Backstage with a Ghost

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  Brian dropped the rope and wiped his hands on his pants. The rope had been awfully dirty and dusty.

  “It could have been the ghost,” Debbie Jean whispered. She turned to stare at the spot on the stage where the greenish glowing ghost had appeared during their last visit.

  Sean stared, too, holding his breath. “Brian,” he said.

  But Brian was pointing at the empty seat in the back row of the theater. Where was Miss Beezly?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BRIAN AND SEAN RAN down the aisle, with the others following. But they froze in their tracks when they heard the same strange creaking sound that had accompanied the appearance of the ghost the day before.

  They turned slowly toward the stage. The severed head of Miss Beezly, in its frothy pink hat, was resting on the stage floor. The eyes in its head looked directly at Sean.

  “It’s exactly as I suspected,” said the head matter-of-factly.

  “She can still talk!” Sean yelled.

  Debbie Jean screamed at the top of her lungs.

  “You have a powerful set of lungs, dear, which is a distinct advantage for an actress,” Miss Beezly said. “But please don’t scream again. It hurts my ears.”

  Slowly the head of Miss Beezly rose up from the stage floor. In a few seconds Miss Beezly’s arms and legs and shoes became visible, too. She stepped forward. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before,” she said as if scolding herself.

  “Think of what?” Sean managed to ask.

  “I followed a little side corridor that led to the basement, and sure enough there was a ladder right under the trapdoor. It’s obvious that our so-called ghost had no one with him to work the levers that raise the platform, so he used a ladder.”

  “A trapdoor!” Brian exclaimed. He rushed back onto the stage.

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Beezly said. “The trap is very cleverly hidden from the audience in the orchestra level, and even onstage you’d need much better lighting than this in order to see it clearly.”

  She giggled. “Do you remember, Tyrone dear, when we produced Blithe Spirit and my lovely flowing white dress got caught in the trapdoor?”

  “I remember only the excellence of your performance, Nora Ann.” Mr. Peabody gave a stiff little bow.

  Leaving the two of them to talk about old times, Brian, Sean, Sam, and Debbie Jean rushed to look at the open trapdoor and the short folding ladder that stood open beneath it.

  “Shine your spotlight down there,” Sean told Debbie Jean. “I want to take a picture.”

  “Look at all the footprints in the dust!” Brian said. “There are a lot of big ones Miss Beezly didn’t make. And ghosts don’t leave footprints!”

  “That’s weird,” Sam said, and pointed. “Do you see those places where the ladder’s glowing?”

  Brian climbed down a few rungs to take a closer look. “It’s green phosphorescent paint,” he said.

  “I bet it’s the same stuff that was on whoever was pretending to be a ghost,” Sean said.

  “You mean the ghost isn’t real?” groaned Debbie Jean. Sean thought she sounded disappointed.

  “That ghost may not have been real. But don’t forget,” said Sam, slipping into his scary voice, “Horatio’s supposed to be hanging around here somewhere.”

  “Don’t do that!” Sean snapped nervously.

  “What’s the matter, Sean?” asked Debbie Jean. “Are you scared?”

  “No,” said Sean defensively. “And anyway, I’m not the one who practically set a world record running away!”

  “Oh yeah?” said Debbie Jean.

  “Yeah!” said Sean.

  “Cut it out, both of you,” Brian said as he climbed up the ladder of the trapdoor onto the stage. “We’re dealing with somebody who’s pretending to be a ghost, and we don’t know why.”

  “So what do we do now?” asked Sam.

  “We look for a motive,” Sean said, and Brian nodded. Sean knew how Brian’s mind worked when they were investigating a case.

  “You’ve got a motive,” Sam said. “I could see those women from the historical society being real interested in the idea of a ghost that would lure tourists to the theater after it’s restored.”

  “But why would the ghost want to scare us away?” Sean asked. “We’re not working for Mr. Marconi.”

  “But we are working to help Dad on this case,” Brian said. He stared at Sean. “And some of us might believe in ghosts and spread the word that the theater is haunted. You saw how interested that reporter was about Horatio.”

