Stage Fright (5 page)

Much of the file was medical lingo, but certain words jumped off the page in terrible clarity. “Oh my God, Thomas I had no idea. How could I have…?” Her vision blurred as her eyes filled with tears.

“What is it, babe?” Mike asked, laying his hand on her shoulder.

Blinking to focus, Bridget read the highlights.

Subject: Jameson, Tonya, 35-year-old white female, stated occupation: psychic. History of mental illness with onset at puberty. Several instances of institutionalisation at other facilities with diagnoses of paranoid schizophrenia. Patient has been largely unresponsive, at times catatonic. Occasional bouts of extreme agitation in which she bites and scratches self and claims making intentional contact with a ghostly entity at the Bijou Theatre in Travois, Wisconsin. Descriptions of encounters consistently violent in nature. Subject claims to have initiated sexual contact with entity upon which the entity rejects subject’s advances asserting, ‘You’re not the one.’

“Jesus,” muttered Mike.

Bridget scrolled to an entry nearly a year after the initial assessment, “Subject responding to combination of talk therapy and anti-psychotic medication.”

The final entry, three months later left Bridget trembling. She struggled to read it aloud. “Jameson, Tonya, 36-year-old white female found dead of self-inflicted wounds, bled to death having bitten the flesh from her inner wrists. The words, ‘Why didn’t you love me, Kip?’ written on wall in subject’s blood.”

The three were silent for the rest of the drive. The front tyres jumped the kerb as Thomas screeched the van to a halt in front of the Bijou. They piled out and hurried through the front doors, calling Toni’s name.

* * * *

Through half-closed eyes, Toni watched the ghostly cocktail party around her. Though she knew the guests were just residual hauntings—mindless past events played on an endless loop—she felt like a wanton exhibitionist and it thrilled her. She sat back on the couch with her dress hiked up over her hips, her legs spread wide and her arms draped over the back. She was lost in the sensation of countless probing fingers and mouths, all orchestrated by Kip, exciting her body. Her throat and nipples and lips were sucked simultaneously. Phantom fingers stroked her flesh and plunged into her dripping pussy.

The image of the handsome greaser faded in and out of her view and when he stood before her, completely naked, her gaze fell on his thick, rigid shaft and she cried out in anticipation.

“You are the one I’ve been waiting for,” he said.

His eyes flashed as he braced himself on the back of the couch and pushed into her. His cock was hot and stretched her wide. Wrapping his arms around her waist he held her to him as he sat back until she was straddling him. The invisible hands and mouths seemed to multiply until every inch of Toni’s body was ablaze with glorious sensation. Kip tugged her bodice to the side and she watched him bow his head towards her chest. He sucked hard on her nipple. An unseen mouth teased the other.

Kip lifted his face to kiss her, dug his strong fingers into her ass cheeks and guided her up and down on his stiff shaft. Toni steadied herself on the back of the couch as her orgasm built. When it seemed that her senses could not be more overloaded, her clit was pulled hard between hot, disembodied lips. The climax exploded within Toni’s body, radiating out from between her legs. She crumpled weakly against Kip’s chest and in that instant it was just the two of them. Gone were the spectral touches. Kip laced his fingers through her hair and gently pulled until he was staring into her eyes. “You are the one I’ve been waiting for,” he said and then threw back his head and cried out in release. Toni felt his cock shudder and pulse inside her.

The cocktail party had disappeared and when she closed her eyes and leaned in to kiss him, he too was gone. She was alone on the sofa, kneeling on the yellowed dustcover, still clinging to the back cushion. With eyes wide she scanned the room. She turned and sat on the couch and saw him leaning against the doorjamb. He was just as she’d first seen him. He tugged his collar up around his ears, smiled at her. “I’ve gotta go now, but I need you to do me a favour. You have to show them that I didn’t do what they say I did. You’ve gotta prove it so I can rest. I’m so damned tired.”

“I’ll do whatever I can,” she whispered.

Kip winked. “I know you will. I’m counting on you, doll.”

