The small but charming Royal George Theatre was just a quick walk away so I decided to travel on foot. It was the last week of the season and though the show had been one of the biggest hits of the summer, this audience was now made up of mostly locals who like Alice had probably been comped in. It was a nice gesture the theatre festival often tried to do at the beginning and end of their season so that the hoteliers, restaurant staffs and shopkeepers that attended their audiences all summer did not go unappreciated. The play was a wonderfully witty and sharp piece, expertly acted, elegantly designed and very well presented but I had a very hard time keeping focused on the stage.
I found myself going over and over my memories of the memorial assembly, trying to pick out more details, or at very least remember the kids names and faces. As I looked at the Edwardian setting on the stage of the Royal George before me, all I could see was my high school stage with the dead classmates pictures sitting on little brass easels. They were farmed in dark wood and surrounded by 3 large flower arrangements of artificial green carnations and white roses in glossy white wicker baskets that looked like old Easter decorations. I could remember the arrangements clearly, but the actual faces in the photographs remained a mystery, just beyond my reach.
At the intermission, a round lady with a broad grin plopped down in the empty seat next to me and turned to face me, eyes gleaming. She wore the navy blue blazer and skirt of an employee and the brass name tag on her lapel identified her as Nancy, the House Manager.
“Excuse me, sir. I'm not looking to bother you but I wanted to officially welcome you to the Royal George. Hope you enjoying the show?” she beamed in a warm, Northern England accent.
“It's beautiful. Wilde is always a favorite of course” I replied somewhat absentmindedly.
“Mine as well. It's a lovely production as well – all them gowns and crystal on stage. I haven't tired of yet and it's been here all summer.”
“I can see why.”
“No to impose sir, but could I ask for an autograph? It's not for me, it's for my daughter. She's a real fan of your books.”
“Certainly” I replied, fishing a pen form my pocket. I wasn't recognized or asked for an autograph a lot but I always made certain I had a felt tip ready just in case.
“Thanks ever so much! I printed out a photo of you from the computer to sign” she said, unrolling a small picture of me taken from my bio on my publishers website.
“You're well prepared!” I laughed.
“Well to be honest I was tipped off,” she admitted with a blush, “Alice at Hollyhock's a friend of mine and she called and asked to put your name on the tickets. I asked if you was Moira's Dean and she said you was and that it was okay to ask for your autograph on account of she knows how much our Janet loves your books. Hope it's no mind to you, sir.”
When had I become “Moira's Dean”?
“It's no problem at all, especially for a friend of Alice. This is for a Janet?” I asked, taking the sheet she handed me.
“Yes, Janet. That's me daughter.”
“To Janet. Thanks for reading! Yours, Dean Walker. How's that?”
“Lovely. Ooh, she'll love this she will! You know it's said this old house is haunted too? Never seen it with me own eyes but apparently there's a grumpy old man what hangs about in the basement lounge and a pretty young thing in the balcony hall as well. I've seen plenty of grumpy old men who look half dead in the lounge mind you, but them's mostly patrons,” she chuckled.
“I've never seen a ghost in a theatre, but no respectable theatre is without one” I replied handing the autographed print out back to her.
“That's as true as any! Thanks again, I won't bother you further” said Nancy as she rose and extended a hand.
“It's no bother at all. My pleasure entirely,” I answered, taking her plump hand and shaking it warmly. She was gone in flash and the houselights began to dim for the second half.
I was able to follow the rest of the play a little more clearly and gladly joined in with the rest of the audience in a standing ovation by the end. As I left the theatre, Nancy the House Manager gave me a sly little excited wave. I nodded in return and spilled out with the rest of the audience onto the marquee lit sidewalk on unseasonably warm fall evening.
I turned right and started a leisurely stroll down Queen Street. As I passed a young man leaning casually on a tree, he looked up and caught my eye. He was wearing a navy blue hoodie and comfortably wrinkled khaki pants. he flashed a dazzling smile and took a step toward me AND I felt I knew him from somewhere. He certainly seemed to know me.
“Mr. Cortland?”
I looked at him dumbly for a moment, then remembered the pseudonym I was booked under at Paisley and the handsome porter who had taken my bags to my room.
“Mr. Brown! I'm sorry; I didn't recognize you out of uniform.”
“No problem. I got home after work and realized I had left your car keys in my jacket pocket. I called Alfred and he said you were at the show tonight. I thought I'd just wait here and give them back to you with my apologies. I hope that's cool?”
“Very thoughtful of you, thank you.”
“I hoped you hadn't planned on driving here tonight?”
“No, it's a quick walk. I hadn't even noticed my keys were missing.”
“I didn't mean to keep them, sorry. I didn't take your car for a spin or anything – though it's tempting.”
