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

by Colleen Gleason

  Bella wasn’t alone, for Melody Carlson and another woman who looked vaguely familiar—both of whom were also dressed professionally—were with her. They look like ladies who lunch, Vivien thought, and that observation made her think of “Pick-A-Little, Talk-A-Little”—neither of which were accurate or even fair, but she didn’t control what she thought of as her mental “casting hat.”

  “Hello, Vivien!” Bella said with a wave as she came forward to give Vivien the sort of hug professional women often gave each other even if they weren’t close friends. “I hope you don’t mind that we stopped in. Susie mentioned all the activity—that’s her nephew over there, carrying one of those boxes—going on today, and I just had to stop by and congratulate you again…and welcome you to town as another small business owner.”

  “That’s so nice of you,” Vivien replied sincerely. “Thank you. The volunteers are really making quite a dent in the cleanup work. And it’s nice to see you again, Melody. I hope Cherry didn’t work you too hard yesterday.”

  “Oh, no, of course not. She’s just brilliant. It really helps with my anxiety doing those long, slow yoga poses,” Melody replied.

  “Vivien, you might not remember me, but I’m—I was, I mean—Susie Parminster. Now it’s Wallaby—my husband’s a dentist, if you need one—and I just have to tell you how excited we are to finally have a live theater coming back to town.” Susie was beaming and looking around as if it was Christmas.

  “Oh, yes, of course I remember you,” Vivien replied, scrambling for details. And then they came to her. “You were Marty the year they did Grease in high school—and of course Melody was Sandy.”

  And I was nothing.

  “That’s right!” Susie seemed to be delighted to be remembered. “Hello, Robbie!” she called, waving to her nephew. “Keep up the good work!” She turned back to Vivien. “And welcome back to Wicks Hollow. I’m sure it’s going to be quite a change from the hustle and bustle of—New York? That’s where you came from, right?”

  “The home of Broadway,” said Melody with a smile. “I’ll bet it was wonderful being there and able to see any show anytime you wanted.” She sounded a little wistful. “We get to Chicago a couple times a year—I’ll take my father even now—but they just don’t have the variety there.”

  “Yes, I saw a lot of shows when I lived there.” Both in the audience and from backstage.

  “Well, my dear, I’m sorry to interrupt—we just wanted to stop in and say hi. Do you mind if I just show them around backstage really quickly right now?” asked Bella. “We won’t be a minute. I’m just so curious to see what you’ve done already.”

  “Well, not a lot, really, but sure, feel free. It’s not as if you haven’t been here before—and there are people everywhere, so nothing’s off-limits.” Which reminded Vivien that the Tuesday Ladies were still AWOL somewhere backstage, and that probably meant trouble.

  But before she could do that, Randy Hebden, the electrician, hailed her from one of the side aisles. “Hey, Vivien, you got a minute?”

  She hadn’t expected to see him today, but she was happy to look at the numbers for updated lights and sound equipment and to answer some questions, especially since, until he was done with his part, there wouldn’t be any air conditioning in the building. July and August in Michigan could be steamy, and as far as Vivien was concerned, the sooner, the better.

  Finally, she was free to weave her way through the backstage area in search of Maxine, Juanita, Iva, and Orbra.

  She found them in the props room.

  “Rosencrantz would never have used that type of sword, Maxine,” Juanita said. “It’s too skinny—”

  “I know that,” snapped Maxine, who was whipping the flexible-bladed sword through the air as if her friend was Guildenstern himself and she was driving him back in a fencing match. She was also wearing the Phantom’s mask, and Vivien’s headache suddenly got worse. “I was just testing it out—”

  “Then why did you say it was probably from Romeo and Juliet?” demanded Juanita, who happened to be holding a much larger broadsword type of weapon that might have been from King Lear. She was wearing the ruby slippers, which were missing half of their sequins.

  The freaking Odd Couple—right here, live and in person, Vivien thought. Female version.

  Only she wasn’t sure who would be Felix and who would be Oscar.

  “Maybe it’s from Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead,” said Iva, who was digging through a large trunk. She was a librarian and knew all sorts of random things. “Although I believe Rosencrantz used a knife, not a sword, in that one.”

  Fortunately for Vivien’s peace of mind, the swords Maxine and Juanita were brandishing were retractable stage props made from foam and light plastic, and therefore the biggest hazard from either was the amount of dust flying through the air.

  She hoped.

  “Oh, look! I’ve always wondered how they did the change of the pumpkin into Cinderella’s coach,” Iva said, her voice rising with enthusiasm. “This has to be the framework for it—and heavens to Betsy! Look at the size of this!”

  She was grappling with a collection of light metal rods that were covered with shimmery white material in a sort of tentlike construction. It could very well have been Cinderella’s pumpkin-coach. Unfortunately, there were holes chewed in the flimsy, gauzy material, and some of the rods were bent, while others were detached from their moorings. With Iva having somehow gotten in the center of it, her attempts to set it up gave the prop—and her—a fluttery, spectral appearance.

  “Oh, look at this!” exclaimed Orbra. She was examining a flying monkey whose wings still had fishing line trailing from them. “He’s almost cute up close. Maybe Vivien will let me have him.”

  “You can hang it in your office,” Maxine said in a surprisingly agreeable tone, still examining how the blade of her sword retracted quickly and silently. Still wearing the Phantom mask.

  “You’re the one who should hang it in her office, Maxine,” snarked Juanita. “He’d feel right at home with the Wicked Witch of the West.”

  “Juanita, you cad! How dare you! En garde!” cried Maxine, and she whipped the epee through the air so vigorously that she wobbled and almost lost her balance. Of course, the elderly woman was still holding her cane in the other hand, so at least she didn’t spin and tumble to the ground, although she knocked off the mask, and her bottle-bottom glasses went askew.

  “Well, I can see I’m going to have to separate the two of you before there’s any bloodshed back here,” Vivien said with a grin. “The scones are going fast, Maxine, so if you want one, you’d better grab one before it’s too late.”

  “I’d really like to help clean up this place,” Iva said as Vivien herded the Tuesday Ladies out of the props room. “It’s just fascinating—all of these old costumes and props—”

  “I’ll help too,” said Maxine, who hated to be one-upped.

  “When are you going to learn your lines, then?” demanded Juanita. “I’m not going to be onstage with someone who can’t remember their lines all the time—”

  “What makes you think I won’t remember my lines? I—”

  “Because you can’t remember your own address half the time, and—”

  “At least I can see where I’m going and don’t talk baby talk to my dog every minute.”

  “You don’t have a dog, Maxine,” Juanita snapped. “And you talk baby talk to Bruce Banner all the time when you think I’m not listening.”

  “You’re just sour because I beat you at Scrabble this morning. Again,” Maxine replied haughtily.

  “I would have won if you hadn’t swapped tiles when I wasn’t looking,” retorted Juanita. “Teach me to go to the bathroom in the middle of the game.”

  “And here are the scones,” Vivien said loudly enough to drown them out as they came down from the side stage.

  “Ricky!” Juanita flowed down the stairs, her lime-green maxi dress rippling above the ruby slippers. “Thank you for s
aving us some of the scones. Do you like my new shoes?”

  “Miss Savage!”

  Vivien absolutely did not sigh at yet another demand for her attention from off in the wings. She didn’t. But she really needed to find some ibuprofen.

  She was beyond grateful for the work the teens were doing for the theater—and she could already see vast improvement just in the last couple of hours.

  She would also have liked a moment to use the restroom and to check her phone for emails or messages. Vivien was waiting for a trendy clothing label to get back to her about the proposal she’d made for an Instagram post by Louise London—something that would make the actor ecstatic and give Vivien a welcome surge of income while she managed the project. And Louise had been texting and messaging her constantly for updates and news and, basically, for Vivien to hold her hand.

  Vivien attended to the volunteer’s question, was interrupted with another problem, and then was finally about to get her own hands on a fresh scone when Stephanie Lillard, the blacksmith’s daughter, caught her attention again.

  “Miss Savage, we found a big trunk down in the orchestra pit.” Stephanie was standing in front of the stage where the pit would be if its top (which was part of the stage) was opened up. At the moment, it wasn’t open, and Vivien wondered how the teens had found their way down into it. “Should we check inside it or leave it for now?”

  “Take a quick peek inside to find out what’s in there, and then we can decide,” Vivien replied.

  Stephanie nodded, and with an enthusiastic smile—who wouldn’t be interested in opening an old trunk?—dashed off to check it out. Vivien snagged a bottle of water and gulped half of it down while she waited, and then spoke briefly to the football coach—who’d shown up to help supervise his team. He’d been a year behind her back in high school.

  “Your guys have been amazing today,” she told him. “We’ve accomplished a lot more than I ever anticipated.”

  “They were pretty motivated,” Coach Jeffreys replied. “I told them if they filled up one of the dumpsters they could come swim at my house on Wicks Lake this afternoon.”

  “Good plan,” Vivien said with a laugh. “And they’re obviously going to be swimming at your place later.”

  “You a football fan? You should come by sometime once we start practice—give ’em a watch. They’re going to be a really good team this year, if I do say so myself,” he added with a self-deprecating grin. “First home game is the Friday of Labor Day weekend.”

  That was when Vivien realized Coach Andrew Jeffreys was kind of, sort of hitting on her—just like he had done back in high school. And that she kind of, sort of didn’t mind—especially since she was a sweaty, dirt-streaked kind of mess. The coach was much cuter than she remembered him back in high school, with sun-streaked light brown hair, a pair of sparkling hazel eyes, and a set of broad, muscular shoulders.

  But before she could reply, the sounds of running feet over the general din of work caught her attention. “Miss Savage, we can’t get it open.” Stephanie and her friend rushed up, looking very disappointed. “Maybe we could try a crowbar.”

  “Why don’t you take a break and have a scone—and there are some sandwiches, too.” Vivien looked at the sweaty, pink-faced teens standing around and raised her voice. “Everyone should take a break. All of you come on and take five. Thank you so much. Let’s eat in the lobby, please, not here in the house, though, all right?”

  This invitation spread like wildfire as she herded them out to the lobby. What had been a small cluster of volunteers sniffing around the food quickly turned into a horde of hungry, tired, but energized teens filling the lobby. Coach Jeffreys toasted Vivien silently with a bottle of water as if to reiterate his invitation, then turned to speak to his team.

  “It was so nice of you to bring all this food, Orbra,” Vivien said, her eyes stinging with tears. “I wasn’t expecting it—I thought I might order pizza and salad for everyone—but you were ahead of me. Thank you so much. I’m happy to pay for the food.”

  The older lady shrugged. “It’s a donation to the volunteers. Community service deserves support from the community. And don’t you worry, the Downtown Business Association contributed toward the cost of the supplies—Trib made sure of it. Wouldn’t have happened when Aaron Underwood was here. He was a real tight-a—er, skinflint.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about them,” Ricky said, scratching his flat, broad nose. “I can guarantee they’ve heard worse walking through the halls at school.”

  Orbra sighed. “Probably. But I don’t want to contribute to their delinquency.” She braced her hands on her hips and looked over at Jake, who’d just wandered into the lobby from who knew where.

  “You going to bring me some more of that bread, there, young man?” She pitched her voice toward him. “Went through two loaves in less than thirty minutes. I made it a lunch special—your asiago tomato bread with a gazpacho soup and a small salad, with a pot of tea of their choice. Sold out almost immediately and had to change the specials sign because people kept asking about it.”

  Vivien looked back and forth between Jake and Orbra—he was making bread? wasn’t he busy being a doctor?—but before she could ask or even decide if she should—after all, the less Jake in her life, the better—someone called her over to the restroom in the front of the theater.

  After that, she was so busy that she didn’t get back to the lobby till much later, as the last of the volunteers were leaving.

