Stage Fright

by Gabrielle Holly

  Toni pulled in three more deep breaths then forced herself to her feet. She brushed the snow from her jeans then staggered through the metal door. With nothing more than sheer willpower she made her way to the centre of the theatre and faced the stage. Thomas, Bridget and Mike stopped laughing and stared at her. She could tell they were frightened and she was glad.

  “He didn’t do it!” Toni gasped.

  “Who didn’t do what?” Bridget asked jumping from the stage.

  Toni fought to remain conscious. “Kip Monroe—he didn’t set the fire.”

  Bridget reached out and touched Toni’s arm. “Can you prove it?”

  “There’s a witness. Now come on!”

  Thomas rubbed his forehead and shouted after Toni, “Who’s the witness?”

  Toni held open the swinging door. “Priscilla Stringman.”

  Mike laughed, “Yeah, well she’s been dead for twenty years and the police don’t usually take statements from ghosts.”

  Toni grabbed his sleeve and dragged him through the lobby. “No, but photographic evidence is pretty compelling.”

  She could hear Thomas and Bridget grousing as the three followed her out of the building.

  “Where’s she going?” Thomas asked.

  “No idea. Just follow her. She looks like she’s got a plan,” Bridget answered.

  “Doesn’t she always?” muttered Thomas.

  * * * *

  The three followed Toni up the sidewalk, until she stopped in front of The Antique Emporium. She reached out for the tarnished brass knob.

  “Um, Tone, we’re not welcome here. Remember?” Bridget said.

  “Screw that,” Toni answered and yanked open the heavy oak door.

  “We’re closing,” said the plump woman behind the counter, without looking up from her magazine.

  “Five minutes,” Toni said, “five minutes and we’ll be out of your hair.”

  The woman looked up. “Oh! It’s you! No, no, no. Uh-uh. Out you go or I’m calling the cops.”

  Toni set her hands on her round hips. “Now you listen here, you…”

  Thomas grabbed Toni’s upper arm and held her back. Bridget watched as Toni’s lips pressed into a straight line and her chest heaved with each breath. Thomas nodded to Mike who stepped forward, looped his arms around the indignant medium’s waist and took over Toni-wrangling duties.

  Thomas put on his best ‘charming television star’ face and sauntered up to the counter. He reached out and laid his big hand on the shopkeeper’s fleshy wrist. “Jean, isn’t it?”

  Bridget bit back a grin as the woman’s face flushed. “Yes.”

  “Jean, I am truly sorry for any…concern our last visit might have caused you. You have a beautiful place here. You know, I’ve travelled the world and I can say—without hesitation—that this is the finest antiques shop I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. I’ve been to all the great cities—Paris, London, Rome—and never have I laid eyes on such a gem.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “And?”

  “Well Jean, as you know, our millions of viewers are true connoisseurs of treasures from the past…”

  “Go on.”

  Thomas broadened his beautiful smile. “It would be my honour—no, my duty—to make sure that all those fine folks knew about your wonderful little shop. Now, if you would just give us a few minutes to poke around, I’d be glad to place your banner ad on the home page of our website for a full month.”

  Thomas cocked his head as if awaiting Jean’s answer. She pulled back her hand and crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Three months and a credit at the end of the episode.”

  Thomas thrust out his hand. “Done!”

  Jean shook on the deal then narrowed her eyes and leaned in to whisper, “You just make sure that one stays out of trouble. I don’t want her making a mess of the place.”

  Bridget snapped her attention to Toni who was drawing in a breath as if to speak. She saw Mike’s grip tighten around her waist as he forced a smile. “No problem. We’ll keep a close eye on her.” He turned and spoke directly into Toni’s ear. “Where to, boss?”

  “The photo albums,” Toni replied through clenched teeth.

  Jean said, “Upstairs, back left corner.”

  Mike wisely tugged Toni away from the entryway and the four hurried towards the wide carpeted staircase.

  “Five minutes and I’ve got security cameras you know!” Jean shouted after them.

  Toni took the stairs two at a time and hurried to the display at the back corner of the top floor. Two barrister’s bookcases were filled to overflowing with photo albums in various states of decay. She could feel the gaze of three pairs of eyes boring into her back.

  “Five minutes, Tone,” Bridget said softly.

  “I know. I know. Just give me a minute,” Toni snapped. A snarl of nervous energy gathered in her belly. “Knock it off you guys! Your tension is blocking me.”

  Mike shouldered up beside Toni and bent forward to scan the dozens of albums. “Which one is it?”

  Toni turned to him and summoned up her best expression of incredulity. “Seriously, Briggs?”

  She heard Bridget’s even voice over her other shoulder. “Back up, Mike. Give her some room. Is there anything we can do to help, Toni?”

  Toni shook her head. “I don’t know. If I could just…you’re just…the energy from you guys is kind of overwhelming. Maybe if you all went back downstairs.”

  Thomas stepped up and pressed his lips to Toni’s temple. “Okay. We’ll go. Call if you need us.”

  Toni nodded. She wanted them to stay, but she knew she’d leave empty-handed if she had to fight through the waves of worry that rolled off them.

  She listened to their footsteps fade and heard Mike whisper, “Man! I should have brought the equipment.”

  When she was alone she concentrated on breathing slowly and deliberately in through her nose and out through her mouth. She scanned the shelves in front of her, waiting for one of the battered spines to glow, or shake, or give some indication which she should choose. She wished there were a manual on how to harness her psychic energy.

  Five minutes. Probably more like two now.

  Trying to ignore her time limit, she stood in front of the jammed shelves and tried to noodle out the best way to proceed.

  One at a time.

  Toni positioned herself at the edge of the leftmost case and stretched out her arm. She touched the first book on the top shelf then closed her eyes. She slowly dragged her fingertip across the top line of albums until she was stopped by the edge of the shelf. Forcing herself to keep her eyes closed, she moved to the adjacent case and followed its top row. When she felt nothing, she dropped her hand to the second shelf and repeated the process, this time from right to left. When she’d passed the divide and had reached the middle of the left shelf, she thought she might give up and try a different tack.

  Her arm began to tingle as if falling asleep. The urge to pull away and shake circulation back into her limb was almost overwhelming, but she pressed on, sweeping over each binding and concentrating on the feel of the material. Leather. Burlap. Velvet…

  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. S
he 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 t
he 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?”