Zack smiled. “Thanks, Meghan.”
“I gotta go. Catch you later!”
Meghan took off running, headed for the theater.
A theater where Zack’s real mother had once performed.
Zack’s heart started pounding harder.
That meant she could come back!
“Anyone who ever traipsed across the boards or worked here behind the scenes” was welcome to return, according to Justus Willowmeier III.
Anyone.
Including Susan Potter.
83
During a short rehearsal break, Reginald Grimes huddled in a corner of the room with Hakeem.
They spoke in hushed, tense whispers.
“I’ve been thinking about tonight. What do we do about the mothers?”
“I have an idea,” said Hakeem. “The stage will be empty tonight, yes?”
“Yes. It’s Monday. We’re dark. No performances at all.”
“Good. We can hold them there.”
“Where?”
“Do not worry,” said Hakeem. “Jamal and Badir will handle it. But tell me: Who else is residing in the bedrooms upstairs besides the Stone and McKenna families?”
“The playwright and her son. The boy with the glasses.”
Hakeem nodded thoughtfully. “Invite them to your party.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. The playwright must be detained with the other women.”
“And the boy?”
“He will be dealt with.”
84
Zack and Zipper lay on top of his bed on the fifth floor.
Earlier Zack had gone by the rehearsal room and heard a man screaming, “Five, six, seven, eight,” which was followed by a stampede of feet and pounding piano music. He didn’t really understand why Judy, the playwright, had to attend a dance rehearsal. Maybe in case they decided to change the words from “Five, six, seven, eight” to “One, two, three, four.”
Since Judy had been busy, Zack came upstairs and thought about eating.
He wasn’t really hungry, so he’d thought about watching TV.
Then he thought about reading.
He’d thought about a lot of stuff and opted for lying on top of his bedspread with his good buddy Zipper for about four hours.
He had heard birds chirp, Zipper snore, and ancient beams creak as the sun heated and clouds cooled the building.
Zack had spent the final fifteen minutes of his four-hour funk rubbing Zipper’s ears while staring across the room at the glassless frame holding the family portrait on top of his small dresser.
Zack, his dad, Zipper, and Judy.
His new mom.
Maybe that was why he was spending the whole afternoon hiding in his room: It was what he used to do a lot when his real mom was alive.
She’d scream and yell, tell him how he ruined her life, how he spoiled everything, how he was worthless, an embarrassment, and a total mistake. Zack would retreat to his bedroom, lock the door, and play with his G.I. Joes and action figures. He’d make up imaginary friends, create his own world. His pretend family could sometimes make up for his real one.
Now he was afraid his real mother could find him again.
Yes, she was dead. He knew that. He’d been at her funeral.
But…
Susan Potter could come back to the Hanging Hill Playhouse just like Bartholomew Buckingham and all the others. In fact, she could be here right now, hiding in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Maybe she’d toss him off to Lilly Pruett or give the old hag a hand with the hatchet. The ghost of Susan Potter would do whatever she could to make Zack pay for being a horrid little ingrate who loved his pretty new stepmother better than his angry old dead mother!
Zipper yawned, stretched into a stand, and marched up the bed to give Zack a sloppy smooch.
“What?”
Zipper smiled at him. Wagged his tail.
“What?”
Zipper jumped off the bed, found his grungy sponge ball.
“Oh. I see. You think I’ve spent enough time up here feeling sorry for myself? You’d rather go outside and play?”
Zipper’s tail wagged faster.
“You’re probably right. Besides, even if she is here, my mother can’t hurt me anymore.” He said it loudly enough for any invisible visitors to hear him without having to strain. “None of the ghosts can.” He climbed off the bed. “They’re ghosts. They can’t do diddly except make spooky noises, rattle the furniture, and scare me into hurting myself!”
Zipper brought Zack the ball. Dropped it at his feet.
Zack figured he’d play with Zipper downstairs on the lawn for a little while and then meet Judy when the rehearsal broke up. He grabbed a bottle of water off the bedside table in case he or Zipper got thirsty, then picked up the squishy ball.
“What ho, Zipperus!” Zack said, putting on his best Mount Olympus voice. “Lo! See how the mighty demon slayer tears the sun from the sky and flings it at the moon!”
He tossed the sponge ball out the door. Zipper chased it. Zack figured they could play fetch all the way down the hall and into the elevator. He stepped into the corridor. Zipper brought the ball back. Zack threw it down the hall. Zipper chased it.
“Bring me back the golden orb from Apollo’s chariot, boy!”
“My brother,” whispered someone behind Zack.
He whipped around.
Juggler Girl had materialized under the Exit sign at the far end of the hall.
Zipper saw Juggler Girl, too!
He dropped his saliva-soaked sponge ball on the carpet and stared hungrily at the shiny circus balls swirling above the little girl’s head.
“Help Wilbur!” Juggler Girl said, and dropped her arms to her sides.
Five balls fell to the floor and bounced down the stairwell.
Zipper took off after them.
85
Early that evening, Doris Ann Norris was at home sitting in her comfiest chair, sipping ice-cold lemonade.
Her weary feet were up on an ottoman; her contented cat was snoozing in her lap.
It had been some day at the library! First the world-famous author Judy Magruder Jennings had dropped by. Then the movie star Meghan McKenna! And the boy with the adorable dog!
Quite a day. She’d been so busy, she still hadn’t gotten around to reading the morning newspaper.
Putting aside her glass, she picked up the paper and flipped through the pages.
Nothing too interesting. Same old, same old. Even the funnies seemed dull.
Then again, she had been brushing elbows with celebrities all day. There wasn’t much in this newspaper or any other that could wow her today.
Eventually, when she reached the pages near the back—the broadsheets cluttered with used car and muffler repair advertisements—she did stumble upon one story that caught her eye:
Magician Nicodemus
Suffers Heart Attack
After Slaying Visitor
Nicodemus. That was the name of the magician Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. McKenna had been researching!
Doris Ann Norris quickly scanned the accompanying block of copy. Apparently, the vaudevillian Artemus Grimes, whose stage name was “Professor Nicholas Nicodemus,” was one hundred and five years old and had been a resident of a mental institution called the Riverstream Hospital for the Criminally Insane ever since he killed a six-year-old magician’s assistant at the Hanging Hill Playhouse back in the 1930s. Before collapsing in his wheelchair from a fatal heart attack, the ancient magician had killed a young man named Habib Mzali, a visitor from Tunisia. The police had not recovered the murder weapon, apparently a knife.
Oh, my. She knew Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. McKenna would want to know about this so she found her sewing scissors and clipped the article out of the paper. She would take it to the theater. First thing tomorrow.