  “Yeah,” Sean agreed. “Since that article came out I bet most of Redoaks believes the Culbertson is haunted.”

  Brian pulled out his notebook and turned back a few pages. “Let’s go over some of what we already know.” He began reading. “A heavy flat almost hit Mr. Marconi. A stair railing broke, and he fell. Then on Saturday a sandbag landed on his inspector’s shoulder.”

  “And don’t forget that today the battens nearly clobbered me!” Sean said.

  “And don’t forget that both Mr. Marconi and Mrs. Hemsley have big investments in the land around the Culbertson,” Debbie Jean added.

  “What’s really strange,” Brian said, “is that the ghost didn’t appear to Mr. Marconi or the inspector. We were the first—and only—ones to see it.”

  “Aha!” Sam said, jabbing a finger into the air. “That sounds like a clue.”

  “The answer might be an important clue,” said Brian as he tucked his notebook into his pocket. “But before we can know for sure we’ll need to see more of this theater, like the dressing rooms and all the backstage places where someone could hide and put on costumes and paint. It might make it easier to learn who our ghost is.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “Mr. Peabody said somebody had disturbed the theater stuff.”

  “Are we going back there now?” Sean asked.

  “Sure. Now,” Brian told him.

  Sean turned to Debbie Jean. “I’ll trade you my flashlight for your superspotlight.”

  “No way,” Debbie Jean said.

  Brian walked toward the backstage area, but Mr. Peabody suddenly called out, “Wait, young man! Where do you think you’re going?”

  “We want to inspect the rest of the backstage area, Mr. Peabody.”

  Sean was amazed at how fast Mr. Peabody hopped up the stairs to the stage. “No, no! We can’t have that!” he said.

  “You said you’d take us on a tour,” said Brian. “We haven’t seen the dressing rooms yet or the basement or—”

  “And you won’t,” Mr. Peabody said firmly. “In spite of what happened to the land developer and his employee, I hadn’t fully realized the dangers of this old theater. As I just told Miss Beezly, I made a dreadful mistake in allowing you to be here.”

  “We’ll be careful! We promise!” Brian said quickly.

  But Mr. Peabody shook his head. “No. We’re leaving right now,” he said. He shooed them up the aisle and out of the theater.

  With a dramatic flourish, he locked the doors and pocketed his key.

  “Thank you, dear,” Miss Beezly said as she waved farewell to Tyrone Peabody. “Now then,” she said brightly, “how would you like a cup of cocoa? With marshmallows?” She included everyone in her smile.

  Sean was ready to accept. He loved cocoa and marshmallows.

  But Brian declined. “No thanks, Miss Beezly,” he said. “We’ve all got homework to do.”

  “Huh?” muttered Sean.

  “C’mon, Sean,” said Brian. Sean noticed that Brian had a strange look on his face.

  “Thanks for everything, Miss Beezly,” said Brian.

  “What’s the matter with you, Brian?” Sean complained when they reached the end of the block. “We don’t have that much homework.”

  “I know,” he said, “but we’ve got to make plans for our next visit to the theater.”

  “You heard Mr. Peabody,” Debbie Jean told him. “He said he won’t let us inside the theater again.”


  “We don’t need Mr. Peabody to let us in,” Brian said. He reached into the right-hand pocket of his jacket and pulled out a key. “Miss Beezly and I both forgot that she gave me her key to lock the door the last time we were there. I still have it!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  LATER THAT EVENING BRIAN and Sean studied the photographs Sean had brought home from the one-hour camera shop.

  “They’re too dark,” Brian finally said. “They don’t show enough detail.” He tossed the photos onto his bed. “I wonder if somebody could have lowered that rope and frayed it with a knife before we got there.”

  Sean was surprised. “But then they’d have to make the frayed rope ends look old. Could they do that?”

  “Maybe,” Brian said. “There was a lot of dirt and dust on the rope. I suppose it could have been rubbed into the ends.”

  “Do you think Mr. Marconi did it?” Sean asked.

