Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway by Diana Dempsey Read Free Book Online Page A

Shanelle wags her finger at me. “Ms. Happy Pennington, do not go looking for trouble where it doesn’t exist. Trouble will find you if it’s there. Believe me, I know.” Then she frowns and looks away.
    Trixie glances from Shanelle to me and shakes her head slightly. I know she’s thinking what I am: that it’s the second time tonight Shanelle has gotten distracted by whatever is bothering her. I wish I knew what that was. I bet Trixie and I could help her.
    Well, she’ll share when she’s ready. And if she doesn’t, we’ll pry it out of her. That’s what friends are for.
    “Maybe we should walk to the stage now,” Trixie says, “even though it’s probably the most haunted part of the whole theater. Did Mario ever do a show on haunted Broadway, Happy?” she asks as I lead us into the corridor.
    “Not that I’ve seen. Haunted New York, yes. But not Broadway specifically.”
    “Don’t you go telling him he best come to Manhattan this very minute to shoot one,” Shanelle orders from behind me.
    “I would never!” Fortunately I’m not so fixated on Mario that the idea crossed my mind.
    We proceed to the stage, our heels echoing in the emptiness. It is very strange, and indeed quite spooky, for us to be alone in the theater. There are so many dark corners, and so many hulking items I don’t look at twice during the day, that somehow take on a menacing aspect now.
    Feigning confidence, I stride through the wings and onto the stage. It’s pretty much empty—the glittering staircase down which Lisette fell has been moved—and it’s saved from total darkness by a single light upstage center.
    “The ghost light,” Trixie whispers, coming up behind me.
    “Always left on when everyone is gone,” Shanelle murmurs. I watch her shiver. Even she seems cowed by the paranormal possibilities.
    Not that I took those very seriously until recently. But in Winona, Minnesota, Mario bore witness to a few spectral events. That went a long way toward banishing my skepticism, I can tell you.
    We look around. It’s so dark that I can’t see past the first few rows of the orchestra section. The front mezzanine could be loaded with ghosts taking our measure and I wouldn’t have a clue. My eyes drift to the apron of the stage where Lisette met her Maker just hours ago.
    I clear my throat. “The light is to ward off ghosts,” I declare firmly.
    “Maybe,” Trixie says. “Or maybe it’s left burning so the ghosts have enough light to see.” She hesitates. “So they don’t get mad.”
    “The sooner we get out of here, the less mad they’ll be.” Shanelle sets her hands on her hips. “So what are we looking for, Happy?”
    “What we’re always looking for. Anything that doesn’t fit.”
    Trixie nods. “Anything weird.”
    We split up and move slowly about the stage, looking up, looking down, looking for who knows what. No question our sleuthing is hampered by the fact that we can’t turn on more lights. Of course I find myself drawn to the killer staircase.
    It’s been rolled upstage nearly into the so-called crossover, the space usually hidden by drapes where actors move from stage left to stage right and back again without the audience seeing them. I bend to examine the staircase’s lowest treads. I think I see a rust-colored stain but I’m not sure.
    I’ve been peering at the stairs for a while when it hits me. What the heck am I hoping to accomplish? Even if I do see a blood stain, what would that tell me? I already know Lisette bled heavily from her fall. I saw that. We all did.
    “Don’t go up there, Happy,” Trixie calls behind me.
    “I won’t. I’m tempted but I won’t.” I straighten and turn around. “You know what? We should get out of here. We’re not going to find anything and it’s getting on toward three in the morning.”
    “Praise Jesus!” Shanelle throws up her arms. “Girlfriend has seen the light!”
    Trixie regards me with a worried frown. “Are you sure? We haven’t