by JL Bryan
“Back it up some more.”
Stacey reversed the video to the moment when the cold spot first appeared, then played it.
Comparing timestamps, we found that the cold spot had appeared about thirty seconds before the ghost movie started playing on the screen tower. It had lingered near the projector until the movie stopped, then faded away.
“The case of the phantom projectionist,” Stacey whispered.
“He didn’t seem to move before he vanished,” I said. “The booth might be his lair.”
“You think it’s the same entity we saw up on stage? The one that looked like Chance Chadwick? Or maybe the one from upstairs in the screen tower? And which one has been menacing the customers? Is the phantom projectionist in cahoots with the parking lot phantom, or are they one and the same?”
“There’s no way of knowing. It’s a big drive-in. Plenty of room for multiple entities. And nothing attracts a ghost like—”
“—a haunted house,” Stacey finished for me, so I’d probably said it plenty of times to her in the past. Once a place is haunted, it’s liable to get more and more haunted over time, drawing in souls as the negative entities claim victims, harvesting energy and even souls from the living. “This could be more than one entity. A paranormal double feature.”
“Right.”
“Or maybe even a series of specters. An all-night macabre marathon of ghosts—”
“Let’s hope not,” I said. “The fewer, the better. One would be ideal.”
“Do you believe it’s just one, though?”
“Between the stage, the projection room, and possibly the farmhouse?” I shook my head. “I doubt it. Leah, Stanley’s stepdaughter, suggested her own father might be kicking around, angry about how his family farm was ruined to make way for the drive-in.”
“I’m guessing he wouldn’t be working the dead projection booth, then,” Stacey said.
“She also talked about her grandmother banging the floor with a cane when she wanted attention. The grandmother had some health issues.”
“Oh! That could explain the knocking sounds.” Stacey thought about it. “Maybe she didn’t like the movie, and that’s her way of booing.”
“That tracks with what Leah told me, too. The grandmother opposed turning the farm into a drive-in.”
“Then she must really hate the projectionist ghost. The projectionist, that must be Stanley Preston himself, right?”
“Possibly, but it’s hard to tell much from a blue blob,” I said.
“How many blue blobs are also film connoisseurs, though?”
“Leah mentioned Preston had a Chance Chadwick mustache, so maybe that was who we saw up on the stage, too. They could look similar from a distance.”
“I don’t know. The one on stage looked like the movie star. Not the grumpy scowling guy from the pictures.”
We replayed the audio and video clips a few times, gleaning what we could.
On the live feeds, nothing was happening anymore—nothing in the sunken old projection house, nothing in the overgrown farmhouse behind the fence, nothing but the wind creaking the house timbers and rustling the leaves in the trees surrounding the theater.
We waited and watched and listened, our eyes on our small screens as we sat in the towering shadow of the much larger screen ahead, the one that had presided over past generations as they gathered here to watch and listen together.
Chapter Eleven
Stacey and I pulled out of the drive-in a couple hours later, each in our own vehicles.
The van chugged down the highway, and I felt relief as Savannah pulled into view, the dawn breaking, the sun rising from the Atlantic.
I went home, where my blackout curtains turned the brightest Georgia summer day to darkest midnight, and caught up on some sleep. Phantom voices and glowing, indistinct faces haunted my dreams.
When I awoke, I cleared my mind a little with some strong coffee, and then a lot by heading to a kickboxing class. I’d fallen during out-of-town cases that begat missed lessons and restaurant meals and was trying to make up for it with extra classes. Stretching and working my muscles felt good—well, it felt good afterward, at least—and helped me get some distance from the details of the case, so I could hopefully come back with a fresh perspective.
By the time I returned home, Grant Patterson from the Savannah Historical Association had responded to a message I’d sent earlier. He suggested I call him back, so I did.
“Are you truly facing the ghost of Adaire Fontaine?” Grant asked. “Here in Savannah? Which theater is she haunting?”
“Um, no,” I said. “Sorry if my message gave that impression, I was a little tired when I wrote it. We are actually desperately trying to find any possible connections between her and Stanley Preston, the owner of the Nite-Lite Drive-In.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Grant said, in a tone he might use if I’d described eating a meal of insects and arachnids. “Adaire Fontaine did not strike me as the drive-in sort.”
“Preston was a local stage actor before opening the drive-in,” I said.
“Ah. Then we shall focus on Adaire’s brief career as a Savannah stage in Savannah in the forties, prior to her becoming a film star.”
“It sounds like you’ve started researching already. I really appreciate it.”
“Ellie, everyone knows these things about Adaire Fontaine.”
“I am realizing that as the case progresses.”
“Will you be investigating her murder?” Grant’s voice dropped into a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “Do you believe the killer was Antonio Mazzanti? The Silk Strangler?”
“That’s what I keep hearing, but I have no idea. We’re also looking for any connection between the drive-in owner Stanley Preston and the actor Chance Chadwick.”
