Stage Fright (8 page)

An electric jolt coursed up Toni’s arm and through her body. The surge threatened to push her away, but she was intent on isolating the source. She opened her eyes and saw that her index finger had stopped on a dingy scrapbook with yellowed pages sandwiched between ivory faux leather covers. She fished the album from the shelf and swept her hand over the dingy vinyl. The word “Memories” was printed in chipped silver script across the front and in the lower right corner the initials, ‘P.J.S.’

“Gotcha!” she exclaimed an instant before the world went black.

* * * *

Thomas, Bridget and Mike were huddled behind the counter with the crotchety shopkeeper watching Toni on the tiny security camera monitor. They saw Toni’s ponytail bounce as her head swivelled back and forth before she seemed to calm then reached out towards the shelves of photo albums. She appeared to be moving in slow motion as she dragged her finger over the books.

“What’s she doing?” Mike asked.

Bridget shushed him with a shoulder nudge.

Thomas’ belly contracted. He wanted to be upstairs with her, helping her, protecting her. When he saw her pause and pull a book from the shelf he exhaled. He hadn’t realised until that moment that he’d been holding his breath.

He depressed the button on the side of his cell phone and glanced down at the screen.

“Ha! Four minutes, Jean. We’ll be out of…”

“Oh shit!” Bridget exclaimed and Thomas turned to see the redhead go sheet-white.

She and Mike were already headed for the staircase by the time he looked back at the monitor. The sight of Toni sprawled out on the floor—in grainy black and white—jolted him into action. He barely registered Jean’s grumbling.

The three ghost hunters took the stairs two at a time with Bridget leading the way. By the time the men caught up with her, she was crouched beside a conscious, albeit groggy, Toni.

Toni didn’t release her grip on the photo album as she let Bridget ease her upright. Thomas felt a wave of relief wash over him when Toni said, sheepishly, “Got it.”

* * * *

“Well, I think it’s safe to say we’re not welcome back there,” Bridget said as the door to the antique shop slammed behind them and the deadbolt was shot home with a loud
thunk
.

“Ya think?” Mike said.

Toni pressed the ragged photo album to her chest and leaned into Thomas. He tightened his grip on her waist. She pulled the cold November night air into her lungs and felt her mind begin to clear. A shiver ran over her as much from the temperature as the anticipation of finding out what might lie inside the scrapbook.

Most of the shops had closed up for the evening, but the taverns were in full swing. Toni and her entourage snaked through the clusters of smokers who huddled outside. They were still three blocks away from the theatre and the van was parked there. The smell of savoury fried bar food wafted out onto the sidewalk and overwhelmed the cloud of tobacco smoke. Toni’s stomach lurched. These encounters always took a lot out of her and their snack of hotdogs seemed hours ago. “I’m starving. Anyone else?” she asked.

“I could eat,” said Mike.

“
Quelle
surprise
!” Bridget chided in an exaggerated French accent.

Thomas pulled Toni closer and weaved his way through the crowd. “I could use a drink.”

The cosy warmth of the tavern soothed her nerves in spite of the rowdy crowd that jostled inside.

“We’ll never find a table,” Bridget shouted above the crowd.

Toni scanned the room and noticed a subtle glow of red, orange and yellow light hovering in the far corner. “There,” she said and shouldered past a cluster of young men wearing matching university hoodies. She made her way to the back of the bar and stood beside a booth. Three men and three women were mowing through a plate of gooey chips and nachos.

“Maybe we should try somewhere else,” Bridget said in her ear.

“Just give it a second,” Toni muttered, then focused on the pretty blonde at the table. She was clearly the source of the aura.

“You
asshole
!” the woman shouted then pitched her beer in the face of the man opposite her. The three on that side of the booth shot up, brushing the overspray from their clothes.

The rest of the party followed and hurried out of the bar, the angry blonde trailing behind unleashing a string of obscenities at the object of her outburst.

Toni turned and smiled at her group. “Tada!”

Bridget pulled a handful of paper napkins from the dispenser and sopped up the puddle of beer before the four slid into the vinyl seats—she and Mike on one side and Thomas and Toni on the other. Toni clutched the album against her chest. She couldn’t ignore the vibration that emanated from it and struggled not to let her concern show on her face.

