Perkins' Ghost

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ON TUESDAY morning it felt as though the whole town was asleep. Although all the businesses were open for trade, there were few customers about. Hill presumed that all those people who just the day before were crowding the streets were now indoors, having exhausted themselves. He felt the same way. The only sounds that could be heard were those from the crew that was disassembling the rides, the tents and the food stalls. Hill drove his car down alongside the garbage strewn park. It looked even worse without people. He got out of his car and watched the workers for a while.

The shadows were still long and a soft summer breeze swept up along the South Shore and into the Mersey River estuary. He thought about being on the golf course but regretfully knew that it might be weeks, or months before he would get there. By the time the investigation was over the golf course would probably be closed. But the worst of it was that Geoff's golf score would be impossible to beat unless this case was solved in a timely fashion.

That previous evening and after the fireworks, Hill had read more of Scarlett's play and managed to read up to the end of Act II. As much as he enjoyed it and wanted to read more, he decided to start the final act with a fresh mind. At that time he had considered re-reading the last few pages of Act II and wondered if there was more to be gained from her script other than simple reading pleasure. Maybe he had missed the obvious.

In frustration Hill kicked at the trash near his feet. An unopened fortune cookie lay there in a plastic wrapper. He picked it up, opened it and took out the tiny piece of paper. It read: Be patient; great castles were built one stone at a time. Ever a believer, though he did not have a castle to build, he slipped the tiny piece of paper into his wallet and dropped the cookie and the wrapper into the trash bin.

Hill drove his car past the theatre and up Gorham Street. As he climbed the slope he saw in his mirror who he thought was Briggs crossing the street behind him. It was a reminder that he had yet to ask him why he was wandering around and seemingly provoking him at every turn. And there he was again, one of the few people in town who was awake, and he was still wearing that costume. Privateer Days had ended along with the Canada Day celebrations so he wondered why anyone in the world would want to walk around sweating in that outfit. As much as he felt like putting his car in reverse or simply making a U-turn he continued up the one-way and onto Church Street before looping back through Jubilee, hoping to catch him there. Unlucky again, Briggs was nowhere in sight. Instead he saw Bruce, the lighting and sound manager for Scarlett's production, looking rather unkempt, striding towards the theatre.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Hill asked him.

"I'm just going in to see Paul, the theatre manager," Bruce said, pointing down the street.

"Anything that I should know about?"

"I don't think so. It's just that one area of the stage lighting seemed to be wonky on Saturday night."

"Mind if I tag along?"

He said, "Sure," and Hill took it as an invitation.

Paul was sitting at his desk when they walked in and if not for Hill's presence Paul would not have bothered to get out of his chair.

"Good day Sergeant. How may I help you?"

"I just followed Bruce in here. I thought I'd poke around a bit. Do you mind?"

"No, go ahead."

Hill entered the theatre and flipped on the light switch. A single line of lights lit up the back rows of seating and the open-topped booth in which Bruce had worked the lights and sound. The muffled voices of Paul and Bruce carried in from the office. Hill walked over and stood next to the sound and lighting booth. He stood looking down the aisle. With just a few lights at the back of the theatre it was too dark to see anything clearly beyond the first four rows. The metal on the backs of the chairs reflected star bursts of light. He proceeded down the graded aisle and his every footstep creaked from the old floorboards, echoing throughout the room. He stopped at the set of stairs at the center of the stage and looked at the closed doors underneath, tempted to open them. He was suddenly reminded of The Phantom of the Opera. He did not open the doors, though he did wonder what was under there.