  “I don’t know,” Brian said. “Mr. Peabody kept warning us to get back. What if he had frayed the rope and knew the battens might fall?”

  “You don’t think he would have tried to hurt me?” Sean asked.

  “I noticed he was just as frightened as you were,” Brian said.

  “But he kept telling us to stand back,” countered Sean. “It’s not his fault that I walked under the battens.”

  “He may have wanted the battens to fall,” Brian explained, “but not on one of us. When you walked out under the battens it surprised him.”

  “Brian,” Sean gasped suddenly. “Mr. Peabody yelled out a warning to me before the battens fell.”

  “Right,” said Brian nodding.

  “He has a motive,” Brian said. “He told us he’s against the plan to tear down the theater.”

  Sean nodded. “And he said he thought that the historical society would ruin the Culbertson.”

  “That’s right! He wants to make sure the theater stays just the way it is. And he’s an actor. Who better than an actor to pretend he’s a ghost?”

  “Are you sure?” asked Sean.

  Brian shook his head. “No.” He stared at Sean for a few moments. “We’ve got to make plans for tomorrow,” he said.

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “When we go back to the theater.”

  Sean didn’t like that idea at all. “I don’t think we should use Miss Beezly’s key without telling her.”

  “It’s okay. She didn’t tell us to stay out of the theater.”

  “But Mr. Peabody did.”

  “He hasn’t any real authority. Only the bank that holds the theater in trust has authority. Think about it,” Brian said eagerly. “Somewhere in the theater is the evidence we’ll need to prove who is behind all this.”

  “But Brian,” said Sean, “Dad already made a thorough investigation.”

  “Dad might have missed something. That’s why we have to try. But,” Brian said, “if you’re too scared to go with Sam and me tomorrow morning…”

  “I’m not too scared!” Sean shouted. He stopped abruptly. “How can we go tomorrow morning? We have to go to school.”

  “The schools are closed. It’s an in-service day for teachers. So there’s nothing to keep you from searching the theater. Are you coming with us?”

  “I’m coming,” Sean agreed reluctantly. He even managed a smile. “At least this time we won’t have Debbie Jean butting in. Right?”

  Brian and Sean woke up before seven, gobbled down cereal and toast, and met Sam, who was already on his bike, waiting for them in the driveway.

  They rode to the theater and chained their bikes to the rusty railing. As they walked quickly to the door of the theater, they carefully looked up and down the street. No pedestrians were in sight, and traffic was light, with no one seeming to pay attention to them.

  “Go for it!” Sam whispered.

  Brian unlocked the door, and they slipped into the lobby.

  In a hushed tone Brian again went over the plan he had made. “We start with the dressing rooms, and we stick together at all times,” he said.

  “Exactly what are we looking for?” Sam asked.

  “Anything that’s out of the ordinary, that doesn’t seem to belong in the theater,” Brian explained.

  “We don’t belong in the theater,” Sean reminded him.

  “Besides us,” Brian said. “We want to find something that can lead us to the person who is haunting the theater. Come on. Let’s go. And keep it quiet!”

  “Why do we have to be quiet?” Sean asked Brian. “We’re the only ones here, aren’t we?” But Brian didn’t answer. “Well? Aren’t we?” Sean asked again.

  Sam chuckled. “Don’t forget about Horatio!”

  As silently as possible the boys entered the theater, walked down the aisle, and climbed onto the stage.

  Sean tugged at Brian’s arm and pointed at the spot where the outlines of the trapdoor were barely visible. “Somebody closed it,” he whispered.

  “Mr. Peabody probably came back later,” Brian answered.

  “More likely it was Horatio.” Sam grinned.

  Brian held a finger to his lips and motioned the others to follow. He turned on his flashlight and made his way backstage, past the ropes and pulleys and the fallen battens.

  Off to the left were two rooms with their doors open. A mirror inside one of them reflected the beam from Brian’s flashlight, so he walked to the doorway and directed the beam around the room. Sam leaned over his shoulder and examined the room, too.