Tears stung the corners of Toni’s eyes as she watched Kip dissolve away. She sat for a moment, then gathered her clothes, changed out of the party dress and sandals and returned them to the closet. She’d just finished tying her boot laces when Thomas, Bridget and Mike burst into the VIP room.

Chapter Four

Toni stood in the shower and let the hot water beat against her shoulders, waiting for the knots of tension to dissolve. She was bone-weary from her ghost encounter and only wanted to sleep. The team had been debriefing her for the past hour and it had taken some doing to convince Thomas that Kip hadn’t hurt her. Toni had told him over and over again that she’d just talked to the ghost and that he’d only wanted her to promise to try to prove his innocence. She hated lying to Thomas, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that the two had shared more than polite conversation. From what she’d learned about her powers, she knew that the sexual energy had been necessary for the spirit to communicate with her. Toni scrubbed her skin but couldn’t wash away the guilt that consumed her. She stepped out of the shower, towelled off and slid into an oversized T-shirt. She found Thomas sitting at the desk staring at his laptop.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Mm. Just wiped out.”

“You need your rest. We’ll hit it hard tomorrow.”

Toni kissed him on the temple and slid into bed. She turned on her side and glanced at the screen while she waited to drift off. “What are you looking at?”

“Just some of the newspaper clippings from the fire.”

The photograph of the marquee taken from below came up on the screen. “Preston Stringman’s daughter Priscilla took that you know,” Toni said.

Thomas nodded.

“Are you coming to bed soon?”

“In a bit. Get some shut-eye, Tone. We’re going to go check out the police records in the morning.”

Toni closed her eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

* * * *

The team gathered around the long conference room table, sipping from to-go cups of coffee from the hotel. A uniformed officer told them that the detective would be in shortly. Minutes later a short, well-dressed man with dark hair frosted blond at the tips and sporting what looked like a spray tan, entered carrying a file box. He dropped it on the table, and Toni noticed a neon-orange sticker on the side marked ‘Closed’. The man smoothed the lapels of his tailored wool suit, straightened his silk tie then extended his hand. “Bob Schmidt,” he said, reaching across the table and shaking each of their hands in turn. Toni noticed that his nails were manicured and buffed.

He grabbed a leather-bound notebook that had been balanced on the lid and when he took his place at the head of the table he left behind a light cloud of expensive-smelling cologne.

 He flipped open the cover of the notebook, slid a slim silver pen from the loop inside and held it poised over the paper. After a moment he looked up then raised a perfectly manscaped eyebrow. The expression on his face was one of impatient expectation.

Thomas finally spoke. “Thank you for seeing us, Officer Schmidt.”

“Detective,” the man corrected.

“Detective Schmidt. I believe Bridget—Miss O’Malley—explained what we’re all about when she called.”

The detective just nodded.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Well, we would like to take a look at the files. We believe there might be more to the case, like maybe something got missed.”

Schmidt slid the pen back into its holder then sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Based on?”

Toni glanced at Thomas’ profile. He squirmed like a suspect under interrogation. “Based on…well, that is…I guess based on a hunch.”

“A hunch,” Schmidt repeated. “Well, the case has been closed since ’55, all of the principals are dead and everything in the file is a matter of public record. You’re well within your rights under the Freedom of Information Act to review what we’ve got. If you want photocopies of anything, just set it aside and our administrative assistant will run them for you. They’re twenty-five cents each.” The detective rose and snapped shut his notebook. “You filled out the request forms?”

Bridget nodded and passed him a stack of papers. He glanced through them and nodded. “Good luck to you, folks. Here’s my card. It’s got my email address and cell number. But it’s probably better if you email rather than call.”

Thomas took the business card. “Uh, officer—Detective Schmidt, we were hoping we could ask you a couple of questions about the case.”

Schmidt chuckled. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of much help. I wasn’t even born in ’55 and my knowledge of the case is pretty limited. All I know is there was a fire in the alley between the two theatres. The Rialto burned down on opening night and the only casualty was the projectionist from the Bijou. The guy was trouble. He’d been arrested half a dozen times. Witnesses put him at the alley door that night and there was testimony that just before the fire started, he’d had a fight with his boss over a woman. Maybe he’d meant to torch the Bijou but the wind was blowing the wrong way. A known criminal had cause and opportunity. Case closed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go deal with crimes from this century.”

