Stacey and the Haunted Masquerade by Ann M. Martin

Author:Ann M. Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2015-03-20T16:00:00+00:00

“Twenty-eight years ago?” Sharon, Mary Anne’s stepmother, raised her eyebrows. “You’re asking a lot. I can’t even remember what I had for dinner last night.”

Mary Anne and I looked at each other and raised our eyebrows. I had to work hard to stifle a grin. Sharon can sometimes be a bit of a flake. It’s true that she’s a wonderful, smart, loving person. It’s also true that she’s not very organized, and she’s always losing her keys or forgetting to turn on the oven when she’s baking potatoes.

While Claud was sitting for the Arnolds that Thursday evening, Mary Anne, Logan, and I had gone to Mary Anne’s house after our emergency meeting. Why? Because I had blurted out my theory that the vandalism at school might have something to do with that last Mischief Night dance twenty-eight years earlier. Mary Anne had picked up on the idea immediately, and pointed out that her dad and stepmother had both lived in Stoneybrook at that time and might remember something about the dance. So there we were, sitting in the living room, asking questions.

“I remember plenty of dances in high school,” said Mary Anne’s dad, smiling softly at Sharon, as if he were remembering romantic moments the two of them had shared long ago. “But middle school? I don’t remember going to many dances at all, and I certainly don’t remember anything ‘tragic’ happening at a dance.”

“Are you sure?” Mary Anne pressed. “This would have been a Halloween dance, or at least a Mischief Night dance.”

“Halloween … you know, I do remember something,” Sharon began slowly. “Richard, wasn’t there a dance once where a teacher was hurt?” She frowned. “Or even killed?”

Mary Anne, Logan, and I exchanged glances.

“A teacher was killed?” I asked.

“Mr. Green, wasn’t it?” Richard said in a far-off voice. “You’re right, Sharon. I do remember something, but it’s hazy. I know I wasn’t at the dance. I would only have been in — let’s see — sixth grade, and most dances back then were for the older kids.”

“So what happened?” asked Mary Anne, urging her father along.

“You know, I’m really not sure,” he said. “I’m trying to remember, but not much is coming back. Something happened, and that teacher — Mr. Green? — died because of it. But I can’t recall what it was.”

We swiveled to look at Sharon. She shook her head. “I can’t remember, either,” she said. “It was pretty terrible, though. I seem to recall girls crying in the halls.” She closed her eyes for a moment, and I could tell she was thinking as hard as she could. Then her eyes popped open. “But, Richard, you’re wrong about the teacher’s name. It wasn’t Mr. Green. It was Mr. — Mr. Brown.”

“That’s it!” he cried. “Mr. Brown. Absolutely. Now that you say it, I know that’s right.”

“Mr. Brown,” I said, making a note in the little notebook I had brought with me. “Wow, thanks for your help. Now that we know something really did happen, maybe we can find out more about the specifics.

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