Free Backstage with a Ghost by Joan Lowery Nixon Page B

dad,” Brian said politely.
    Miss Beezly smiled. “I live just two blocks away in the Tinsley apartments,” she said. “Why don’t you boys come to visit sometime? I’ll make lemonade and tell you lots of stories about the Culbertson Theater.”
    â€œAbout Horatio, too, I hope?” Sean asked.
    â€œOh, yes. I have many stories about dear Horatio.”
    â€œCool!” Sam and Sean said together.
    Brian wrote down Miss Beezly’s address and phone number in his notebook. After the old woman had gone, Brian looked over his notes. Much of what she had said sounded like nonsense, Brian thought, except for the stuff about Mr. Marconi and the city council. He would have to check that out later.
    â€œMy mom knows Miss Beezly,” Sam said. “She goes to our church. Mom says she’s real nice but kind of dramatic, and she’s always forgetting things.” He saw Brian frowning over his notebook. “I don’t know why you bothered to write down all that junk she told us. You don’t believe what she said about Horatio?”
    â€œOf course not,” he said. “But a good investigator checks out everything. Among other things, I want to find out as much as I can about the history of the theater and its current condition. Miss Beezly could be a valuable resource for that.”
    Sam grinned. “You mean like, is a ghost living in the attic?”
    Brian smiled as he tucked his notebook into the pocket of his jeans. “Why not?” he said. He and Sean had learned from their father that a good investigator doesn’t rule out any information without checking it first—even if that means tracking down a ghost.
    â€œOkay,” said Brian finally. “It’s time to meet Horatio.” He began walking toward the theater door.
    â€œWon’t your dad be mad if we show up?” asked Sam as they walked toward the theater.
    â€œHeck no,” said Sean. “We’ve helped him out on a bunch of cases before. He’ll be happy to see us.” Then Sean had second thoughts. “I hope so, anyway.”

CHAPTER TWO

    â€œN EAT,” WHISPERED SAM . The boys were standing at the top of the main aisle that led down to the stage. It was dark except for thin slivers of light that came through the broken shutters that partially covered the theater’s many windows.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œBrian, I think I heard something.”
    â€œMe, too,” said Brian.
    â€œIt’s not Horatio, is it?” Sean asked.
    â€œNo,” said Brian. “Not unless Horatio is one of Dad’s clients. Look.”
    A man walked onstage carrying a flashlight.
    â€œThat’s Mr. Marconi,” Brian whispered to Sean. Mr. Marconi was followed by Mr. Quinn and a police officer.
    â€œThe city inspector may have classified this building as sound, but I don’t think that it is,” Mr. Marconi announced.
    â€œWe’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.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œThis is not a playground,”