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13

THE SECRET OF AMBROSE BROWN

ABBY WAS ENTHRALLED. The people she went to school with and had known all her life had become different people altogether. The change occurred, she reflected, as they stepped into their costumes. Within minutes, Sam was slinking along sneakily as the Sly Fox. Leslie was so much like a dog that she was almost scratching her ears with her back leg. Mr. Farrow, even, had become a humble carpenter in his demeanor, cap in hand.

On stage, as scene followed scene, Abby felt transported into the world of the story.

Because this was her first rehearsal, everybody helped her. She was pushed on stage at every cue, and when she forgot what to say, someone would invariably prompt her.

Even so, the magic of the theatre began to possess her. This is what it is all about, she thought. This is why Ambrose Brown became an actor.

Cody waited outside the theatre. The Bad Man had been here in his moving machine for a long time. Now he got out of the machine and opened the trunk at the rear.

Cody’s ruff bristled. Nothing bad would happen to his Abby.

The little coyote detected movement behind him. He froze as he realized that he had made the hunter’s worst mistake. He hadn’t noticed that he himself was being hunted.

Whipping around, Cody caught shadowy movements for a fleeting second. Now, all was still. He was not fooled. There were probably five or six wild coyotes here, waiting for their chance to finish him off. He had trespassed in cubbing season.

Cody must make no more mistakes.

Joy Featherstone walked onto the stage between acts. The actors were waiting for notes on the first act. They’d had a break and were now sitting in the audience seats in excited, talkative groups.

“Attention, actors! For the first dress rehearsal, you all did remarkably well with your costumes. We’ll work again with costumes before the opening, but tonight we see what works, what doesn’t, and how we can improve, since costumes are a big part of this show. Robert and I are delighted with your competence and professionalism.” There was a rustle throughout the house as people sat up taller.

“We’ve rarely had to stop the action, you’re paying attention to your cues, and, for the most part, your lines are solid. Remember, we have less than two weeks before opening night. That’s more than enough time, but most of you are new to this, and I promise you, the time will fly by.”

“The great iron sculptor, Petr Baloun, has finished the giant dogfish ahead of schedule, and we are going to work with it in Act 2 this evening.” There were gasps. Applause broke out.

“Nobody shall touch it except the people handling it and the actors in that scene, who are Pinocchio, Geppetto, and the Blue-Winged Fairy. Does everybody understand? We want nothing to go wrong.” There were nods and sounds of agreement from the actors.

“All right! Places, please, for Act 2!” Joy smiled broadly and exited the stage. The actors jumped up to prepare for the next scene.

Sam’s part was in the first act only, so he had changed back into his shirt and jeans, and was helping Abby with the details of the Blue-Winged Fairy’s role. He guided her to the wing on stage left, pulled the rolled-up script out of his back pocket, and showed her the timing of her next entrance.

“At the end of Act 1, Pinocchio and Wickley have been rowed across the Truant Sea. At the top of Act 2, they’re about to enter Runaway Island, where there’s the big carnival scene. Some of the kids have already turned to donkeys. Get ready to enter when you see that Pinocchio has a tail and ears. The tail goes on first, then the ears. When he looks into the pond and sees his ears, move onto stage right there,” Sam pointed. “Stand in front of that bush, on this side of Pinocchio. Got your lines?”

Abby nodded tensely. She didn’t want to screw up. “Thanks, Sam. I’m remembering the story as we go along.”

Sam gave her a quick hug. “Do you want me to stay?”

“No, I’m fine for now, thanks. Go watch from the seats, but come back after I exit. Oh! Which way do I exit?”

“Stage right. The other side. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” Sam grinned and disappeared behind the folds of the curtains.

“Fine?” said a whisper in her ear. “You’re great. You’ll be on stage one day, mark my words.”

“Ambrose?” asked Abby.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“My pleasure. Your coyote is outside guarding us, Abby. He’s a good animal.”

“Yes, he is. He always protects me.”

“He’s protecting us all. I’ll report back.”