  The mirror was ringed with light bulbs, and an empty makeup tray rested on the table under it. An old sofa and chair were on the other side of the room, and a painted folding screen leaned against the wall. “This is probably the way an actor’s dressing room ought to look,” whispered Brian.

  Sean stepped to the open doorway of the other room. It appeared pretty much the same except for a large jar of white face powder that was overturned on the dressing table. That’s funny, Sean thought. The powder looked as if it had been recently spilled. Then he noticed a paint can in one corner. Paint in a dressing room? Sean gave a shudder. Mr. Peabody had said he’d occasionally found things out of place. Horatio, he thought nervously.

  “Hey, look,” Sean said, but Brian and Sam had gone into the other dressing room. Sean could see the beams from their flashlights. “I’m not going to stay out here by myself!” he said, and ran to join the others.

  He found Brian and Sam examining the inside of the closet and the drawers in the dressing table.

  “Hey!” Sean said. “This dressing room is neat compared with the other one.”

  Brian closed the bottom drawer. “I thought Mr. Peabody said he kept everything neat. What was in the other one?”

  “A messy paint can and a box of spilled white face powder on the dressing table. Come on. I’ll show you,” Sean said.

  He stood by the open door as Brian and Sam entered.

  “What paint can?” Brian asked.

  “What face powder?” Sam asked.

  Sean bounded into the room. “Right there!” he said. He stared, his mouth open. The paint can and the jar of face powder— even the spilled powder—were gone!

  CHAPTER NINE

  BRIAN QUICKLY CHECKED THE inside of the small closet, then carefully shone his light around the room. He walked back to the sofa, lifted the flounce that touched the floor, and pulled out a shoe that was protruding.

  “Whoever was here left a shoe,” he said. The shoe looked new.

  “Just one shoe?” Sam looked at the shoe and laughed. “That’s not Cinderella’s.”

  Brian reached under the sofa and pulled out a matching shoe. “I’ll bet this shoe matches the prints we found in the dust.”

  “You mean whoever owns these shoes is our ghost?” asked Sam.

  “That’s right,” Brian said. “And most likely he’s the one who staged the accidents, too.”

  “Whoever it was left in a hurry,” Sam said.

  “Let’s tell Dad and let him take care of it,” Sean sug
gested.

  “No time for that,” Brian said. “Whoever it is is probably still in the theater.”

  “He is!” Sean stepped backward nervously, then turned toward the doorway. He stopped and screamed, “It’s him! It’s the ghost!”

  The ghost stood in the dim corridor outside the dressing room. It was tall and glowed with an eerie green light. It slowly raised its hands. Sean noticed that its fingers were bent like claws. It took a few steps toward him and growled.

  “Leave this place! Leave before it is too late!”

  Sean gulped. “H-h-how about a t-t-trade?” he said in a trembling voice. His knees shook like castanets. “G-g-get out of our way and let us go and w-w-we’ll give you back your shoes.”

  The ghost slowly lowered its arms. “I warned you,” it said in a hollow, menacing voice. “You should have stayed away from here. You do not belong here!”

  “You’re not a ghost, and you can’t scare us,” Brian said. “We have more right to be here than you do. We’re helping our father investigate a case.”

  “No one has more right to be here than I do!” answered the ghost.

  Sean was shaking so hard he thought he might bounce out of his shoes. He couldn’t believe how calm Brian was acting. Then he saw something in the ghost that seemed familiar. “Brian!” he whispered suddenly. “What are you doing? You’re making the ghost really mad.”

  “I know who the ghost is,” Brian said, and nodded. “It’s Mr. Peabody.”

  The ghost let its shoulders slump. Then it shrugged. “How did you know?”

  “You were standing outside the theater the day the paramedics were called,” Brian explained. “And you were listening when Sam talked about ghosts in the theater, weren’t you?”

  Mr. Peabody nodded.

  “My guess is that you staged the accidents in order to discredit Mr. Marconi. You knew that the historical society would be suspicious, and they were.”

  “How would that help?” asked Sean.

  “Mr. Peabody knew that both groups had motives to be suspicious of each other. And as long as they kept fighting one another, the Culbertson would stay just as it is.”