Almost as soon as Desmond Haynes had climbed down, things started to happen. There were stirrings below, then the sound of electric switches being thrown, and the stage was bathed in light. Out beyond the curtain I heard the scrape of chairs and the orchestra tuning up. The whisper of voices floated up to me from backstage. Louder sounds, muffled by the curtain, came from front of house, hinting that the theater seats were filling up.
Then I saw the chorus girls lining up below me, ready for their first entrance. A round of applause sounded as the conductor came out. The tap of a stick and the overture started. The curtain went up. More applause. The girls ran onstage. More applause. The first song. The arrival of the motor car with the young men, and then I held my breath. Blanche Lovejoy made her first entrance. She was sparkling tonight. The audience roared at her jokes, clapped wildly at her songs. And nothing went wrong.
The first act finished and the lights were dimmed. I was becoming stiff and tired up here, but obviously I couldn’t get down for another hour. Were there to be no more ghostly appearances, I wondered, now that Miss Lovejoy had won over her audience and assured a sold-out house?
The second act got started. We came to a scene when the girls are onstage alone. It was a naughty song about how they would like to dance the cancan at the Moulin Rouge. At the end of it, the girls line up to do a high-kicking number in their underwear. Very risqué. I was enjoying the absolute symmetry of their line when suddenly something went flying down onto the stage. It struck the girl on the end of the line on the head, knocking her to the stage with a sickening thud. The girl beside her was pulled down to her knees. There were screams from the girls onstage as well as from the audience. The orchestra faltered as male actors rushed onto the stage. They lifted the thing off the girl and turned her over. It was Lily.
“Is there a doctor in the house? Somebody call a doctor!” someone was yelling.
I had just started to climb down when I thought I saw a flash of movement, high on the wall on the other side of the stage. Did I dare to try and cross the catwalk? I didn’t have the nerve, and besides, I didn’t want to confront any kind of adversary at this height. I climbed down as quickly as I could. As my foot hit the bottom step I was grabbed.
“Got ya. This is the one who done it,” one of the stagehands shouted. “I caught her coming down.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “I was up there spying for Miss Lovejoy. Besides, whatever it was that dropped, fell from the other side of the stage. Now let go of me and let’s see if we can catch the person that did it. Come on. Follow me.”
He did, unwillingly. We rushed around the back of the set.
“Did anybody climb down from any of the ladders over here?” I demanded of the stagehands who were standing looking shocked.
“Nobody.”
“Then I suggest some of you go up there and look for the one who did this. He or she will still be hiding up there.”
Again they did as I said, looking at each other uncertainly.
I turned to see the scene onstage. The curtain had been brought down. There was a buzz of anxiety from the audience. A group of people were kneeling or standing around Lily. I could now see that the object that had fallen was a sandbag, one of those used to secure the backdrops when they are hauled up into the flies.
“She’s dead,” I heard somebody say. “It must have broken her neck.”
Then I saw Blanche Lovejoy. She was standing there with a look of utter horror on her face. She had turned so pale that her face was almost green. I had seen her when the lemonade had been thrown over her, when the pillar had fallen, and she had looked shaken each time. Now I realized that she had been acting before. That had been stage fear. This was the real thing. Blanche Lovejoy was terrified.
All around me I could hear whispers about the ghost, quiet sobbing. I stepped out onto the stage. “Somebody call the police,” I said.
“The police? No, not the police,” Blanche said quickly. “This was either the work of the ghost or a horrible accident. Somebody left a sandbag balanced in the wrong place or a rope broke. And it couldn’t have been aimed at me this time. I wasn’t even onstage in that scene.” She sounded hysterical.
“Someone’s been killed. The police need to investigate,” I said. “If you don’t call them, I’ll do so myself.”
“What are you doing here, anyway? I fired you,” she said.
“Keeping an eye on you, Miss Lovejoy. Making sure you stayed safe.”
“And I did, didn’t I?” She put a hand to her mouth. “It was poor dear little Lily . . .”
I left the stage, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Lily, the one who couldn’t always be trusted to keep her mouth shut, who had made some interesting hints that she knew something . . . I started to climb the stairs from backstage to the dressing rooms. It had just occurred to me that maybe there was a walkway around the wall that led straight to the upper level without crossing the backstage area at all. It had also occurred to me that certain people were in the theater but not onstage when the accidents happened. People I had overlooked because they were so unlikely.
I ran along the narrow hallway and pushed open the door of the wardrobe room. Madame Eva looked up in surprise, pins sticking from her mouth.
“Whatever is it, my dear?” she asked.
“One of the chorus girls has been killed,” I said. “A sandbag fell on her. You didn’t see anyone in the hallways up here, did you?”