Ambrose was gone. Abby briefly wondered what he’d meant, then she turned all her attention to the stage. The scene had begun.

Cody crouched outside the theatre, quivering with fear, but biding his time. The Bad Man had finished digging holes and placing upright sticks all around the back of the theatre. A lot of them had been placed at the doors. Now, he was uncoiling a skinny, long white rope. He ran it from stick to stick, then fed it through his fingers until it reached his car.

Behind him, Cody could sense movement. He didn’t look. He didn’t need to. The moment was coming when the coyotes would converge on him. He was ready.

The Bad Man started the motor. He leaned out of his machine and made fire with a little stick. He put the fire to the end of the rope and watched it burn.

The wild coyotes came slowly, stealthily, quietly. Cody waited for just the right moment.

When they were almost upon him, Cody jumped up into the air and raced to the Bad Man’s machine. Five howling coyotes followed, snapping and growling.

Owens was shocked. His eyes bulged. He pulled his legs into his car, preparing for a speedy getaway. Cody was too quick. He leapt into the car, over Owens’ legs and out the passenger side window. Owens howled and raised his arms in alarm. The wild coyotes streamed into Owens’ car. He hollered as they ripped and tore and panicked.

Cody watched as the leader and one other leapt out the window and headed back home in full flight.

Owens gunned the engine, pulled his door shut, then started to drive off as two more coyotes scrambled out the driver’s side window. Realizing there was still one more inside the car, Owens slammed on his brakes. He jumped out, tattered and bloody, followed by the last coyote, who shot out of the car like a cannonball.

Owens had left his car in drive. It began to roll slowly down the theatre lane toward the road. Owens desperately stumbled after it as fast as he could. He reached the car door with outstretched fingers and awkwardly managed to pull himself in. He drove haltingly away, cursing bitterly.

Cody observed the flame as it ate the rope, inching closer and closer to the door where his Abby had entered the building.

He sniffed the air. He felt fear. He puzzled about how to make his fear go away.

The rope was now only six feet from the theatre door. The flame was moving faster, picking up momentum. Cody didn’t like it.

He loped over to the flame. It was too hot to pick up. He grabbed the end of the white rope closest to the door and tugged it loose. With the rope in his mouth, still burning quickly, Cody ran toward the rusted water trough in the little paddock beside the barn. He dropped it in. There was a little sizzle as the flame was extinguished by dirty rainwater at the bottom.

His fear had gone. Darkness had fallen and all was well. He would lie down and wait for his Abby.

Act 2, scene 1, the carnival, went off as well as possible with twenty first-time actors adapting to their costumes. Act 2, scene 2, began with Geppetto searching the Truant Sea for Pinocchio. This was the giant dogfish scene. The huge iron beast opened his jaws to swallow Geppetto. Its razor-sharp teeth flashed, and it roared like an angry sea. Abby could barely repress a terrified squeal. She was expected to walk in there? Talk about suspension of disbelief!

“Abby,” came a now-familiar whisper in her ear.

“Later, Ambrose! I’m about to go on!”

“You’ve got oodles of time. Pinocchio hasn’t even swum out there yet.”

“You’re right. I’m just jumpy.”

“Very understandable. Anyway, I’m reporting back. Cody led a pack of coyotes through Samuel Owens’ car and then stopped the fuse from reaching the fireworks. Everything’s fine.”

Abby was stunned. “What did you say?”

“Later. Gotta go.”

“Ambrose, I didn’t understand a word you just said!”

But he was gone. Abby was momentarily dazed. Fireworks? Owens? Coyotes? Everything’s fine?

She’d have to ask Ambrose later, because her entrance was coming up. What was her line? She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the script. Abby knelt at a stage light and peered closely. Here it was:

“The Blue-Winged Fairy appears as they hug and dance in their joy at being reunited. She nods wisely, and says, ‘Loving father, Geppetto. Brave little puppet, Pinocchio.’”

I can do that, Abby thought.

The next morning, Joy Featherstone and Robert Wick drove to Samuel Owens’ mansion. It was ten o’clock.

