Sinister Stage: A Ghost Story Romance and Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 5)

by Colleen Gleason

  Vivien opened the huge rolling garage door, which allowed in a lot of light and fresh air to the backstage area, and did the same with all of the other doors. Dumpsters had been set up in the parking lot, and the gloved and masked volunteers began the process of removing trash and damaged parts of the theater: broken chairs, tattered curtains, set pieces that could no longer be used, boxes of old programs, mildewed and shredded office supplies, paint, hardware, and other miscellaneous items. The basic structure of the building was sound, and most of the interior walls were as well, except for one corner in the back where a small leak in the roof had created some damage. There, rotting boards and mildewed flooring had to be taken up and disposed of. Three of the football players attacked that task with alacrity—and sledgehammers.

  “Miss Savage, what about these?” called one of the students. “Do they go or stay?”

  There were too many of the teens for Vivien to know their names, but she thought the girl was Stephanie—a member of the pom squad and the daughter of a blacksmith (an actual blacksmith!) who lived in town.

  She came over to find Stephanie and one of her friends flipping through a stack of large framed photos of shows that had been done over the years. There were more than two dozen of them, and they were each the size of a movie poster, depicting productions from the 1920s through the early 1990s. The Wizard of Oz, The Nutcracker, Noises Off, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Hamlet, and more.

  These were the spirits, the ghosts that lingered—and now they had faces and shapes to go with them. She felt a shimmer of awareness as she looked through the images, feeling the burst of joy and intensity that glowed from the actors in each exuberant shot.

  “Definitely keep them,” Vivien said, noting that they seemed to be in good shape except for the dust and dried dirt on the protective glass. “We can hang these in the front lobby and on the walls in the house—and we’ll continue the tradition and make our own.”

  “Miss Savage! Can you come here?” called one of the guys from the wings.

  She left the pair of girls with rags and glass cleaner and answered that call—and then went on to see to countless others that took her all over the building.

  It wasn’t until the volunteers had been there for over an hour, with Vivien answering nonstop questions and giving direction, that she had the opportunity to step back onto the main stage. There’d been no strange breezes, no shifting in the air, no unexpected lights or shadows…and for that, she was grateful.

  And yet trepidatious. It was as if she were waiting for another shoe to drop.

  With that in mind, with an icy chill reminding her of the creepy shadow and the strange lights, Vivien walked upstage to the back, where the words GO OR DIE had seemed to burn.

  As before, there was nothing there.

  But this time, she went all the way up to the rear of the stage and examined the black wall carefully, using her flashlight. To her right were two cheerleaders using push brooms, sweeping up dust off into the wings. To her left were more volunteers gathering up miscellaneous pieces of garbage and fabric that been left on what were probably prop tables. Someone was testing the floods and spots, and lights were coming on and off, making her feel like she should start singing “Stayin’ Alive.”

  The wall was blank and empty, with no sign of anything that could have been glowing letters.

  She was just about to walk back downstage when something made her look up. Maybe it was the blazing crimson light that was blazing down on her as if she were in a red-light district (someone was having a lot of fun up in the light booth). Nevertheless, she looked up, and that was when she noticed a fly—a backdrop—hanging there, a little lower than the others.

  It drew her attention because it wasn’t ratty and tattered along the hem like the others that still swayed gently above.

  It looked almost new.

  Something prickled down her spine, and it wasn’t Liv or any of the other spirits in the theater.

  It was suspicion.

  Vivien didn’t hesitate. The ladder to the catwalk was metal and solid, and she tucked the flashlight under her arm as she clambered up to the sound of soft creaks and squeaks (it would have to be tightened and oiled before the show).

  The narrow walkway that stretched across the top of the stage, behind the proscenium that hung like the top of a frame over the performance area, shivered a little when she stepped on it. The floor of the catwalk was made of wood, but there were metal fixtures suspending it from the ceiling every four feet, and a slender metal chain that acted as a safety barrier, which she would replace with a real railing as soon as possible.

  Vivien hesitated, then took her foot off the bridge and moved back onto the ladder’s landing. “Everyone off the stage! Everyone clear the stage and the wings—now!”

