Up and down the hallway, not a soul was in sight. The ballroom was locked.
“What’s going on?” Annaliese cried out, pounding on the stubborn double doors. “Where did everybody go?”
She tucked Throckmorton and Ebenezer under the same arm and raced down a dimly lit passageway that led to the rear of the stage. The back door into the ballroom was wide open.
Throckmorton heard no voices, no laughter, no music.
“I’m too late! The party’s over.”
Annaliese stepped into the unlit, empty ballroom. Shafts of moonlight cut through the stained-glass dome, creating a kaleidoscope of eerily colored shadows. The candelabra candles had been snuffed out, yet the air still smelled smoky. The Starring Miss Chickadee Finch stage sign lay crumpled on the floor.
“She’s gone,” Annaliese whispered. “I missed my chance . . . my only chance.”
Now, footsteps sounded on the stage.
Out of the darkness a man’s voice called, “Hello? Is anybody still here?”
“Hello?” he called again.
“There’s nobody here,” she shouted back, “except me.”
“It’s Joe, from the Bird Land Big Band. In the rush to get out of here, I dropped my baton. One of my guys—Bud, the fiddler—left his violin case. I came back to get them.”
“Rush? What rush?” Annaliese asked herself out loud.
Onstage, the bandleader’s silhouette took shape. Cautiously he stepped closer to its edge. “You don’t by any chance know how to turn on the footlights, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
The bandleader fumbled about on the dark stage.
“Hey, I found them!” he said. “Thanks. I’ll be on my way. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“Wait! Don’t go!” she cried.
Annaliese dashed up the short flight of stage stairs. On the top step, she tripped on her costume’s gold cord. She spread her fingers to break her fall. Throckmorton and Ebenezer went flying in different directions. Her knees smacked against the floor.
Joe ran to her side. “Are you all right? Here, let me give you a hand.”
Setting the violin case close to where Throckmorton had landed, he hoisted Annaliese to her feet.
“Where’s the singer?” she asked in a panicked voice. “Miss Finch. I have to speak with her.”
“Long gone, little girl,” Joe answered. “She didn’t stick around for her last set. She lost her voice, or so she said.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“One of guys drove her back to the hotel.”
“What hotel?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I told you. It’s important.”
“Listen,” Joe said, taking a few steps back, “I’ve got to get going.”
“Please, sir,” Annaliese begged, “will you give something to her?”
“Maybe . . . I can’t make any promises. What is it?”
Annaliese scooped Ebenezer and Throckmorton off the floor.
Throckmorton knew at once that something was amiss. Annaliese had tucked him into the crook of her right arm. She’d tucked Ebenezer into the crook of her left arm—where Throckmorton belonged—in his favorite spot, right next to her heart.
“It’s a sock monkey,” she told Joe. “Tell Miss Finch that it’s a gift from . . . um, uh, from Great-Grandmama Easterling.”
Joe scoffed. “Gosh darn, you people and your sock monkeys . . . I don’t get it.” He shook his head. “This was the craziest party we’ve ever played, by a long shot.”
“Please . . . ,” Annaliese appealed again.
“Sure, why not.” Joe flipped open the empty violin case. “Throw it in here. The last thing I need is for one of the guys to see me hanging around with a stuffed monkey. I’d never hear the end of it.”
Annaliese’s fingers clasped Throckmorton’s neck.
Stop! he cried.
You’ve got the wrong monkey!
Too late.
The lid closed, latches clicked, and the last flickers of light extinguished. Inside the violin case, Throckmorton’s limbs contorted. His tail roped his neck like a noose. The velvety lining tickled his nose.
The case started to swing back and forth, back and forth like a pendulum.
Throckmorton sickened with fear.
Joe didn’t seem like the type of guy who had a soft spot in his heart for stuffed animals.
If only Annaliese would realize her mistake before it’s too late . . .
Ker-plunk! The violin case made a hard landing.
A moment later, an automobile engine sputtered, rumbled, and started to purr.
As the car drove off, Throckmorton faced a brutal truth: A red-heeled sock monkey is, was, and always will be just one human whim away from slipping out of sight forever.
Alas, Great-Grandmama’s not-so-grand birthday party had taken its toll. Entombed and exhausted, Throckmorton entered into a troubled slumber.