“There were a lot of firecrackers,” said Robert, eyes on the road. “Big ones, too. Would’ve made quite the racket.”

“Go through this for me one more time, Robert. Why are we going to see Owens when we still have so much to do before the rehearsal this afternoon?” Joy was tired. They hadn’t finished last night until after midnight. After they’d sent the actors home, they’d discussed wardrobe changes, lighting, sound effects, and production details until they were exhausted and could work no more. Everything must be perfect by opening night.

“Abby told us that Ambrose told her that Owens dug in firecrackers around the theatre and was going to set them off. With everybody in the theatre. And firecrackers were there. You have to admit it.”

“Right. So we say to Samuel, ‘A ghost told us that you were doing bad things last night.’ Ambrose also told Abby that Cody and a pack of wild coyotes thwarted him. Do we mention that, too?”

“Come on, Joy, I’m not an idiot. I’m not going to get into details, I’m merely going to offer to sell him my upper field.”

Joy rubbed her weary eyes. “Tell me why.”

“He wanted to buy the whole property so he could look out his windows and see nothing but land that belonged to him, right?”

“Right. According to Gus LeFarge.” Joy lay back in the seat and rested her head. “But the day the ghost scared him, he said he wanted to buy the farm to burn down the theatre.”

“True, but that was all bluster. Hopefully he’s forgotten all about that, and has gone back to his original goal. And the upper field is the only part of Wick Farm that he can see from his windows.” Robert looked pleased with himself. “He can’t see the barn.”

“You jump to the conclusion that Owens will leave us alone if he owns the field.”

“Yes, Joy, I do. He tried to scare us last night. You have to agree, if the firecrackers had gone off, the explosions would have scared the living daylights out of everybody.”

“And you think he was trying to scare us into selling him Wick Farm?”

“Absolutely! His message being that if he could set fireworks he could do a lot more. Obviously we don’t want to sell the whole thing, but we’ll never miss that field. Am I making any sense?”

“Possibly. It’s worth a try.” She yawned.

Robert parked his truck beside Owens’ Mercedes. He hustled to open Joy’s door for her.

“Why are you so darned perky this morning?” she asked.

Robert winked and escorted her to the big wooden door. “Just watch me,” he whispered confidently. He lifted the evil-looking brass eagle door knocker and knocked three times.

Within seconds, the door was opened by a small man with a stooped bearing.

“May I help you?” asked Walter importantly.

“Yes, thank you,” answered Robert, adjusting his tie.

He’d dressed with care this morning. “We’re here to see Samuel Owens.”

Walter looked worried, all trace of bravado instantly gone. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr. Owens is with his doctor.”

“Is he ill?”

“No, he’s had another accident.”

Robert shot Joy a look. Joy raised her eyebrows slightly.

Walter continued. “May I tell him who is calling on him? He will get in touch with you when he feels up to it.”

Joy stepped forward, and spoke in a charming, persuasive manner. “I’m sure he’d like to see us now. We’re dear old friends. We’ve come to visit him in his time of need.” She leaned closer. “And you know, don’t you, that he has very few friends. If you turn us away, he’ll have no visitors at all, and I imagine he might not be happy about that.”

Walter’s face showed indecision. The woman was right, Walter thought. He’d never had visitors before, except Mrs. Casey, and she wasn’t here very much at all anymore, and whenever he did see her she looked unhappy. Might Owens be upset with Walter if he didn’t let them in?

Using his hesitation to their advantage, Joy bustled through the door. “I missed your name,” she said.

“W . . . Walter,” he stammered. “But I’m not sure he wants guests.”

“Of course he does!” Joy brazened on. “Everybody needs a friend when they’re down. Come, Robert, Walter is taking us to see dear Samuel.”

Faced with this immovable force, Walter was totally defeated. In trepidation, he led them up the grand marble stairs to Owens’ master bedroom.

The doctor was leaving.