“How’d you know they were going to—” Bridget stopped when Toni raised an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, right. Never mind.”

Toni winked.

A rail-thin young waiter leaned across the table, handed out the menus then tugged his tip from beneath the nacho plate. “I’ll have someone get this stuff out of your way. Can I get you folks something from the bar?”

Thomas ordered a pitcher of beer.

“And a shot of whisky,” Toni added. Thomas narrowed his eyes at her. “My nerves are shot,” she explained.

A busboy cleared the previous diners’ plates and wiped down the Formica a moment before the waiter returned with the drinks. He jotted down their order—a plate of nachos, burger baskets for the men, a chef salad for Bridget and a turkey club for Toni. As soon as he’d left, Toni laid the album on the table. Before opening the cover, she drained the shot glass of whisky, grimaced, then chased the liquor with a swig of beer.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s see what Priscilla has to show us.”

On the first page of the scrapbook was an onionskin copy of an invoice for freelance photography services from P. Stringman to the Evening Star Newspaper. The corners of the translucent sheet were darkened by the dabs of glue that held it to the yellowed page. The brittle paper crackled as Toni dragged her finger over the faded print. The invoice was dated July 29, 1945 and was for twenty-seven photographs recording the opening day of the Douglas County Fair. Toni tapped the total. “This wouldn’t even cover our dinner!”

Thomas leaned in. “It wouldn’t even cover the beer,” he said.

Written in pencil on the scrapbook page was, ’My first job as a professional photographer!’

Toni carefully turned the page and found a collection of snapshots arranged in a neat grid and secured to the paper with tiny black photo corners. She rotated the book so Bridget and Mike could see. The four scanned the black-and-white images of cows, and pies, vegetables and blue ribbons.

“She definitely had an eye,” Mike said, “great composition.”

Toni chuckled at the jack-of-all-trades. Don’t tell me, you’re a photographer too?”

Mike grinned, “Two years as editor of my high school newspaper.”

The photographs were in chronological order with notations in Priscilla’s neat hand. They’d reviewed pictures of parades and politicians and garden club shows before Thomas said, “Skip ahead to ’55 Toni.” Toni flipped through the leaves and paused at a certificate from 1955. She read the inscription, “‘Award of Excellence from the Midwest Chapter of the Continental Photojournalism Society for Best Breaking News Image.’” On the facing page was an enlarged photo of a theatre engulfed in fire. The flames framed the Rialto marquee and the words, ‘Grand Opening Tonight’.

Toni pinched the lower right corner of the leaf. A vibration travelled up her arm. “Here we go,” she muttered. She took two gulps from her beer then turned the page.

The first images showed the façade of the Rialto at dusk with the sign unlit. The visual story progressed with the lighting of the marquee, the arrival of the first patrons and the line forming on the sidewalk. There were shots of the theatre at full dark and close-ups of the sign, followed by a panicked crowd rushing out of the front doors silhouetted by plumes of smoke. Next was a smaller version of Priscilla’s award-winning shot and images of the fire trucks. A portrait of an exhausted fire-fighter, his face weary and smudged, was the last in the series. Toni lifted the page and found the rest of the book empty. She let the page fall and stared again at the images of the theatre. She felt the corners of her eyes sting with impending tears. “I was so sure,” she whispered.

Thomas laid his hand on hers. “It’s dark in here, Tone. Obviously you found Priscilla’s album for a reason. Maybe we could scan the photos, do some digital enhancement…”

“There’s nothing here, Thomas!” Toni whispered. Her voice barely registered above the din.

Thomas slid his arms across her shoulder blades and pulled her into him. He kissed her on the temple. The tenderness of it touched her and the tears that had been threatening began to flow. She blinked to clear her vision when the waiter appeared with their food. He looked awkwardly at Toni. “Uh, should I come back?”

Toni shook her head and fumbled to close the album. Her thumbnail caught on the edge of a photo, and she felt it spring free from one of the black mounting corners. She stuffed the album in the space between her hip and the wall.