“I bet it is. She's a beauty, isn't she?”
“Hell, yeah!” the kid laughed, “Are you on your way back to the Inn?”
“I think so.”
“Can I walk you there?”
“Sure” I said. Flattered if somewhat puzzled by the attention.
“Cool. And since I’m out of uniform it’s just Kyle.”
“Okay, Kyle” I grinned at him and we continued on down Queen passing windows of closed boutiques and shops featuring shelves of wares ranging from crystal and china to plush moose in Mountie outfits and boxes of maple sugar candy.
“Alfred said you were a real neat guy,” Kyle ventured, somewhat awkwardly.
“I can't imagine Alfred actually saying that” I chuckled.
“Not in those words, but he likes you.”
“I like him too. He makes me laugh.”
“Me too. He's crazy. He can insult people with a smile and they think he's complimenting them.”
“That sounds about right.”
“I haven't seen you at the Inn before.'
“I don't get back here as often as I'd like.”
“You used to work here?”
“No, but I grew up not far from here in St.Catharines. We didn't go very often but have a handful of memories. To my mother it was the very epitome of a finer life than the wife of a tire salesman could afford. She'd dream of joining the parade of well to do patrons wrapped in their pastel Sunday bests as they brunched in the sun rooms over looking Lake Ontario before strolling to a matinee at the theatre.”
“That's still not too far off the mark these days, I guess.”
“Once, my great Aunt had treated the family to a meal there as a thank you for helping her move. She was a very grand old lady. I was about 7 and unable to really appreciate it at the time. I was more focused on the horror of discovering that the baked trout I had ordered came served complete with the head and eyes intact. Up until then my experience of eating fish had involved rectangular stick coated in a safe breading, or something out of a can mixed with Miracle Whip.”
“The heads on still bug me. I don't like my food looking at me. I guess that's not real classy.”
“Maybe not, but it's honest. When I began to see larger paychecks come in from my writing, I used one of them to take my mother back for a sunny, summer brunch. She sat proudly in her best dress, every inch as elegant as her surroundings and smiled widely as she took it all in. At the end of the meal she asked if it was alright if we had a coffee as well, worried that he bill would be too high. I told her she could have coffee, tea, and desert too if she liked. She could even stay overnight in a suite if it took her fancy. Her eyes sparkled at just the thought but she wanted to be home by five o’clock to make sure Dad got his dinner. Just like June and Ward.”
“June and who?”
“Never mind, you're too young. I remember that as the waiter returned my credit card and presented the receipt for my signature, she made sure to tell him she was there as a guest of her son - the famous author who could afford to take his mother such places. I didn’t know whether to blush, laugh or cry a bit. I think I may have done a little of each.”
“Alfred said you were a writer but wouldn't tell me what you wrote.”
“What brought me up in conversation?”
“I was certain I knew you form somewhere. That and he asked be about some big house you were looking for. He let me use the desk computer and I looked you up online but I couldn't find anything.”
“He knew you wouldn't find anything. Cortland isn't my real name or even my pen name.”
“I thought so!” he laughed, “But I still think I know you form somewhere.”
“Do you read a lot?”
“A little. I like weird shit though.”
“Weird shit?”
“Yeah, people tease me but I'm into history stuff and haunted crap. You know, local lore and all that. Not exactly what people expect.”
“No, but my cup of tea exactly.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
We passed a small Victorian cottage which housed the Angie Strauss Gallery, its porch decorated festively in pumpkins, gourds, cornstalks and fake cobwebs lit by glowing orange and purple lights. He motioned towards the display.
“Even the haunted stuff?”
“Especially the haunted stuff.”
“Awesome! Have you ever done the ghost walk at Fort George?” I wanted to get in there but the Inn pays better.”
“No actually, I've never done that.”
“Dude, you have to try it. We should go! There's this guy that writes about all this stuff in this area, you know, all the haunted places but most of them aren't really haunted. He busts their asses! He's never written about Fort George but I bet he'd cut through the crap.”
“What's the writer’s name?” I asked as we turned off Queen Street and down GateStreet towards the lake and the Paisley.
I was in high spirits. It was a beautiful night and I had a pretty good idea where this was going. To be honest I was having a ball stringing the kid along. His enthusiasm and genuine interest was both flattering and somehow infectious.
“Walker... Dean Walker. He's from here originally. Well, from St.Catharines but that's near here.”
“That's where I'm from as well. Tell me, does Alfred know you're a Dean Walker Fan?”
“Yeah, totally. We've talked about it before. Alfred says he’s met him because sometimes he comes to the Paisley to stay but that was a while ago. We think he should check out the Paisley’s ghost. Have you heard about the Lavender Lady? She’s supposed to haunt the third floor, a staircase, and the back entrance.”