“Walter, he’ll need a home nurse twice a day to clean and rebandage those wounds. I’ve made arrangements, so expect someone at six this evening. Give him one of these antibiotic pills four times a day until they’re finished.” The young doctor handed Walter a large plastic pill bottle and hurried down the hall. He looked back and took in Robert and Joy. “Good morning,” he said, and ran down the stairs. “I’ll let myself out,” he called over his shoulder, and the door slammed.

Robert looked at Joy and whispered, “He must be new around here. I’ve never seen him before.”

“You’ll probably never see him again, either. He was in an awful hurry to leave.”

“Owens has that effect on people.”

“Who’s out there?” Owens bellowed from inside the room.

“Speak of the devil,” murmured Joy.

“Walter! I don’t want visitors! Walter!”

Joy put her hand on the shaking arm of the horrified man. “You go. We’ll handle this,” she said soothingly. “Don’t worry, Walter, we’re old friends. We understand his little moods.” Walter clattered down the gracious, curving staircase and disappeared through a door.

“Get him, Tiger,” said Robert to Joy as he opened the heavy door to the master suite.

Lying in a luxurious chocolate brown satin-shrouded king-sized bed, propped up with leopard skin-covered pillows of various sizes, with exotic animal skins covering the polished hardwood floor, was Samuel Owens. Bandages covered most of his face and head. The little skin that was visible around his eyes showed tips of red, swollen gashes. His hands were invisible under huge pads of white gauze. What was under the covers was anybody’s guess.

“Are you all right?” asked Robert, looking pale himself. He hadn’t expected this much damage.

“Walter! Walter!” Owens barked angrily. His voice was muffled by the bandages and could hardly be heard, which caused him further distress.

Joy pulled an ocelot footstool over to the bed and sat down. “I’ll get him in a moment, Samuel. We just wanted to pop in to give you our best wishes. We’ll be gone in one minute.” Joy turned to look at Robert, who stood with his hands in his pockets near the door, anxious to leave. “Robert, why don’t you tell Samuel your good news. By the looks of him, he could use some.” Joy smiled kindly at the invalid.

“Yes. Yes, Joy. Good idea.” Pulling himself together, Robert took one step closer to the bed. “I’ve decided to put my upper field on the market. You can see it from here,” he said, indicating the large bay window with a sweep of his arm. “And since you were interested in buying my property before we went into the theatre business, I thought you should have first crack at it.” Robert rocked back on his heels and waited for a response.

Owens finally spoke. “No agents.”

Joy gave Robert a little nod.

“No agents,” he agreed.

“Market value. Not a penny more.”

Robert nodded. “Sounds fair to me.”

“Deal. Let’s do it now. Bring me that pad of paper.” He looked at his Louis XIV mahogany scrolled desk by the window. Robert lifted the pad and a pen and brought them to the bed.

“Joy Drake, write this.” Owens dictated.

Joy did as she was told, and after small changes in the wording, everyone was happy with the result.

“Now sign,” he ordered Robert. Robert obliged.

Owens struggled to sit up. He tried unsuccessfully to hold the pen in his mitted hand. After three tries, Joy took pity on him.

“Samuel, sign it with your mouth.” She placed the pen carefully between his teeth, and Owens signed the contract with an “X.”

“Since it doesn’t look like your signature, Samuel,” said Joy, “We’ll have to trust that you’ll honour the agreement.”

Owens glared at her. “Walter will witness it. Get the phone and dial the number of my banker. It’s in the red book beside the phone. Look under ‘B.’”

Robert did as he was told and brought the receiver to Owens. Joy held it to his ear.

“Tony, Owens . . . Fine . . . Robert Wick will be coming by in half an hour. Give him one hundred thousand dollars. Get the deed and a receipt and bring it to me before noon.” Owens pushed away the receiver and Joy put it back in the cradle.

“Now get out,” Owens growled. “You can see I’m in pain.”

“One more thing, Samuel,” said Joy with authority. Robert looked at her with shock. He was itching to get out of there.

“Does this purchase satisfy your need to own Wick Farm?”

“It does,” replied Owens.

“And we’ll have no more incidents?”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” he exploded angrily.

“Joy, let’s go. The man’s in pain.” Robert appeared to be in pain himself.

