The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  Recently I had also stopped using black plastic bags. The immediate impetus was that Dog had developed a phobia about them; who knew where that came from, but if it bothered Dog, it bothered me. Plus, after an ill-advised late-night viewing of a documentary about the “plastic island” swirling in the ocean, I now insisted on using only compostable bags. They cost three times as much as the cheap plastic ones, but I figured a clear conscience, and a clean ocean, was worth it.

  After meeting with the foreman on the St. Francis Wood job and reviewing the final punch list with the clients, I headed to the Ferry Building to have coffee with a possible new client and her architect.

  Once that meeting was over, I grabbed a sandwich from Cowgirl Creamery Sidekick Café and sat in the sun at Embarcadero Plaza, gazing at the truly ugly water feature. It was huge, a tangle of industrial-looking squared-off pipes gushing water into the tube below, which always made me think of toxic water pouring into the ocean. As a kid I had gotten in big trouble by accepting a dare from my sister Cookie to scale one of the pipes when I was supposed to be doing my homework while Dad met with a client nearby.

  I winced at the memory. My dad was a former marine. He did not tolerate such antics, much less dereliction of duty.

  The water feature put me in mind of the nickel tap I had picked up at the Crockett Theatre, not long before everything took a turn. I wondered what the Doctor would make of it, but I imagined it was probably still sitting, tagged, on his dusty shelf.

  I checked my phone; he hadn’t called me back. Neither had anyone else: not the SFPD, not a single one of the squatters, not Gregory Thibodeaux, not even any of the artisans I had reached out to concerning the specialty finishes at the Crockett Theatre.

  The construction business requires a lot of patience. Unfortunately, patience is not my strong suit.

  I reminded myself it had only been two days since finding Isadora’s lifeless body. It seemed like longer.

  In part, this was because I was so anxious to get back into the theater. I wanted to see whether Isadora’s spirit, or any other resident ghost, might have something to tell me. I wanted to go through the building at my leisure and continue the list I had started with Gregory. I wanted to see whether I could make sense of the orbs from the photographs. I wanted to wander those halls, haunted or not, and scrape off that hideous pink paint to see what wonders lay beneath.

  Even though I had other things I should have been doing, I headed for the Mission, and the Crockett. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  There was a commotion outside the theater. It wasn’t cop cars or paramedics, but a handful of reporters and a camera crew, their lenses focused on one man in a suit and two beautiful young women, one blond and one brunette, standing in front of the octagonal ticket kiosk. They were pleading for the public to help find the perpetrator of this heinous crime against their sister.

  The Sepety family, I presumed. Holding a press conference.

  The women were heavily made-up and crying prettily, dabbing at the tears that trickled down their cheeks, a drop at a time. I’m not a pretty crier—when I cry, I commit—and I’m always suspicious of those who are. I couldn’t help noticing that the sisters’ eyes were neither red nor swollen, and their noses weren’t running like mine always did. Were they truly heartbroken at the sudden, violent loss of a family member or just posing for the cameras?

  Don’t judge, Mel. People grieve in different ways.

  As I stood on the sidewalk, listening and wondering whether to try to speak with them or just get the hell out of there, I noticed Coco Stapleton edging over to stand by the family, and to get on camera.

  She saw me, smiled, and nodded.

  At a lull in the reporters’ questions, Coco gestured toward me. “This is one of the people working on the theater. In fact, she’s the one who found poor, sweet Isadora.”

  The cameras swung around, and a reporter stuck a microphone in my face.

  “What’s your name and how are you involved in the death of Isadora Sepety?” she demanded.

  “I’m not really involved, per se . . .”

  “Who are you?”

  “Mel Turner. I’m—”

  The blond Sepety sister was already looking me up on her phone, and shrieked, “Omigawd—you’re a ghost buster?”

  “She’s a ghost buster!” someone else exclaimed, and an excited murmur ran through the small crowd.

  “I’m not really—”

  But it didn’t matter what I said. People started shouting questions at me, and cameras and microphones were shoved in my face.

  Apparently this was my fifteen minutes of fame. Problem was, I’ve never wanted to be famous. Not once, not even as a little kid. So all this attention was not a fantasy come true.

  I ducked my head, muttered, “No comment,” and tried to leave, but was blocked in. That ticked me off, so I ducked my head and started shouldering my way down the sidewalk.

  As I neared a small alley, I felt a hand on my arm, pulling me into a building, and a door clanged shut behind us.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was Mitch, the glowering one.

