“But what about the ghost?” asked Sean.
“He decided to use a ghost to scare us away,” Brian said. “That’s why we were the first to see it.
“You also insisted that you hadn’t been at the theater when the inspector was hurt,” Brian said. “But later you pointed out exactly where he’d been standing when the accident occurred. You gave yourself away.”
“I love the Culbertson,” Mr. Peabody cried, “and I want everyone to stay away from it and leave it alone. I couldn’t allow this marvelous theater to lose all its beautiful old dignity at the hands of those women who want to restore and redecorate it. And I certainly couldn’t stand by and watch it being torn down.” He snuffled. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt.”
“But the inspector was hurt, and the battens could have fallen on Sean.”
“That’s not my fault! I’d warned all of you to stay back and not touch the ropes!” Mr. Peabody groaned and wrung his hands. “Now what shall I do?” he murmured. “Until I decide, I supposed I’d better lock you in here where no one will hear you.”
A voice from near the stage suddenly screeched, “Sean! Brian! Where are you guys? Why’d you come without me?”
As Mr. Peabody whirled toward the sound, Brian and Sam ran past him into the corridor.
As Sean ran out, Mr. Peabody made a grab for him. Sean slid just under his reach and continued running.
Brian, Sean, and Sam dashed through the backstage area and onto the stage, where they crashed into Debbie Jean Parker.
“Hey, what’s up?” she asked. “You guys look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
Debbie Jean, of course, claimed all the credit.
“I saved your lives,” she said smugly. “If I hadn’t shown up at just the right time, there is no telling what might have happened to you. If you want to send me flowers or candy, skip the flowers. I like chocolates.”
Fat chance, Sean thought. He wasn’t going to use his allowance to buy Debbie Jean chocolates.
Immediately after their escape Brian telephoned his dad and explained what had happened. The police arrived a short time later at the theater. They found Mr. Peabody sitting alone in the dark in one of the dressing rooms, mumbling to himself about “old times.” Mr. Marconi, Mrs. Hemsley, and Mrs. Rodriguez, who’d been meeting in Mr. Marconi’s office, also arrived, as did Mr. Quinn and Al Duggan, the reporter.
Even though Mr. Marconi and the women from the historical society could no longer blame each other for the ghost and the accidents, they resumed their argument.
Al Duggan took notes while the police questioned Brian, Sean, and Sam. Then he had questions of his own: “When did you realize the apparition wasn’t a real ghost? Have any of you boys ever seen a ghost? Have you seen or talked to the ghost named Horatio?”
Sam decided to play a joke on the reporter. “Ah, I have countless stories about zee ghosts,” he droned in his fake scary voice. “I will be glad to tell you…”
Brian pulled Sam away from Mr. Duggan. “This was my dad’s investigation,” he said, refusing any more questions. “We just happened to catch Mr. Peabody in his act. I don’t think we should turn what happened here into a ghost story.”
“But the ghost angle is a good one,” countered Mr. Duggan. “Our readers will love it.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” said Brian firmly. Mr. Duggan shrugged. Just then Mr. Quinn walked up.
“Since the police have finished questioning you,” he said, “there’s no need for you to stay here.”
“Dad, what is going to happen to Mr. Peabody?” Brian asked. “In spite of everything he did, I feel kind of sorry for him.”
“Yeah,” Sean said. “I do, too.”
“Mr. Peabody will get the care he needs,” Mr. Quinn answered. “Now, as I was saying…”
The argument between Mr. Marconi and the ladies was getting louder.
“Dad,” Brian said, “we found out who caused the accidents, but nothing’s really helped that much. Listen to Mr. Marconi and those women from the historical society. They’re still arguing. Mr. Marconi wants the mall, and the members of the historical society want to restore the theater. They’re never going to get together.”
“Then why don’t they do both?” Sean asked. “They could build the mall around the theater.”
Brian stared at Sean in surprise. Then he said, “Sure. Why not? After the theater is fixed up, the historical society could put on plays and have tours, and people would come to the mall just to visit the theater.”
Debbie Jean clapped her hands. “And I could produce, direct, and star in our class play at the Culbertson!”
Sean had his mouth open to tell Debbie Jean what he thought of that idea when his father clapped him on the shoulder.
“I think you’ve come up with an ideal solution,” he said. “I’ll propose it to the group.”
As Mr. Quinn ushered Mr. Marconi and the historical society members out of the theater, Miss Beezly hurried in, the yellow pansies on her hat bouncing as she walked.
“Oh dear, dear!” she cried. “I was on my way here when I saw and heard the police car go by, so I hurried right down. A policeman told me about Tyrone. Oh dear!”
“Don’t worry about Mr. Peabody,” Sean said kindly. “Dad said he’ll get the care he needs.”
Miss Beezly sighed. “It’s not just Tyrone I’m concerned about. This entire episode must have been very unpleasant for Horatio.”
Suddenly a breeze blew down the aisle, ruffling the pansies in Miss Beezly’s hat and whisking back Debbie Jean’s hair.
“Noooora Annnnnn,” a hollow voice murmured.
“Oh, there you are, dear Horatio,” Miss Beezly whispered.
Al Duggan gulped, then stared at Miss Beezly. His mouth was hanging open.
“You wanted a ghost story,” Brian called out to him as they began to hurry out of the theater. “Now you’ve got a ghost to interview.”
“That was neat,” Brian said to Sam and Sean outside. “I wonder how Miss Beezly did that trick with her voice.”
“Who says Miss Beezly did it?” Sam said, and they burst out laughing.
“Hey,” said Sean, looking around. “Where’s Debbie Jean?”
“She ran out ahead of us,” Sam said.
Sean smiled. He didn’t think Debbie Jean had a chance as an actress. But as the next Flo Jo? As fast as she ran, no one could touch her!
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 1995 by Joan Lowery Nixon
cover design by Omar Olivera & Andrea C. Uva
978-1-4532-8275-5
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Backstage with a Ghost Page 5