  The half-dozen teens in the area did as instructed, but they all gawked, looking up as they backed away and off.

  “Everyone stand clear—way clear—until I say otherwise,” she called down, and watched to make sure they complied. They did.

  Then she reached out to grab the chain railing along the catwalk. She rattled it violently using her hand, and then kicked forcefully at the narrow bridge with her foot—once, twice, a third time…and then it happened: a shudder, a creak, and then part of the walkway just fell, like the piece of a drawbridge collapsing down instead of lifting.

  It swung down, hard, fast, and loud, with awful metallic groans and one long, piglike squeal. Gusts of dust flew up and around, and Vivien even felt the whoosh of air from up where she was. When it was all over, a section of catwalk dangled there—still attached at the other end—swaying madly like a heavy pendulum ten feet above the stage.

  The volunteers gasped and a few shrieked, and then the crew broke out into nervous chatter as they stood around, unharmed but obviously freaked out by the event.

  “Whoa,” said one of the football players unnecessarily.

  Vivien felt ill and lightheaded. That was close.

  In more ways than one.

  “All right, everyone stay clear,” she called, climbing back down the ladder, which, thankfully, remained intact and stable. “I don’t think it’s going to come all the way down, but I want everyone off the stage and to stay out of the right wings until we get it fixed.”

  Her heart was still thudding wildly as she thought about all of the things that could have gone wrong, and her breathing was so shallow that she thought she might faint. She should have waited until all of the teens were gone. Of course she’d been careful, but still…

  “And that,” came a familiar voice from somewhere in the house, “is why you’re not climbing any ladders, Pop. Ever. Again.”

  Vivien spun to see Jake—why? why?—striding down the center aisle toward the stage. He was followed by an old man who looked a little like a squat toad with a very thick head of dark, rumply hair and a mustache to match. Her first impression was: adorable. He would be a perfect Mario, as in the video game, if he were wearing overalls.

  Despite the mad shock, Vivien’s brain worked fast, and she put two and two together that Jake was with his father.

  “Is everything all right?” Jake asked as he vaulted easily onto the stage, taking only two of the five steps.

  “Yes” was all she had the wherewithal to reply. The syllable came out tight.

  His hair was loose today and fell in dark waves like those of the narcissistic Gaston to just past his jaw line. Vivien couldn’t help but wonder what his patients thought about a doctor with hair that belonged on a model or movie star. The female ones probably loved it, and some of the male ones as well. Jake tilted his head, lifting one of his thick, dark brows as he looked toward the hanging piece of bridge.

  “I was testing it out. That’s why I know everything really is okay,” she snapped. She paused to take in a deep, slow breath, then exhaled it long and easy. She was very calm. “So, what can I do for you, Jake?”

  Honestly, it really wasn’t fair that the cheating bastard look
ed so good—and she knew that she, on the other hand, was disheveled and dusty and probably had dirt streaks all over her face. But despite his longish hair, Jake was clean and pressed in dark gray board shorts with a crisp, summery button-down shirt and fine leather loafers that she was sure had cost a couple hundred dollars. He even smelled good—fresh and cool, as if he’d just showered.

  “Nothing really,” Jake replied. “But I might be able to do something for you.” Once again, he looked pointedly at the dangling piece of metal.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she said breezily. “There aren’t any lying, cheating bastard roles in Arsenic and Old Lace.”

  His eyes widened at the direct hit, and she swore his cheeks—already a dusky olive—flushed a little darker.

  She turned away from him and started down the steps to greet the darling man who probably stood no more than five feet, three inches. But what he lacked in height, he made up for with that dark, luxurious hair and mustache.

  “You must be Mr. DeRiccio,” she said, extending a hand. She couldn’t bring herself to call a man forty or more years her senior by his first name, even if it was a nickname. “I’m Vivien Savage—the owner of the theater and the director of our show. Thank you so much for taking on the role of Mr. Gibbs.”