“My goodness, this is a juicy case,” Grant said. “I can tell you Chance Chadwick never lived in Savannah, nor anywhere within a thousand miles, or I would know of it. You’ll be pleased to hear that Adaire Fontaine’s residence in Savannah, and I suppose her overall Georgia heritage, earned her a special nook in the Historical Association’s cultural history display, and we have a special archive of materials related to her performances and personal life, with an emphasis on her time in our lovely city, naturally. You are welcome to have a look. What day would be best?”
“As soon as possible,” I said. “It will really help.”
“Unfortunately, I have a dinner engagement. Fortunately, it is not far distant from the Association. If you’re truly eager to delve into this research—”
“We are!”
“I suppose I could meet you this evening and introduce you to the materials, but I would then need to depart in an ungraciously early manner.”
“That would be fantastic,” I said.
“I will have to notify our conservator Elma Danford, naturally. She’ll want assurance that you will touch nothing in the display room and leave not a speck of yourselves behind.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I can bring a snack and a drink into the archive room, right? Maybe a nice crumbly muffin?”
Grant paused for a long moment. “The very suggestion is shocking.”
“Understood.”
“This is a serious matter. I recently found myself selected for a Steering Committee position that Ms. Danford very much wanted for herself. But I won’t trouble you with the byzantine internal politics of the Association. We may as well attempt to unravel the intrigues of Versailles.”
It wasn’t quite sunset when Stacey and I arrived at the Historical Association’s stately, sober gray-brick mansion. The wrought-iron railing of a widow’s walk atop the three-story building reminded me of the widow’s walk on the decrepit farmhouse at the Nite-Lite, though the one at the Historical Association was in far better condition, with less of a death-trap look, and was an original feature of the house instead of a slapdash addition.
After parking on a shady side street, we walked through the Associatio
n’s garden. The roses hadn’t bloomed yet, but the dogwoods and the pink camellias were out in full.
On the shady back porch, we rang the rear doorbell.
The woman who answered eyed us with a severe look, her eyes bright and blue, her gray hair fluffed and heavily sprayed into a formidable steel helmet.
“I am sorry, but the Association has closed for the day,” she told us, but her tone didn’t sound particularly apologetic. “We offer public hours tomorrow between one and three p.m.”
“Thank you, but we have an appointment with Grant Patterson. Is he here?” I asked.
“Patterson. I see.” This information seemed to chill her attitude toward us more. “Such an unusually late hour. All very irregular. I suppose you should come inside to await him. Would you care for iced tea or water?”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” I replied quickly, not wanting to make any further demands on her hospitality.
“Come this way. Grant Patterson has not arrived, but you are welcome to wait in the parlor. I am Elma Danford, Association conservator.”
We introduced ourselves quickly. “Your work must be so interesting,” I added. “Is there anything new coming into the Association’s collection?”
“Yes, always. Some would say my role is the most valuable in the organization, even more than my role as a generous and regular Association donor, but I’m sure such talk is greatly exaggerated.” She opened the double doors to the parlor and indicated the stiff wingback chairs to us, each with its own little round table. Oil paintings of historical scenes from Savannah adorned the walls, including colonial and antebellum eras, and one of Bonaventure Cemetery, bright flowers growing thick and lush among the gravestones. Antiques—vases, a hand-painted glass globe, a model sailing ship—adorned bookshelves and nooks around the parlor. “Please avoid touching any items. I’m sure Grant Patterson will arrive soon, if the meeting hasn’t slipped his mind, as meetings have been known to do in the past.”
She closed the double doors.
“Frosty,” Stacey whispered.
I nodded and glanced at the cutaway balcony above. Grant’s office was up there, a little farther along the upstairs hall. “It’s probably best we avoid stepping into any Historical Association drama. Remember how ruthless Grant said the Docents Committee could be.”
“This place scares me sometimes,” Stacey said.
We waited quietly until Grant arrived a few minutes later. We heard him outside the door, engaging in a conversation that sounded both hushed and heated with Ms. Danford.
At last, he opened the door, looking flushed, and smiled at us. He wore a finely tailored suit, clearly heading on to a grand night after this. “Good evening, Ellie and Stacey. Wonderful to see you.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked as we rose to meet him. “Did we come at a bad time?”
“After hours, certainly,” Elma said from the hallway, staring at us with a tight smile, next to a stern portrait of 18th-century evangelical preacher George Whitefield.
“As I’ve said before, they will certainly not touch or damage any part of the collection in any way,” Grant told her.
“Then why did you need the cultural display unlocked?”
“Merely to show them the dress. Right this way.” Grant led Stacey and me through a pair of double doors to a sizable room near the front of the sprawling house. Elma lingered silently at the doorway, watching us like a predatory bird.
The room displayed cultural artifacts from Savannah’s history, some of it quite valuable, including antique silver and gold jewelry carefully sealed behind glass.
“Oh, wow,” Stacey said, drawn immediately to a quite fancy-looking dress displayed in a case in one corner, among other clothing cases that included Civil War uniforms and assorted hats, boots, coats, and dresses of historical notables. The dress flared from its bodice to a wide hem at the floor, though not so wide as an actual hoop skirt, instead made of several heaped layers thick with lace. “That’s the one from the poster, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed the original dress worn by Adaire Fontaine in the climactic flood scene of Legend of the South,” Grant said. “Quite an impressive addition to our collection. You may thank our most excellent conservator for that. Funded largely via her own personal donation.” He indicated Elma by the door, who gave another tight smile. “It is one of our most popular exhibits.”
