged.

"Who's that?" I asked. Kristy pointed to the name, and I read it out loud. "Jerome Wetzler. Who's that?" Then I remembered, and my eyebrows flew up. "Mr. Wetzler? The guy

who's writing all those letters to the editor? Hmmmm."

"Hmmm is right," said Mary Anne. "I second that hmm!"

This was becoming very, very interesting. And it became even more so when we discovered, in the back of the yearbook, pictures of all the athletic teams. Underneath the picture of the football team, we found the name M. Rothman. If this M. Rothman was the M. Rothman I knew, it could be very significant that he was on the football team, since members of the team were suspected of being involved in the prank on the night of the dance.

I leaned forward to examine the picture more closely, and just then the loudspeaker over the library's door crackled to life. "Attention, students," someone said. It sounded sort of like Mr. Kingbridge, but it was hard to tell because of the static. "At the sound of the next bell, students in all grades are to proceed to the auditorium for a special assembly."