  “I came here under duress,” replied Jake’s father as he took her hand. He smelled comfortably like Old Spice and was much more casually dressed than his son, in dark chinos that bagged at the knees and a button-down plaid shirt. A white t-shirt peeped from behind the open collar of his button-down. “At least, I did. But now that I’ve met you, young lady—well, I’ve changed my mind.” He had to look up at her a little, as she was five feet, six inches, but he didn’t seem to mind in the least. His dark eyes danced as he lifted her hand—not to shake it, but to press a very quick, very light kiss on the back of it. His mustache, soft and glossy, brushed her skin. “It’s possible I might enjoy this after all.”

  “That makes two of us,” Vivien replied. As long as your son doesn’t stick around.

  “Jake, this here’s Vivien Savage,” said Mr. DeRiccio. “I guess she’s gonna be telling me what to do up there.”

  Vivien was relieved that he seemed to have missed the brief exchange between herself and his son, considering that she’d called Jake a lying, cheating bastard. Which was pretty much the truth, but maybe not the best thing to say about his son in her actor’s hearing.

  “I wish her luck with that,” Jake replied. But he didn’t look at Vivien as he climbed down from the stage.

  Nor did he correct his father’s assumption that they hadn’t met before.

  Just then, Vivien heard a familiar sound…one that could raise the hairs on the back of her neck almost as quickly as a falling catwalk bridge.

  Thump. Thumpity-thump. Thump.

  She looked back out over the empty seats of the house to see Maxine and Juanita—with Maxine’s cane creating the unholy rhythm on the floor—making their way down the center aisle. Behind them followed the much taller Orbra and a shorter woman with cotton-ball-white hair done in a simple grandmotherly style. Each of them were toting a shopping bag.

  “Stages—nothing but health hazards, I’m telling you,” Maxine said to Juanita in her carrying voice. “People always getting flattened by things falling from above. Every murder-mystery show has at least one falling sandbag or backdrop, you know. Better make sure you have good insurance, Miss Vivien Leigh,” she called. “Or this star ain’t setting foot on that stage.”

  Her voice carried in the empty space (at least Vivien wouldn’t have to remind her to project when delivering her lines), causing everyone to turn.

  Ricky DeRiccio said something to his son, and Jake turned to look at the group of older ladies. “That’s Maxine Took? The woman you’re afraid of?” His reply was just loud enough for Vivien to hear. “She’s got a walking stick, for Pete’s sake, Pop.”

  “Hello, Maxine,” Vivien called, chuckling inside over Jake’s blithe ignorance. He’d learn about Maxine soon enough. “How nice of you to drop by.”

  “Had to see where I’ma make my debut,” replied the old woman, emphasizing the first syllable of the word. “And we brought summa Orbra’s scones and sandwiches for the workers. It was my idea.”

  “It certainly was not,” Orbra said testily. “I told you I was planning to bring some things, and you started telling me which ones you wanted to eat.”

  “Whatever,” Maxine retorted. “Now, where is my dressing room?”

  Vivien drew in another deep breath, for Jake had gone back up onstage and was examining the broken catwalk. Why didn’t he just leave everything alone?

  Why didn’t he just leave?

  He was messing up her mojo. Bringing bad juju.

  Bringing back memories.

  “The dressing rooms are backstage, but they’re—”

  Vivien’s warning that it was no place for a woman with a cane was cut off when the dainty lady with fluffy white hair hurried over to her. “Oh, I can just feel the energy here! The ghosts of musicals past! You must be Vivien Leigh Savage. I remember your record album, you know. Yours and your sister’s.” Her eyes showed a hint of sympathy. “And the fantastic performance at the Tonys.”

  “Yes, I’m Vivien,” she replied, watching askance as Maxine Took made a beeline toward the steps at stage left even while she hoped the lady in front of her wouldn’t start singing “Happy, Happy Me”—the biggest track from The Savage Sisters’ one-hit-wonder album. It had hit number ten on the Billboard chart.