“Not until Samuel here swears he won’t cause us any more trouble.” Joy made herself comfortable. She held the contract up in front of her, as if she was ready to tear it in two. “I’m prepared to wait.”

Robert clamped his mouth shut.

Owens sighed. “You win, Joy. I promise, no more trouble. I have what I want now that Robert has sold me that upper field.” His bloodshot eyes looked helplessly at Joy, then Robert. “Now, I need my rest.”

Joy stood, taking Robert’s hand. “Thank you, Samuel,” she said. “I hope we can count on your word this time.”

“Oh, yes, you can,” he said feebly. “This time, I’m a beaten man.”

Outside the mansion, Robert opened the car door for a grim Joy.

“What’s the problem? The theatre is a hundred thousand dollars richer, and Owens is happy. He got what he wanted. He’ll never bother us again.”

“I can’t help but think of Neville Chamberlain making a deal with Hitler before the war. Peace in our time. Hitler attacked anyway.”

“Relax, Joy. Owens has no reason to wish the theatre harm now.”

“I hope you’re right, Robert.”

“You were terrific in there, the way you got past the butler.”

“And you looked like you were going to throw up.”

Robert shot her a sideways glance as they turned onto the road. “I talk tough, but I’m not such a big shot, am I?” he said sheepishly.

Joy laughed. “I love you just the way you are.” She kissed him on the cheek, and laughed again as he blushed scarlet.

Abby stretched happily and yawned. With her big toe she opened the drapes a crack. Sunlight streamed into her little bedroom under the eaves. Sam had driven her home in the red truck last night after the rehearsal. He’d put her bike on the flatbed with Cody. She’d recently earned her driver’s licence, but her parents preferred that she didn’t drive while they were gone.

Sam, she thought. Sam was wonderful. She closed her eyes and relived the kisses that they’d shared as he dropped her off. Goosebumps shivered down her spine. She could’ve stayed in the cab of that truck all night, held in Sam’s gentle arms, kissing Sam’s kissable lips. Is that bad? Abby wondered briefly. At least I’m happy. She grinned as she twisted her pyjama-clad legs out of her warm bed and sprang to a standing position.

Noticing the blue sparkles on her dressing table, Abby vividly recalled the strange events at the theatre the night before. As well as the firecrackers, there were coyote tracks everywhere, and there were signs that a car had had trouble getting out of the ruts beside the driveway.

Interesting, Abby mused as she brushed her teeth.

Later that afternoon Abby arrived at the theatre and headed straight for the shower. That morning Leggy had learned to drop her head comfortably while being lunged, and Dancer and she had had a wonderful hack. It had been an altogether satisfactory day so far, and Abby was feeling good.

Towelled dry and sitting at the dressing table ready to apply her Blue-Winged Fairy makeup, Abby sensed a presence. Her backbone prickled.

“Ambrose,” she said nervously. “Tell me that’s you.”

“Today is the anniversary of my death,” he solemnly stated.

“Really?”

“Yes. Twenty years ago today.”

“I’m so sorry. What did you die of?”

Ambrose Brown slowly began to appear. Today, he looked like the Tin Woodsman from The Wizard of Oz.

“It would be romantic to say that I died of a broken heart,” he said. “But I died from an overdose of sleeping pills.”

Abby was dumbfounded. “You committed suicide?”

“I prefer not to put it like that. I had no intention of dying, I merely wanted attention.” He began to pace as he spoke, clanging slightly when tin met tin. “I was in love with someone who didn’t love me, couldn’t love me the way I wanted. I foolishly imagined that he would find me dying. I envisioned it all. He would panic, get help, sit with me, hold my hand, fix me up, and ultimately realize how important I was to him.” He stopped pacing and looked at Abby. His voice went flat. “It was a romantic notion. And deadly, as it turned out.”

“Holy,” said Abby under her breath. She wondered how to take all this information. “Mr. Pierson says that suicide is the most selfish way to die.”