  My heart leapt to my throat. What did he want? Was I out of the frying pan and into the fire? Had anyone seen Mitch pull me in here?

  “Sorry to jerk you around like that,” Mitch said. “I thought you could use a hand. So to speak.”

  We appeared to be in the back room of one of the small shops on the block. Wherever we were, the place smelled heavenly. I noticed some personal items—clothes, a backpack, a pair of shoes—and, in one corner, a neatly made-up army cot.

  “That family is too much . . .” He shook his head. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded and took a few deep breaths, trying to pull myself together.

  “Do you live here?” I asked, looking around. “What smells so good?”

  “We’re in the back of the donut shop. I work here sometimes.”

  “And you sleep here?”

  “Only when I get thrown out of the theater. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  “Hey, that wasn’t my fault,” I said. “But thank you for getting me away from those reporters.”

  He shrugged. “No problem.”

  “As a matter of fact, Mitch, I’ve been trying to get in touch with the folks in the theater. Could I ask you a few questions?”

  “Nothing but questions these days, am I right?”

  “What’s your story, Mitch?” I asked. “How did you end up in the theater?”

  “Why would you want to know?” he asked, sounding suspicious.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  He paused for a moment, looked around, then gestured toward a wooden chair.

  “Have a seat,” he said, sitting on the army cot.

  I sat, thinking someone had taught him manners.

  As if reading my mind, he gave me a quick résumé. “You think I’m sort of a bum, don’t you? Well, I’m not. I grew up in a totally bougie household in Princeton, New Jersey—Dad took the train to his fat-cat job in New York City. Mom stayed home and joined the garden club. It was like growing up in the 1950s but, like, a half a century later. It was surreal. Frozen in time. Summer camp in the Adirondacks, prep school with uniforms, private college . . .”

  “Sounds like a pretty privileged upbringing.”

  “I know, right? But I never asked for any of it, and I didn’t want it. Finished school to keep my parents off my back, then left the day after graduation. Hitchhiked across the country. Met Isadora and a few others, ended up here.”

  I said nothing, just listened. Mitch’s story of disaffected youth was hardly a new one, but it was new to him, and really that was all that mattered.

  “You don’t understand how important the theater is to us,” Mitch continued. “It’s ground zero for the resistance.”

  “Resistance
to what, exactly?”

  “To the patriarchy—to the military-industrial complex that devalues humans and promotes climate change. We’re on a path that leads to destruction, and the clock’s ticking. We don’t turn this around, we’re toast.”

  I hid a smile at his phrasing. “Oh. That’s a lot to resist. Good for you. I recently switched to all-recyclable garbage bags myself.”

  He gave me an odd look. Hey, it was a start.

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “I’m impressed by how organized you all are. And you seemed to take care of the place, which I really appreciate.”

  He waved away my thanks.

  “Mitch, can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Isadora?”

  “Like, her family?”

  “Why would they want to hurt her?”

  He shrugged. “They just . . . I guess they didn’t understand her. I don’t know. I don’t like them.”

  “Do you know the brother, Ringo?”

  “He came around every once in a while, always had some scheme for making money. Latest one was to make a reality show out of our situation.”

  “How would anyone make a show out of your situation?”

  “Follow us around with cameras, I guess. Record when we had fights or how we got by. They probably hoped to tape us stealing, or sleeping with each other, or whatever. They really don’t understand the resistance at all.”

  I nodded, trying to think of other possible suspects. I really did need to start carrying around cheat sheets with me.

  “What can you tell me about Coco, the preservationist with the Crockett Caretakers?” I asked.

  “That old bat? She’s never been much of a friend to us. I’ll tell you that much. She’s rich, so what do you expect? A lot of unexamined privilege there. Thinks the rules don’t apply to her. You know, I caught her trying to break into the theater once.”

  “Coco?” I tried to picture the fastidious Coco, dressed in her fancy pantsuit and scarves, scaling the fire escape or climbing through a window. But I supposed one never knew. “Breaking in how?”

  He ignored my question.

  “And she’s really condescending, told me she had a job for me. Like I wanted to work for someone like that, like I couldn’t find my own work if I wanted it.”

  “What about Baldwin. Did you meet him?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, all those preservationists are whack jobs. I save my empathy for folks like Liam.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He used to follow Isadora around everywhere. I think he was in love with her. He used to have a drug problem, but I don’t judge.”

  I recalled Tierney saying something similar. “Do you know where Liam is now? Is he back in the theater? