Backstage with a Ghost (2 page)

“I bet that a long time ago those windows were used to let in fresh air between performances,” Brian pointed out.

Sean could make out the outlines of the dark stage. It reminded him of a giant yawning mouth. Suddenly he heard low, mumbling voices. Sean moved closer to Brian.

“Brian, I think I heard something.”

“Me, too,” said Brian.

“It's not Horatio, is it?” Sean asked.

“No,” said Brian. “Not unless Horatio is one of Dad's clients. Look.”

A man walked onstage carrying a flashlight.

“That's Mr. Marconi,” Brian whispered to Sean. Mr. Marconi was followed by Mr. Quinn and a police officer.

“The city inspector may have classified this building as sound, but I don't think that it is,” Mr. Marconi announced.

“We've examined the rope that held the sandbag,” the policewoman said. “It's old, dirty, and badly frayed. You were right to call us, but there's nothing to indicate that the falling sandbag was anything more than an accident.”

“Well, I disagree,” Mr. Marconi said, “and I've hired Mr. Quinn here to investigate.”

There was some more conversation the boys couldn't hear, then the policewoman left, and Mr. Marconi and Mr. Quinn disappeared backstage.

Suddenly a hand clamped down on Sean's shoulder. “What are you boys doing in here?” the voice angrily demanded.

Brian, Sean, and Sam whirled to face two well-dressed women, both with scowls on their faces.

“This is not a playground,” the short, plump woman said severely. “What if you break something? Children are always breaking something. Isn't that right, Dolores?”

The tall one nodded deeply.

Break what? Sean wondered as he tried to wriggle free. The whole theater already looked pretty broken down to him. Here and there, throughout the sagging rows of seats, clumps of padding spilled through rips in the faded red velvet upholstery.

“We're not here looking to break anything,” Sean began to explain, but the two women would not listen.

“Please leave,” the tall woman said. “Right now. You don't belong in here.”

“Yes we do,” Brian answered politely. “Our father is John Quinn, a private investigator, and we're helping him in his investigation of the accidents that are taking place here in the theater.”

“Accidents?” the short woman said. “We've only heard of the one accident that took place earlier today.”

“There were two others,” Sean said.

The women looked curiously at each other with raised eyebrows, then nodded knowingly. “In any case,” the tall woman said finally, “you're just children. How could you possibly help?”

“The theater's supposed to be haunted,” Sean blurted out without thinking, “so we're going to try to find the ghost who might be causing the accidents.”

Brian was about to explain when Mr. Marconi, Mr. Quinn, and a third man appeared onstage.

“Clyde Marconi!” the short woman shouted. “Come down here, please! We have something to say to you!”

Sean almost giggled. The woman reminded him of one of his old teachers at Redoaks Elementary School. She was always scolding him in that same tone of voice.

The three men climbed down from the stage and walked up the aisle. When Mr. Quinn saw Brian and Sean he frowned, then shook his head. “Mr. Marconi,” he said, “I'd like you to meet—”

The tall woman angrily interrupted. “You have undoubtedly forgotten, Mr. Marconi, but we were supposed to have had an appointment with you thirty minutes ago. Your secretary told us you were here in the theater.”

The short woman broke in. “Although we were previously introduced, Mr. Marconi,” she began, “I'll refresh your memory. I'm Mrs. Helen Hemsley, president of the Redoaks Historical Society, and this is Mrs. Dolores Rodriguez, our secretary-treasurer.”

“Yes, I remember you,” sighed Mr. Marconi wearily.

“Just what are you doing now that is so important that you could not make our meeting?” demanded Mrs. Hemsley.

“Our
scheduled
meeting,” added Mrs. Rodriguez with emphasis.

“I'm sorry,” said Mr. Marconi. “I had an emergency.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Rodriguez. “And may I ask what business you and your crew have in this theater?”

“My inspector and I have been going through all the buildings in this block,” Mr. Marconi explained. “When we tear them down, we want to know what will be involved and how much it's going to cost.”

“Hmmmph!” Mrs. Hemsley said. “You're never going to tear down the Culbertson!”

Mr. Quinn stepped in. “Mrs. Hemsley and Mrs. Rodriguez, I'd like you to meet Al Duggan, a reporter for the
Redoaks News.
I'm John Quinn, a private investigator who—”

“How do you do, Mr. Duggan,” Mrs. Hemsley snapped. “Mr. Quinn, there's no need to tell us why Mr. Marconi has hired you. We already know. You're here looking for ghosts.”

“I'm…I'm what?” Mr. Quinn asked in astonishment. He looked at Mr. Duggan.

Al Duggan, looking equally surprised, jotted down something in his notebook. “Ghosts?” he said. “This is one police call I'm glad I listened to.”

Mrs. Rodriguez gave a loud sniff. “We also know that Mr. Marconi is responsible for these alleged accidents in this theater, not a ghost.”

“Exactly,” concluded Mrs. Hemsley. “He's trying to make it appear that this building is unsound when it isn't. He'll do anything to get his plan approved by the city council. He warned us he was going to get his way.”

“Those were
your
words, as I remember,” responded Mr. Marconi. “You told me I was in for a fight I couldn't win!”

“Oh, come now,” scoffed Mrs. Rodriguez. “Imagine anyone in his right mind wanting to tear down this beautiful old historical building and build a mall!”

“Indeed,” added Mrs. Hemsley. “The fact is you can't claim that the building is structurally unsound because it isn't! So you stage accidents to try to prove that the building is dangerous.”

“Your tricks won't work, Mr. Marconi!” thundered Mrs. Rodriguez. “We'll fight you in city council meetings to preserve this building!”

“Now just a minute!” shouted Mr. Marconi, who was so angry he looked like a red balloon ready to pop. “Your accusations are false! I'd never stage an accident! The lives of my employees are at stake!”

Al Duggan broke in. “Let's get back to what you said about a ghost,” he suggested. “What did you mean, Mrs. Hemsley, about looking for ghosts?”

“The theater's haunted,” Sean answered without thinking. Everyone turned to stare. “The ghost's name is Horatio Hamilton. Only Horatio didn't cause the accident.”

“How do you know, kid?” asked Mr. Duggan excitedly.

“Miss Nora Ann Beezly said so,” said Sean. “And my name isn't kid. It's—”

“Sean,” Mr. Quinn said, “I think you've said more than enough already.” He sighed and turned to Mr. Duggan. “I'd like to set matters straight once and for all about this ridiculous idea of ghosts.”

But Mr. Marconi ignored him. “I'm beginning to understand what all this ghost business is about,” he growled. “You people at the historical society dreamed up the idea of a ghost, thinking that a haunted theater will bring tourists to Redoaks. And you hope that the idea of tourists, with money to spend, will throw the votes of the city council to your side!”

“You're accusing
us
of tawdry theatrics!” shouted an outraged Mrs. Hemsley. “Well, I never!”

“Nor I!” added Mrs. Rodriguez. “Sheer lunacy! Poppycock! You won't get away with it!”

“A beautifully restored haunted theater
would
bring tourists and benefit the entire town of Redoaks,” Mr. Duggan suggested to Mr. Marconi.

“Here! Here!” chimed Mrs. Hemsley and Mrs. Rodriguez.

“If you want to benefit the town,” Mr. Marconi countered, “then stop these tiresome old busybodies from getting in my way, and let me build my mall! Think what the town would gain in additional taxes!”

“Old busybodies!” the two women fumed.

Mrs. Hemsley, Mrs. Rodriguez, and Mr. Marconi began arguing louder and louder. It was like a contest to determine who could outshout the other.

Sam nudged Brian. “Check out the reporter. He actually seems like he's enjoying this.”

Mr. Duggan was taking notes as fast as he could, and he had a huge grin on his face.

It wasn't the reporter Brian was worried about. His father looked very angry, and it didn't take a genius detective to figure out why. Brian and Sean had helped their father on cases many times, but Brian knew his father would be unhappy that they hadn't talked to him first before showing up at the theater. It didn't help, either, that they had been responsible for spreading the story about the ghost.

“It's kind of noisy in here, Dad,” Brian said. “We'll see you at home.” He murmured to Sean and Sam, “Come on. We'd better get out of here…fast!”

M
R. QUINN DIDN't ARRIVE
home until seven that evening, just in time for dinner. It appeared to Brian that his father was now in a better mood. He just hoped they could get through dinner without anyone mentioning ghosts.

“John,” said Mrs. Quinn as she dished up plates of spaghetti, “what's all this about a ghost in the Culbertson Theater? A story in this evening's
Redoaks News
reported that a string of mysterious accidents had occurred there. It also said that the theater is haunted and even quoted Nora Ann Beezly. Is it true you think a ghost is responsible for the accidents?”

Brian groaned and sneaked a look at Sean, who was too busy cramming pasta into his mouth to notice.

Mr. Quinn sighed. “It's just a ridiculous story from a reporter more interested in headlines than the truth.”

Mrs. Quinn smiled. “For many years Nora Ann Beezly starred in plays at the Culbertson. When I was a little girl I thought she was so glamorous! My goodness, she must be well over eighty years old now.”

“Miss Beezly was nice,” Sean said. “We met her in front of the theater. She told us the ghost is named Horatio Hamilton, and she even invited us to come visit her sometime.” Sean took another bite of spaghetti and mumbled through it. “And Miss Beezly said Horatio didn't cause the accidents because he's a polite, kind ghost.”

“Sean,” Mr. Quinn said, putting down his fork and looking at his son. “We don't talk with our mouths full, and we don't believe in ghosts. There is absolutely no logical explanation for ghosts.”

Mr. Quinn went on to discuss people who thought they saw things because they allowed their imaginations to get out of hand, but Sean stopped listening and began wondering what it would be like to meet Horatio Hamilton. Miss Beezly had said Horatio was polite and kind, he remembered, but wouldn't the ghost look scary anyway?

“By the way, Dad,” Sean said, “Miss Beezly asked us to tell you to be considerate of Horatio.”

Mr. Quinn gave a long, patient sigh. “Were you listening to one single word I said?” he asked Sean.

One single word? thought Sean. “Sure, Dad,” he answered. He knew he'd even listened to more than just one word. “I was only giving you a message, that's all.”

“There's more to the message, Dad,” Brian said. “Miss Beezly doesn't trust Mr. Marconi.”

“Did she say why she doesn't trust him?”

“She doesn't want him to tear down the theater,” Brian answered. “She seems to think he misled the city council in his report on the conditions of the building.”

“Miss Beezly does have a point,” Mrs. Quinn said. “The theater's a beautiful building. It was built back at the turn of the century, when the style was to add lots and lots of elaborate decoration. I can still remember the cupids and roses that were painted on the ceiling.”

“According to what Mr. Marconi told me, it would cost a fortune to restore the theater,” Mr. Quinn said. “For one thing, the building would have to be completely rewired and all the seats replaced. New carpeting, new lighting fixtures…You can see how expenses would add up.”

“On the other hand,” said Brian, “the new mall would mean more taxes paid into the city treasury. The city council would like that.”

“The newspaper article claims that the historical society plans to come up with most of the restoration money,” Mrs. Quinn said. “They know it's going to take time, but once they get approval from the city council they can start raising the money.”

“Dad,” Brian said, “those women from the historical society said a city inspector classified the building as sound, but Mr. Marconi says it's dangerous. Are you going to find out who's right?”

“My job is to find out for Mr. Marconi if the accidents really were accidents and if they weren't, then who's to blame.”

“Did you complete your investigation of the theater?”