“My dear, I have been trying to fix the costume that had lemonade thrown all over it,” she said. “I haven’t had time to wander around. Poor Miss Lovejoy, she will be desolate.”
I closed the door and ran down the hall to Blanche’s dressing room. Martha looked up as I came in without knocking.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “You don’t just barge in here.”
She was dressed all in black, her little bird eyes darting as I came toward her.
“You planned this whole thing between you, you and Blanche, didn’t you? A great way to bring in the customers—let them think the place was haunted. And why not bring in a simple girl detective so that you can show the world that even a professional couldn’t solve your little mystery.”
“I don’t know what you’re rambling about, girl,” she muttered. “Go on, get out of here. I’ve got work to do, ironing Miss Lovejoy’s dress.”
I noticed how easily she moved across the room. She was old, but she was still sprightly. And she was small. Had she somehow managed to hide herself in that table, maybe rigged with a little trapdoor, to knock over the jug at the right moment?
And then, of course, the bigger question—was she strong enough to have positioned a sandbag to fall on a chorus girl who couldn’t keep her mouth shut? Ridiculous, I thought. How could an old woman like her climb up and down ladders, let alone drag sandbags?
“Go on. Beat it. Clear off, I say.” She came at me with the iron in her hand. “Your services are no longer wanted here.”
“I’m sure they are not,” I said, backing away slightly because I could feel the heat from the iron. “The last thing you and Miss Lovejoy want is a detective who has uncovered the truth.”
That may have been a stupid thing to say, but I was banking on the fact that I could fend off an old woman if necessary. Fortunately I didn’t have to put this theory to the test. The door burst open and Blanche came in.
“Martha. She’s dead. A sandbag fell on her and she’s dead. How could that have happened?”
There was a horrible silence during which the women stared at each other. Martha’s face was defiant.
“You didn’t?” Blanche said in a trembling voice. “You couldn’t have done.”
She didn’t notice me as the open door now hid me from her.
“You silly girl,” Martha said sharply, “did you want to risk the truth coming out? Do you want to be the laughingstock of New York City? Blanche Lovejoy had to fake her own ghost to bring in the customers because she was too old and fat to be a leading lady any longer?”
“Stop it!” Blanche shouted. “This has gone too far. And now they’ll close us down anyway.”
“Of course they won’t if you keep your mouth shut,” Martha said. “I rescued you from the gutter, girl. Don’t you ever forget that. You and that baby of yours. You’d never be where you are today if it wasn’t for me. You owe me a great debt.”
“I know that. And we’ll be all right, won’t we. We’ll just keep quiet and say nothing. There’s no way anyone can ever prove this was anything but an accident. Nobody else suspects.”
“She does,” Martha said, pointing at me.
Blanche spun around. “You!”
“Yes, Miss Lovejoy. I’m not quite as simple as I look,” I said. “I’m sure you hired me because you thought I’d never come to the truth, but I did.”
“We’ll have to get rid of her somehow,” Martha said, pushing between me and Blanche, the iron still in her hand. “Lock the door, Blanche. Your headache powders. They should knock her out and then we can dump her somewhere.”
“No!” Blanche shrieked. “Don’t be silly. This has gone too far already. There is to be no more killing, Martha. A little hocus-pocus to bring in the crowds is one thing, but killing people?”
“That Lily would have gone on blackmailing you, and you’d never have known when she’d forget to keep her mouth shut. And this one—this one is dangerous.”
She waved the iron at me again in a threatening manner.
“Do you promise not to go to the police if I let you go?” Blanche asked in a trembling voice.
“I don’t need to go to the police,” I said. “They’ll be here by now. The truth will come out whether you want it to or not. Your friend Desmond Haynes—he already suspects. We spoke before the show tonight. And if Lily figured it out, you can bet she shared her suspicions with some of her friends. She was never one to keep her mouth shut.”
“But Lily—they’ll never be able to prove it wasn’t an accident, will they? You can’t prove it wasn’t an accident?”
“I don’t know. It depends if there were any witnesses,” I said. “I recommend that you tell the truth, Miss Lovejoy. Otherwise you’ll never be able to live with yourself.”
“We’ve got to get rid of her, Blanchie,” Martha insisted, shaking Blanche’s sleeve. “If not, we’re ruined.”
“We’re ruined anyway, Martha,” Blanche said. “You don’t think they’ll keep the theater open after this, do you?”
“But I did it all for you, Blanche. I’ve done everything for you.” Her old voice cracked. “I’ve worshipped you. I’ve given up my whole life for you.” She started to cry.
“Don’t cry, my sweet. We’ll make it all right.” Blanche took Martha into her arms and they clung together, swaying piteously in their joint misery. I took the opportunity to slip out of the room.