  “Thank you so much, again,” she said as they gathered up their things. “Coach Jeffreys, I really appreciate you getting your team out here.”

  “They can always use different workouts,” Coach Jeffreys said. “And you gave them one hell of a workout today. Don’t forget to come check out our practice someday. Starting the week of August 15. It always ends by eight, and by then I’m ready for something to eat and a cold one.”

  “I’ll do that,” she replied…pretty certain he’d just asked her out after a practice. And pretty certain she’d take him up on it.

  “And by the way—it’s Drew, just like when we were back in school. I save ‘coach’ for the team and their parents.” His eyes twinkled.

  And now she was definitely certain of his motives. “Have a good practice, then, Drew.”

  She looked at the time as she waved goodbye and saw that it was nearly three o’clock. Four hours of work with nearly sixty people—with only a few short breaks—had made a huge dent in the demo and cleanup work. She thought she’d been being wildly optimistic ordering two fifty-yard dumpsters, but she’d have to have both of them hauled away and replaced tomorrow. They were already full.

  She closed the doors to the outside and went back into the house. Everything was quiet in there too, and it was then she noticed that the catwalk was no longer hanging from above and heaved a sigh of exasperation. Jake’s doing, she was certain. So much for him listening—which was typical of him. The man was sweet, charming, said the right words—then did whatever the hell he wanted.

  When she saw the large piece of broken catwalk leaning against the wall in the back, she had to at least be grateful it was somewhere safe—and that she hadn’t had to deal with it herself.

  Now that everyone was gone and there was no possibility that a piece of heavy wood was going to fall down on her, she was able to walk through the building and take stock.

  Although little swirls of dust remained from today’s activities and the gentle scents of must and cleaning supplies filled the air, the space was silent and still. Vivien was exhausted but exhilarated. So much more had been accomplished than she’d hoped.

  The tattered red velvet curtains were gone—as were the others that hung in the wings—and it was a strange experience to stand on a stage that was so naked and open.

  Normally, the performance area was cloaked with rows of curtains, scenery, and backdrops. Now the space—usually swollen with make-believe and illusion—seemed so spare and vulnerable. If she walked out i
nto the house, Vivien would be able to see well back into the wings and even backstage.

  Today, open and unshrouded, it was like someone’s private closet had been thrown wide for all to see.

  What sorts of secrets lay within?

  She smiled wryly at her fanciful, eerie thought. Secrets, schmecrets—she was going home for a good, long, hot shower. And then she remembered the trunk Stephanie and her friends had found in the orchestra pit.

  Vivien was mildly curious why there would be a trunk in the orchestra pit, and her curiosity compelled her to take a look before she took off for the day. Usually, the pit was crowded enough with the musicians and their chairs, music stands, and microphones, so why anyone would want to add a large trunk to the space was anyone’s guess. Maybe it held old supplies. The girls hadn’t been able to get it open, though, and she wondered why it would be locked.

  The pit was located below and in front of the stage. It could be covered or uncovered with various-sized panels as needed, and since it was currently shielded by those inset pieces, Vivien had to go around to the backstage area where a flight of steps led down to the pit.

  She couldn’t help but think of The Phantom of the Opera as she descended into the “dungeon of black despair”—not that it was that deep or black or desperate—and hummed the song a little as she made her way below. She took the stairs because she wasn’t about to test the small, square elevator—which was a necessity for bringing a harp, upright bass, or a grand piano to the pit.

  Despite the work that had been done earlier, a few stubborn cobwebs still clung to the top and sides of the stairway. The steps opened into a surprisingly spacious location with a ceiling that was low, but not so low that a violinist would jab it with her bow, and the top of the harp would be comfortably far enough away. Of course, the panels would usually be removed when the orchestra was playing, but there were times when a larger stage was needed or the pit needed to be hidden for some other reason.

  There was a single naked light bulb dangling near where the conductor would be positioned—his or her boxlike platform was still in place. There were music stands leaning in a neat pile in a corner—obviously Stephanie and her friend’s work—and stacks of chairs joined them.