Ambrose looked at her thoughtfully through his silver makeup. “It is. But I only knew that later, when I saw the devastation and guilt I’d caused. People I loved thought that they’d let me down. They worried endlessly that they should’ve seen the signs, that they should have done more for me, been nicer to me. But none of that was true. I was desperate to reach one special person, and managed to destroy myself and hurt everyone else around me.”

“And you didn’t think it would happen that way?”

“No! Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it, now, would I?” he snapped.

“I don’t mean to upset you, Ambrose. I guess I think it’s only logical that people would be hurt by suicide.”

“You’re hard, Abby, very hard.” Ambrose began to pace again. “Firstly, I didn’t have any idea how much people cared about me. Secondly, my reasoning was skewed by a slight drinking problem. And thirdly, I had no intention of actually being successful. I thought I’d calculated exactly how many pills would make me sick enough to look like I’d tried, but not enough to do me in. I was wrong. So shoot me.”

“Ambrose, stop pacing, please. I’m getting dizzy.” Ambrose glared at her, but perched on the edge of the dressing table. “Thank you, that’s much better.” Abby stood and faced him. “I’m not hard, Ambrose. I’m really very sympathetic. My mother has a drinking problem, too. She doesn’t always make good decisions when she’s had a snoutful, so I understand, I really do. And I know it’s horrible when your feelings are one-sided.” She was thinking of Sam. “If you didn’t mean to commit suicide, it’s extremely sad that you shortened your life for nothing.”

“Thanks, Abby,” the ghost responded, softening.

“The person who you loved, who couldn’t love you, was that person hurt, too?”

“Yes, indeed. I don’t think he had any idea, though.”

“Of what?”

“That it was his attention I was trying to get. I loved him with all my heart, still do, but I don’t think he ever knew.”

“Really? That’s sad, too.”

“No. I don’t think it is. You see, if he knew he’d think it was his fault, and it wasn’t. He was married. He couldn’t become what he wasn’t.”

“You mean he was straight, and you weren’t?”

“To put it bluntly, yes.”

“You must have thought you had a chance, though. I mean, for you to love him so much, you must have had some encouragement.”

Ambrose sighed. “The mind is a curious thing, Abby. We see what we want to see, we hear what we’re hoping to hear. The one thing we all do well is fool ourselves.” He tried to cross his legs, but the tin wouldn’t accommodate the movement, and clanked loudly. “He was a dear friend, and treated me well. It was all in my head from there.”

“Oh, Ambrose, it must have been awful for you. To be so desperately in love, with no chance of fulfillment.”

“If I’d had more sense, I would have gone away. Made a new life for myself. But I didn’t. And here I am.”

“Why are you here, Ambrose?” asked Abby. Hoping not to offend him again, she quickly added, “I’m glad you are, but why are you?”

“To be near the one I love.”

“The one you love is here?”

“It’s been twenty years,” Ambrose said, evading the question. He shook his head and smiled. “Twenty years of haunting this place. I’m getting tired. Maybe I’ll be allowed to rest soon.”

“Who decides that, Ambrose?”

“There’s not a rule book, no matter what the occult ‘experts’ say. It drives me nuts, cuckoo, crazy in the head to hear what those crackpots say.” Ambrose was on another rant. “As if they have any idea!”

“Ambrose, I’m sure you’re right. Unless you happen to be dead yourself, how could you know how it is on the other side?” Abby felt she’d sufficiently appeased him. “Then how is it decided when a ghost gets to rest?”

“It’s individual. Different in every circumstance. Each ghost decides for himself, on his own terms, for his own reasons.”

“If it’s up to you, then, what’s the problem?”

“You make it sound so easy!” he flared. Immediately, he calmed. “I’ll rest when I’m assured my love is happy. And the way it’s looking now, that will be soon.”

Abby was itching to ask the logical question, but she didn’t want to pry, or seem too presumptuous. Ambrose had a mercurial temper.

Suddenly the answer came to her. “It’s Robert Wick, isn’t it?” she blurted out. “It’s Robert Wick whom you love!”

Ambrose said simply, “Of course.” And he disappeared.