With that, he left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Thomas shook his head. “Maybe he’s late for a waxing appointment.”

“Brazilian?” Mike joked.

“Wouldn’t doubt it,” Thomas said then pulled the file box towards him. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

The other three leaned in as Thomas lifted the lid. Toni expected to see the box stuffed with manila folders overflowing with forms and newspaper clippings. Instead a single file lay in the bottom of the box. Thomas reached in, grabbed it then pushed the empty box away. The folder held two typewritten forms. A black and white mug shot was paper clipped to one. Thomas passed the sheet marked ‘Incident Report’ to Bridget then unclipped the photo from the one marked ‘Arrest Record’.

“There’s not much here,” Bridget said after a moment. “The cause of the fire is listed as ‘unknown, suspected arson’ and they’ve got one name listed under suspects—‘Kipling Monroe, aka Kip Monroe, born October 30, 1929. Deceased August 12, 1955.’ He was just twenty-five.”

Toni dragged the photo closer. Her heart ached at the image of Kip Monroe. He was wearing a tight white T-shirt stretched over his wiry frame. His greased back pompadour looked tousled and a few strands hung down over his forehead. His left eye was bruised and nearly swollen shut. He looked like he’d been in a fight, but he stared directly into the camera with a crooked grin. Toni thought it looked like he was thinking, ‘fuck you’. She smiled back at the image, feeling deeply connected to the handsome greaser. “What’d he do?” she asked.

Thomas lifted the Arrest Record from the table top. “Let’s see, ‘public intoxication’, ‘petty theft—hubcaps’, ‘loitering’, ‘loitering’, and ‘loitering’ again and ‘resisting arrest’. I’d be willing to bet he got that shiner while resisting arrest when they got him for loitering number three.”

“Poor guy,” Toni said.

“‘Poor guy?’” Thomas scoffed, “You’re kidding, right? It sounds like he was a punk.”

Toni shook her head, “It sounds like he got on the wrong side of the local law.”

“Babe, what did you say his birth date was?” Mike asked.

Bridget glanced down at the Incident Report. “October 30th, ’29.”

“That was the day after Black Tuesday—the stock market crash,” Mike muttered. “Does it say where he was born?”

“Brooklyn, New York. I wonder what he was doing in Travois?”

They all looked at Mike. “Idea?” Thomas asked.

Mike squinted as if concentrating. “I don’t know. I was just thinking about Preston Stringman—that lighter he carried around—the one he took off the dead guy after the crash. Monroe is born the next day less than half an hour from the Financial District then they both wind up here in this little Wisconsin town…”

“What? You’re thinking reincarnation?” Thomas asked.

Mike shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Thomas gathered up the reports and the photographs, slid them into the folder then dropped the file back into the box. “Well, there’s not much here. We’ll set up the equipment in the theatre tonight and see if we can get anything.”

The four filed out of the conference room and thanked the front desk officer on their way out. Toni couldn’t shake the image of Kip Monroe in the mug shot, with his black eye and his defiant grin. Her thoughts turned back to their encounter in the VIP room and she was overwhelmed by the need to help him.

* * * *

On the way back to the theatre, Bridget admired the late nineteenth century architecture of downtown Travois. When the van passed a red brick building with 1890 inscribed on the pediment and a sign reading, ‘The Antique Emporium’, she begged Thomas to stop. “Fifteen minutes—please, Thomas!”

Mike shook his head. “She says fifteen minutes, but she means an hour or two.”

“If only that were always true,” Bridget teased.

“I’d kind of like to poke around in there too,” Toni said.

Thomas rubbed his forehead. “Fine. We’re three blocks from the theatre. Let’s park the van there and walk back.”

Within minutes they were stomping the snow from their boots outside the antique shop. Thomas was the first to enter and an elderly woman with a cotton-candy puff of white hair looked up from her magazine to greet them. Bridget could tell that she immediately recognised the star of Paranormal Research Team. “Oh my goodness! I heard that you folks were in town,” she said. “You’re working on the Bijou. Right?”