"Jack? Peirce is such an old man. You don't think he could be a threat, do you?"

The ghost grunted. Back in '46, a cop I used to work with went to arrest an eighty-two-year-old man for smacking his wife around. The guy didn't shine to a buttoned-up yancy telling him what he could or couldn't do with his little woman.

"What happened?"

Long story short, the cop was clocked twice with a ball bat before his partner iced the old fart. "Excuse me!" I told Maggie. "Change your mind about the ladies'?" "No, the man."

"What?"

I climbed out of my seat and hurried down the aisle to the far end of the stage, where I called to Bud in the wings. Smiling, he approached me.

"Hey, Pen. What's up?" he asked, crouching down on one knee.

I jerked my head toward Brainert and Hedda, who were locked in conversation at the bottom of the steps that led up to the stage. Harmony had arrived, too. She looked stunning tonight-a photo negative of her grandmother in a white summer dress, a choker made of shiny black gemstones, and her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail.

"Listen," I said softly, "you remember what happened the last time Hedda was on stage. Have you checked this place out thoroughly?"

Bud frowned. "You don't think-"

"Oh, but I do."

To my relief, he didn't question me. While I watched, he checked the curtains, walked the length of center stage while peering up, into the catwalks. He checked the microphone wires, the chairs. Bud even glanced under the tablecloth, presumably for anything that looked like an explosive device. Then he stepped behind the chairs and walked toward the staircase, using small, cautious steps while following the path Hedda would take to her seat.

Suddenly, Bud froze. He took a step backward. His head jerked in my direction, and when Bud's eyes met mine, I knew he'd found something.

While I watched, Bud called an usher, whispered something to the teenager. The kid took off backstage, returned a moment later with an aluminum easel under his arm. He and Bud set the display up so that its tripod legs straddled the spot where Bud had paused. The usher ran off again, and returned with the sign advertising Hedda's appearance that had stood in the lobby. He placed it on the easel.

Bud approached me, his face pale. "The trapdoor was unlocked," he said. "I felt it give under my foot. Put more weight on it and the door would have opened right up. Anyone standing on it would have fallen through. It's a fifteen-foot drop to a concrete floor. At Hedda's age, a fall like that could be fatal."

"Could this be an accident?"

Bud shook his head. "Someone had to do it. A trapdoor doesn't unlock itself-"

"When?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, but it had to have happened recently. I've been back and forth across this stage for the past two hours. The door would have popped open before."

I frowned. That spot was exactly where Pierce Armstrong had been standing while he waited for Dr. Pepper to help him down the stairs.

"Bud, do you think Pierce Armstrong was the one who unlocked that trapdoor-"

A burst of applause drowned out my words. Barry Yello had walked onto the stage to a raucous greeting. As he began his introduction of Hedda, Bud gestured for me to go find a seat. He tapped his watch and mouthed, "Later." Then he moved to the wings.

TWO HOURS LATER, Bud Napp was shaking his head at me. "Sorry to shoot your theory down, Pen, but there's no way Pierce Armstrong could have set that trap for Hedda."

The movie had finished playing by now and the theater was clearing out. Practically everyone was heading off to the open-air block party on the Quindicott Commons-everyone but me and Bud. I was standing on the stage next to him, listening as he shot my meticulously reasoned theory all to hell.

"Are you certain Pierce couldn't work the lock?"

"Look here," he said, moving the aluminum easel. "On this side of the trapdoor, there are no bolts, no hinges, no screws. That stuff is underneath. Otherwise people on stage would be tripping over the hardware all the time."

I studied the trapdoor; it certainly did look like part of the floor. I sighed. "So how does one go about unlocking it?"

"You have to go under the stage," Bud explained. "Which means if Pierce Armstrong is guilty of trying to harm Hedda, he had to have an accomplice working underneath this floor."

I nodded. "Show me."

Bud led me to the rear of the backstage area, where a narrow staircase led to an empty basement of newly whitewashed concrete. At the bottom of the steps Bud flipped a switch and a few naked lightbulbs dully illuminated the vast space. On the wall to my right, I saw a steel fire door marked EXIT.

"Where does this lead?" I asked.

"To the alley that runs behind Cranberry Street."

Bud flipped another switch, placed his hands on the door's horizontal handle, and pushed it open. Warm air streamed into the cool, damp cellar, tainted with a whiff of garbage from the Dumpster just outside the door.

"It was unlocked," I noted.

"It's always unlocked because it's a fire door," Bud explained. "It's only locked on the outside. You'll notice I cut off the alarm before I pushed it open." He pointed to a small metal circuit box that looked like another light switch. "If I hadn't, an alarm would have rung upstairs, alerting management to a break-in."

I scratched my head. "And there's no way someone could have slipped in through that door and gotten under the stage without anyone in the main theater noticing?"

Bud shrugged. "Unless they had an accomplice inside who came down here and opened the door for them. That accomplice would have had to know about cutting off the alarm switch."

"How likely is that?"

"Unfortunately it's very likely. And there's something else you should see. Follow me." He led me to a spot in the middle of the empty cellar. "Look up."

I did. After gazing into the shadows for a moment, I finally made out the bottom of the trapdoor fifteen feet above me. It looked like a square in the ceiling with hinges on one side. Two dead bolts held the door in place and they'd both been opened. The ceiling was so high, the only way to reach it was the folding ladder set up right under the door.

"The wannabe killer must have set up this ladder," I said.

"The truth is, I set this ladder up myself, just yesterday, to change a burned-out lightbulb." Bud pointed to the ceiling. "But it's obvious to me that whoever unlocked the trapdoor did know their way around this theater."

I mulled Bud's words while he climbed the ladder and relocked the dead bolts.

"Any way to get more light around here?" I asked him from the floor.

"Try the work light," Bud replied. "It's right over the bench."

I found the fluorescent light and turned it on. Powerful beams penetrated the shadows, making this section of the large cellar twice as bright as before. That's when I noticed a small dark object on the whitewashed concrete. I dropped to all fours and picked it up.

Bud watched me from the top of the ladder. "What have you found?"

"An earring. Looks like black onyx in a silver setting. It looks new, too. There's no tarnish or dust on it. Want to see?"

Bud climbed down from the ladder and crossed to the bench. He studied the earring pinched in my fingers while he used a rag to wipe soot off his hands.

"That's not from my crew," he said. "My guys have been down here plenty, but there are no women on my work crew- and no pierced ears, noses, or lips either."

Suddenly a memory flashed into my mind-a young woman in a white dress, accented by a choker made of black gem-stones, stones that may well have been onyx. Harmony Middleton.

"Sorry, Pen, but it's getting late," said Bud, tapping his wristwatch. "And I promised Sadie I'd meet her at the block party."