Free The Night Tourist by Katherine Marsh Page B

the dead would be kept in some crypt. “Are we far from St. James?”
    “ The St. James,” she corrected.
    As they flew down in big, lazy loops, Jack peered at the buildings on the busy street below. He expected to see a spire or church facade, but instead he saw oversize neon signs, cab wheels splashing through dirty banks of snow, and crushes of people gathering under brightly lit marquees. Running down the side of a large, not particularly churchlike building were the words ST. JAMES in white neon lights.
    “It’s not a church, is it?”
    “A church?” Euri laughed. “Of course not. It’s a theater.”
    They dropped soundlessly onto the sidewalk just as the last of the people who’d been waiting outside the St. James disappeared through its doors. THE PRODUCERS , read a smaller neon sign on the marquee— THE BEST SHOW EVER!
    “I’ve wanted to see this ever since I died,” Euri announced as they walked under the marquee and through a set of doors into a narrow hallway. “But it’s impossible to get a ticket.”
    “Even if you’re dead?”
    They floated past two living ushers in red vests, up a flight of carpeted stairs, and then up a narrow, curving iron staircase. At the top of the stairs a third usher, a petite blond woman in a funny-looking red cap, stepped in front of him. “No ticket? Floating room only,” she droned before handing them each a faded yellow playbill.
    Jack began to pull it out of her hand when he felt some resistance. “Say, you look funny,” she said, staring hard.
    Euri quickly stepped between them. “He used to be one of the performers. Died with his makeup on, still looks kind of living, amazing what they can do with makeup now, huh?”
    The usher grunted, and Jack felt her hand loosen on the program. “Enjoy the show,” she said.
    They floated through a door and onto a balcony that was nearly as high as the golden lyre embossed above the stage and that tilted at a precarious angle over it. Living people filled every seat—little old ladies loudly riffling through their bags for sucking candies; beefy tourists crammed into the narrow seats, laden with cameras and sightseeing guides; couples linked arm in arm, rosy after a few pre-theater drinks. Floating above their heads and in the cavernous expanse in front of them were hundreds of ghosts doing the same things. “How am I going to find Edna Gammon?” Jack asked. “She could be any one of these people.”
    Euri shrugged as they floated off the balcony, stopping under an enormous crystal chandelier. “Let’s just watch some of the show and maybe we’ll figure it out.”
    “But I don’t have time....” Jack started to say just as the theater lights dimmed and the orchestra started up. “Shhh!” said a plump old ghost floating behind them and wearing a silvery purple wig and a dead fox around her neck.
    The orange curtain opened, revealing the outside of a theater, and everyone burst into applause even though nothing had happened yet. Jack scanned his playbill. Above the black-and-white head shots of the actors was a warning printed in blocky letters:
    Please do not howl, moan, groan, wail, sing along, rattle chains, or interfere in any way with the living performers in this show. Also please do not use flash.
    Jack tapped Euri’s shoulder. “I thought ghosts can’t be heard by the living.”
    “Theaters are prone to paranormal interferences,” she said. “If some ghost is really out of control, it can affect the show.”
    Onstage, a pair of ushers sprang out of the doors of the theater and began to sing about “opening night.”
    Euri was beaming. She seemed to have completely forgotten about the search for Jack’s mom. Chorus members in ball gowns and tuxes filtered out of the wings onto the stage, belting out the rest of the song.
    Jack yawned. But just when he was about to close his eyes, he noticed a woman wandering onstage dressed differently from the rest of the performers. Her short red hair was