“Fine,” said Judy. “This is my stepson, Zack.”
“The one the script’s dedicated to?”
“The same,” said Judy. “We arrived late last night.”
“Really?”
“Very late,” Judy said with a smile. “The janitor kicked us out.”
“Oh, don’t mind him. That’s Wilbur Kimble. He’s been here so long he thinks he runs the place. Come on, I’ll show you to your rooms.”
Zipper barked.
“Uh,” said Zack, “I think Zipper may need to see the bathroom first. I’ll take him around back for quick walk.”
“Good idea,” said Judy. “I’ll go inside with Monica, grab our room keys, and meet you guys in the lobby.”
“Cool. Come on, Zip.”
Zack and Zipper strolled up a shaded sidewalk paralleling the Connecticut River behind the theater for a couple hundred yards.
While Zipper sniffed, found the perfect patch of grass, and did his business, Zack glanced back at the theater. The basement windows were dark this morning. No sparks popping like flashes from a digital camera on hyperdrive. Maybe Mad Dog Murphy hadn’t followed him here after all.
“Come on, Zip,” Zack said when they reached the end of the river walk. “We better head back!”
Zipper wagged his tail and led the way.
Zack watched a long black limousine pull into the parking lot behind the theater near a loading dock for trucks hauling scenery. In fact, a big eighteen-wheeler was parked there now.
The limousine, on the other hand, was probably hauling one of the famous actors arriving for Judy’s first meeting with the cast. Zack hoped it was Tomasino Carrozza, the hysterically funny clown who would be playing the title character, Curiosity Cat. When he was little, Zack had seen Carrozza do some incredibly hilarious stuff as a regular on Sesame Street.
“Come on, Zip! I want to get Carrozza’s autograph!”
They scooted down the path into the parking lot just as a chauffeur marched around the stretch limousine to pull open the rear door.
A kid stepped out. A blond boy, about Zack’s age. Wearing a navy blue blazer, khaki pants, and some sort of silk scarf tucked into the collar of his shirt.
As soon as the boy saw Zack and Zipper, he started to wheeze.
And sneeze.
A blond woman with a drum-tight face stepped out of the limo. She had an orangish, Oompa-Loompa tan.
“Remove your dog immediately,” she snapped at Zack. “Or I will be forced to summon security!”
“I’m allergic,” whined the boy. He started to gasp and rattle while his mother did karate chops across his back. “I wanna go home!”
“We can’t go home, honey!” She karate-chopped harder. “We signed a contract, remember?”
“B-b-but this is a musical, Mommy! I c-c-can’t sing!” His words stuttered out as his mother’s fists flamenco-danced up and down his spine.
“You’re a star, Derek! A Hollywood star!”
“Yes, Mommy.”
Zack finally realized the hyperventilating blond boy was Derek Stone, former star of the Ring My Bell sitcom on ABC. His dimpled cheeks and boyish grin had been on the cover of about a billion magazines, because nine-year-old girls everywhere thought he was “Hot!” Or at least that was what they thought until he hit ten and got fired from the show, and some other blond with dimples took over his part.
“Young man? The dog?” Mrs. Stone flicked her hand to shoo Zack and Zipper away. Bracelets clacked.
“Sorry,” said Zack. When he bent down to scoop up Zipper, he heard a bicycle skid to a stop.
“Hey, Derek.” It was a girl, also about Zack’s age. “You’re not afraid of a little mutt like that, are you?”
Derek struck a hand-on-hip pose and looked like he might be modeling underwear for a Sears catalog. “Afraid? Don’t be ridiculous, Meghan.”
The girl on the bike thrust out her hand toward Zack.
“Hey. I’m Meghan McKenna.”
Wow. Meghan McKenna. The Meghan McKenna.
“Uh, hi. I’m Zack. Zack Jennings.”
“Cool. Any relation to Judy Magruder Jennings?”
“She’s my mom. Well, my stepmom. But she’s not mean or anything like all the wicked stepmothers in the fairy tales and stuff.”
“Well, she’s an awesome author!” said Meghan. “Curiosity Cat Spies a Pigeon was the first book I ever read and I totally love everything she’s written since!”
“So do we!” gushed Mrs. Stone. “We’ve enjoyed her entire oeuvre!”
Zack had no idea what an “oeuvre” was. It sounded like “oov-rah.” Maybe it was a vacuum cleaner. Or a body part near your nose.
“She means they’ve read everything your stepmom ever wrote,” Meghan explained.
“Oh. Thanks,” Zack said to Mrs. Stone. “Did you like Curiosity Cat Bakes a Cake?”
“Marvelous! Incredible! Her best book ever!”
Zack grinned. So did Meghan. They both knew there was no such book.
“Well,” said Zack, “I need to go inside and unpack before the table meeting.”
“Are you in the show?” Meghan asked.
“No. I’m not an actor. You’re playing Claire, right?”
“Yeah, and I’m totally psyched! Claire is a great character!”
“Well, I know my stepmom was excited to hear you were available to do the part.” Casting Meghan had been what Judy called “a home run.” Meghan had already won a Golden Globe and had even been nominated for an Oscar.
Meghan shrugged. “I told my mom I just had to do this role. Hey, I’d do it for free!”
Mrs. Stone gave Derek a quick elbow to the ribs.
“I am also thrilled to be here,” he said, attempting to sound sincere but not doing a very good job of it.
“Hey, what’s your dog’s name?” Meghan asked Zack.
“Zipper.”
“Neat. Cool name. See you around, Zack!”
When Meghan McKenna flashed Zack her million-dollar movie-star smile, he almost dropped his dog. Zipper barked and panted and wagged his tail.
Apparently, he was a major-league Meghan McKenna fan, too.
17
Zack and Zipper climbed the loading dock steps.
The wide warehouse door had been rolled down tight, so they went into the theater through a smaller door off to the side. As soon as it slid shut behind them, they were plunged into inky blackness.
“Hello?”
Zack realized he and Zipper were backstage. Faint light glowed up ahead, leaking through the doorways and windows cut into scenery panels.
“Hello?”
He walked toward the light, past long tables covered with brown paper and filled with all sorts of hand props for the Dracula musical. Wooden stakes. Strings of garlic cloves. Jars of fake blood.
“Hello?”
His voice echoed off the stage’s towering brick walls.
He put Zipper down. The dog’s toenails clicked across the bare floor as he headed downstage toward a door in a wall made out of wooden slats and tightly stretched canvas.
Through that doorway, Zack could see the bare bulb glowing inside its metal cage—the same pole lamp he had seen last night from up in the box seats.
“What are you doing here?”
It was the grizzled old janitor. Wilbur Kimble. He came shuffling across the stage, pushing a wobble-wheeled mop bucket.
“Sorry. I guess we came in the wrong door and got lost.”
“Bad place to get lost.”
Kimble moved closer. In the harsh light of the single naked bulb, Zack could see that unlike the mannequin-faced Mrs. Stone, this guy was creased like a sunbaked mud pie.
“You in the show?” the old man asked.
“No, sir.”
“Good.”
“Yeah,” said Zack, trying to sound friendly. “Because I can’t really sing or act. I can dance a little—but not the kind of dancing people would actually pay money to see someone do.”