  “I’m Iva Bergstrom. I’m so happy to finally meet you!” The cotton-haired woman was the epitome of the kindly grandmother type with her bright blue eyes and round, delicate cheeks. She was dressed sensibly and not quite so grandmotherly in dark blue capri pants and a light summer sweater twinset of lemon yellow. A perfect Mrs. Claus, if you were going for tiny, elegant, and not quite as chubby as the mister. Or maybe even a Mrs. Potts…

  “Same here,” Vivien replied, then called desperately, “Maxine, it’s not really safe to be—”

  “I’ll be fine,” retorted the woman, already thumping across the stage like she owned it. “It’s Juanita you gotta worry about. I got three legs to balance myself, and she’s got but two.”

  Sure enough, Juanita was following in her costar’s wake, climbing up the five steps a little more carefully, but hardly less enthusiastically.

  “I guess I’d better go with them,” Vivien said with a sigh.

  “I’ll come too,” said Iva. “Orbra, come on—we’re going to go see Maxine and Juanita’s dressing rooms!”

  Orbra set down her shopping bag (presumably filled with scones) next to the other ones that had been abandoned. “It’s been more than thirty years since I’ve been in here,” she said, following Vivien and Iva onto the stage. “I think the last performance I saw was Little Shop of Horrors, back in ’85, I think it was. Wonderful show, but a very strange one. I had nightmares about that horrible plant for weeks after. All I could hear was ‘Feed me, Seymour!’ over and over in my head intertwined with the dentist song.”

  Vivien was more interested in catching up to Maxine and Juanita (for ladies in their eighties, they moved fast) than hearing about Orbra’s memories. There were tripping hazards all over, as well as old nails and splintered set pieces that could injure any of them.

  “Maxine, Juanita, if you could just wait…” Vivien called, already envisioning news articles (Octogenarian Star Injured During Stage Reconstruction Honoring One of the Savage Sisters), lawsuits, and the tripling of her liability insurance.

  As she darted across the stage, she passed Jake (who was still standing on it by the dangling piece of catwalk like he had a reason to be there), and he gave her a sidewise look with brows raised, along with a smirk.

  “You can get off my stage any time now,” she said from between clenched teeth as she strode past.

  He said something that sounded like But I like your stage…

  Which made no sen
se, because he’d been the one who’d messed things up with them…

  …and why was she even thinking about him?

  Even further behind in her wake, she could hear Iva, who seemed to have decided to take the opportunity to deliver her own soliloquy about theater phantoms and the metaphysical to whatever audience was around to listen. She’d continued on in the vein of “ghosts of performances past” and was talking to Orbra about shows she’d seen.

  “Maxine, Juanita, if you want to see your dressing room…” Vivien said, desperately projecting her voice to where they were just making their way beyond the wings. “I’ll show you. If you’ll just wait.”

  To her relief, the two women finally stopped. Frazzled and annoyed (mainly because the unwanted Jake had to be witness to a group of elderly ladies running roughshod over her), she calmed herself as she caught up to them.

  “I told you they have to be back here,” Juanita said. “It’s always in the back area—”

  “Well, I remember coming around to see Melvin Millhouse when he was playing Hamlet, and they were definitely to the lef—”

  “I’ll show you exactly where it is,” said Vivien firmly, relieved that she was now within grabbing distance of either of them. “Now, perhaps we should wait for Iva and Orbra so they can see your dressing room too?”

  “Room? Only one?” Maxine said, pursing her lips. “I don’t remember there being a sharing-the-dressing-room clause in the contract, Miss Vivien Leigh.”

  Vivien didn’t bother to respond. She didn’t think she could without her voice coiling up into a high, tight spiral and her eyes bulging. And she’d thought handling a rising Instagram influencer had been a challenge…but dealing with Betsy Baker’s Better Self (a self-betterment guru that made Goop look like a redneck) had toughened her up.

  And seriously, Maxine Took and Juanita Acerita were even worse than the Broadway diva Louise London, who was Vivien’s biggest client. High-maintenance didn’t begin to cover it.

  “All right, now that we’re all here,” she said smoothly and a little loudly so as to drown out Maxine’s bitter demands for her own dressing room, “I’ll show you where all the magic is going to happen.” She managed to infuse a rush of enthusiasm and warmth into her tone and began to carefully lead the way into the depths of the backstage area.