“You dropped something,” the waiter said, holding the plate of nachos a few inches above the table. Toni looked down at her lap. “No,” the waiter corrected, indicating a spot with a nod of his head. “It’s on the table.”

Bridget was the first to locate the little brown strip of acetate. She picked it up by the edges and the waiter laid out the food. “Anything else right away, folks?” the waiter asked. Toni couldn’t answer. She could only stare at the Bridget’s hand. When no one at the table spoke up, the waiter said he’d check back.

“Is that—?” Thomas began.

“Film negative,” Bridget said nodding.

Mike held out his hand and Bridget passed him the strip. He held it up to the dim light hanging above the table. “There are three images,” he said. “Let’s go get this developed.” He handed it back to Bridget and she slipped it into a file folder in her bag.

Thomas motioned for the waiter and asked him to pack up the food to go. The four grabbed their Styrofoam containers and slid out of the booth. Thomas glanced at the cheque, fished a few bills out of his wallet and dropped them on the table.

They were out on the street before Thomas said what the others were likely thinking. “We don’t even know what’s on it, Mike. We can’t just hand it over to some kid at the photo counter. Even if we could, who the hell is going to develop film at this hour?”

“Police station,” Mike said. “Bridge can you call Schmidt and tell him we’re on our way?”

* * * *

It was snowing again when they pulled up in front of the police station. They hurried up the wide steps and into the warm building. The officer at the front desk greeted them with raised eyebrows. “You’re the ghost hunters, right? Here to see Schmidt?”

Mike nodded and the officer depressed a series of buttons on the phone in front of him. A voice crackled through the speaker. “Schmidt.”

“The ghost people are here.”

“Send ‘em back.”

The officer jerked his head towards a windowless steel door behind him. “Through there, second office on the left.”

Detective Schmidt sat at a cluttered desk. He was wearing jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and a baseball cap and looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“We woke you,” Bridget said, cringing.

”Well, you said it was urgent,” he answered then stared at her.

Thomas broke the standoff. “We think we’ve found something.” He nodded to Bridget who pulled the file from her bag and handed it to the detective. He flipped open the folder, glanced at the negative inside then looked up, his face was expressionless.

I wouldn’t want to play poker with this guy
, Thomas thought.

“We were hoping you could take that to your photo lab and develop it for us,” Mike said, “We found an old photo album belonging to Priscilla Stringman and that was hidden behind one of the pictures.”

“We don’t have a photo lab,” Schmidt said. “Nobody does anymore.”

A knot formed in Thomas’ stomach and Toni squeezed his arm.

Schmidt closed the folder and stood. “Everything is digital now. We can scan it into the computer and see what you’ve got.”

The four followed him down the corridor and through a door marked Digital Forensics.

Schmidt walked to a piece of equipment and laid the strip on a scanner and lowered the lid. He punched out a sequence on the computer keyboard and the equipment began to hum. He drummed his fingers on the scanner and locked his gaze on the album in Toni’s hand. “It was in there?” he asked.

Toni nodded and flipped to the page where the negative had been hidden. She passed the open book to Schmidt.

He laid it out on a desk. “Not exactly an ideal chain of evidence,” he muttered. He studied the photos of the Rialto then opened a paperclip and used it to lift one with the freed corner. “Under here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Thomas said.

“Hm.”

The scanner stopped groaning and Schmidt settled into the desk chair. The others gathered behind him and watched the computer screen as the scanned image appeared in remarkable clarity, one vertical line of pixels at a time, crawling left to right. The first photograph was of the alley between the Bijou and the Rialto. It was stuffed with a tangle of boxes and moving crates. A lone figure, a man with his back to the camera, was leaning with his left shoulder against the back wall of the Bijou. He wore a fedora, Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt and the stub of a fat cigar dangled from his right hand. His head was tilted back and slightly to the side, framed by a plume of smoke as if he’d just blown out his last drag.

“That’s Stringman,” Bridget said quietly.

“Let’s see what else we’ve got before we jump to any conclusions,” Schmidt said. He crossed his arms over his chest and leant back in the chair, never taking his attention from the screen. The second image emerged more slowly than the first. When it was fully revealed, Thomas felt Toni lean against him and heard her whisper, “My God.”