“I've been considering it.”
“Huh?”
“Investigating the Lavender Lady. It would have to be part of an anthology and I’m not doing one of those at the moment.”
The kid stopped walking and looked at me, blue eyes wide as saucers.
“You have to forgive Alfred, he's pretty good at protecting my privacy. I'm Dean Walker.”
His jaw dropped to his chest as recognition set in.
“No way!”
“Way.”
“That's where I know you from! You look way better than the picture on the back of your books.”
“Thanks, I think.”
We continued walking down Gate Street.
“I mean you look older, but better.”
I made a mental note to have Moira schedule a new photo shoot for publicity shots and replace the current one wherever possible.
“How is older better?”
“Well, younger can look, you know – outdated. Like you’re trying to look like someone you used to be but aren’t anymore. You look way better now anyway.”
I made an addendum to the mental note to have Moira put a rush on the new photos.
“Man I’m going to have to tip you well when I check out.”
To my surprise he looked confused and a little hurt.
“I wasn’t angling for a tip or anything.”
By this time we’d arrived in front of the Paisley Inn parking lot. I could see my baby Porsche gleaming in the moonlight and the glow coming from the windows of the Inn.
“I know, I’m just kidding you.”
“But I’m a big fan, honest. I’ve read all your stuff, even the old stuff. I got it from the papers websites.”
“I’m flattered. Glad you enjoy it.”
“Yeah, it’s great” he beamed, “So you’ working on something new? Is that why you’re here?”
“It is, in fact.”
“So is that why Alfred was asking about Kettle Hill?”
I was surprised at the mention of the name coming out of the blue at me.
“It is. I'd like to know where exactly it is. I'm curious to get a look at Kettle House.”
“That won’t be easy. As far as I can tell it doesn't exist.”
“The hill or the house?”
“Either. The house is an urban myth from what I know and the was scooped out along with most of its surroundings in 1956 when they made the reservoir for the Adam Beck power plants. People still try and find it though.”
“Is it possible the hill and the house were two different locations and one might still exist?'
“I guess so. You always hear people talking about a friend of a friend who went there. You know, like the friend of a friend who was cured of Leukemia because they saved bottle tops or the friend of a friend who was working in a hospital the night Richard Gere came in with a hamster up his... sorry, that's kind of gross I guess.”
I had to laugh at his sudden embarrassment.
“I've heard both stories a few times myself. Weren't those two missing kids looking for Kettle House?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I'd like to find out where the car was found, and where his body was.”
Kyles face dropped slowly.
“What are you talking about?”
“I'd like to know where the found the car with the girls body in it and where the tree is where the boys body was found. If they were looking for Kettle House, it might be a good place to start looking in case they were close.”
“They found those kids bodies?”
“Yeah. The girl in the car and then a while later the guy's body in a tree.”
“Where did you hear all that?”
“I read it in the paper.”
“I read the Toronto Star and the St.Catharines Sentinel tonight and neither one said anything about that. There was no new clues. There was sure as hell nothing about a body in a tree.”
Suddenly I realized my mind was mixing two different decades up.
“I'm sorry, I was thinking of another case. No, of course the two kids haven't been found yet” I smiled weakly.
There seemed to be a chill move in suddenly off the lake. I was beginning to feel a bit dizzy and disorientated but I wasn't sure why.
“Hey, are you okay? You look pretty pale all of the sudden.”
“Just a bit queasy. I think I'll go lie down for a bit.”
“Let me help you to your room.”
“It's okay. I don't want to be a bother.”
The night seemed to get a bit dimmer and the sidewalk undulated like water before me. I was overcome with a powerful drowsiness and disorientation.
“It's no bother Mr.Cort... I mean Mr. Walker. Let me give you a hand. If you're dizzy just close your eyes and let me guide you.”
I felt a strong arm snake around my waist while another held my arm steadily and guided me towards the glaring coach lights of the main door. I stumbled a bit as we went up the entrance stairs and through the front door. Alfred had gone home by then and an unfamiliar Night Porter was on duty. I heard Kyle tell him I wasn't feeling well and that he was seeing me to my room. I imagined the gossip later involving the handsome young off duty porter corralling the drunken guest to his quarters. Alfred would certainly have a field day with it.
Somehow Kyle managed to get me up the grand staircase and to my door. He asked me where my key card was but answering proved too much of a struggle for me so he discretely slipped a hand into my pockets and found it in my jacket. I heard the beep of the door unlocking and we took a few more steps forward before my memory lost me completely. The world went dark and I fell forward, spiraling helplessly into the murky depths of unconsciousness leaving Kyle and the Paisley far behind.