Framed pictures showed the old-time stage theaters where Adaire Fontaine had grown famous. Lines of fans wrapped around the corner at the Savannah Theatre and the Fox in Atlanta. They were primarily excited young women in professional office-girl wear of the 1940s, their hair cut short and styled into big swoops.
“Wow, she really was popular,” I said, looking from the long lines to the name Adaire Fontaine in big letters on glowing marquee signs.
“It’s said that she appealed in particular to young working women of the postwar period, perhaps because she embodied so much of what they felt, and of how they differed from previous generations,” Grant explained. “Adaire Fontaine, strong and feisty, glamorous and fearless, perhaps represented something they saw in themselves.”
“Yeah, she was pretty cool.” Stacey looked at an autographed photo of the actress, wearing a black chiffon column gown and wide-brimmed, feather-adorned black hat, her outfit from Pocketful of Aces. It reminded me of Nancy Preston’s wedding dress; perhaps she’d been an Adaire fan. “Wild life, tragic death.”
“Indeed,” Grant said. “Personally, I’ve always suspected Antonio Mazzanti, the film director. A strange, morbid character, and a known murderer, of course. As for his films, he went from a fascinating magical realism in his earlier works to simple horror. I believe one was called The Dead Body Down in the Basement, or something similar. I didn’t watch many of those, as they were nothing like his earlier work. Played only at the drive-in, I believe.
“Like most men who worked with Adaire, Mazzanti’s talent paled next to hers. I’m sure she would have won that Oscar had the competition not been so stiff that year. She faced such luminaries as Ava Gardner and Audrey Hepburn, the eventual winner. Adaire’s death was such a tragedy, such a brutal horror to fall upon one so lovely and talented. Surely she would have gone on to even greater performances had her fate not been so grim—”
“Are you finished here?” Ms. Danford asked us. “I would prefer to get going for the evening.”
“Yes, sorry. Ellie, Stacey, the documents you’ll need are down the hall in the Mimosa Room. To which I have my own key.” Grant cast a brief but pointed look at Danford, who looked down her nose quietly as we exited the room. She locked the door behind us and strode off stiffly in another direction.
Stacey and I shared a look but didn’t say anything until we were in the Mimosa room, lined with polished wooden filing cabinets and shelves on every wall. Large windows let in the purple evening light.
“She didn’t seem to want us here,” I said after double-checking the hall and closing the door tight behind us.
“Mm.” Grant opened a filing-cabinet drawer, his fingertips dancing nimbly across the thick brown folders inside. “Steering Committee. It’s best we tread lightly. Here we are.” He drew out a thick folder and stepped over to one of the two tables in the room. He clicked on an antique lamp whose glass dome shade glowed softly, putting out lovely light. “You’ll be glad to know that we have a small number of documents related to Adaire Fontaine, collected and preserved here for the education and enjoyment of posterity.”
I leaned over and opened the folder. Playbills and programs waited inside, stiff and yellow with age, preserved by plastic lamination. The one on top advertised “The Dazzling Adaire Fontaine!!!” starring in a production of Pygmalion.
“Regrettably, I must depart and miss what is sure to be fascinating reading,” Grant said. “I ask only that you tidy up. The back door will lock behind you as you leave. And should you run into Elma Danford at any time, do not mention that I left you here unsupervised.”
; “Hey, we’re not children!” Stacey said.
“Anyone younger than fifty is considered a child in this building. Have a good evening.”
After Grant left, softly closing the door behind him, we spread everything out across the tabletop. I turned up the lights to help us read the faded print.
The artfully designed theater advertisements and play programs were charming works of a lost era, illustrated with cartoons and embellished with calligraphy. They often included photographs of the cast. Some featured Adaire Fontaine only, with minor mention of the other players.
Adaire’s career as a local stage queen had only spanned three years—her innate star quality made her too big a fish for our local theater pond—but she was in a number of productions during that time.
“Bingo!” Stacey held up a program for a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, the cover illustrated with a kindly-looking cartoon grandmother holding a teapot. The yellowed program had been preserved in a plastic sleeve, from which Stacey had carefully extracted it. “Hey, do you think ‘Bingo’ is the dog’s name or the farmer’s name? Ever noticed you can’t really tell? ‘There was a farmer who had a dog and Bingo was his—’”
“What did you find?”
“Right here.” She pointed to the faded cast list. “Adaire Fontaine as Elaine. Stanley Preston as Mortimer.”
“So they were in a play together,” I said.
“Not only that, but they were a couple. The characters, I mean. Elaine and Mortimer were engaged to be married. Mortimer’s a much bigger part, though, if I remember right. He’s onstage a lot more than Elaine.”
“Maybe this was the beginning of his obsession with her. I wonder if they had a personal relationship, too.”
“The biography says she dated a lot of people. Not seriously, more in a social butterfly kind of way. And she was notoriously flirtatious at parties.”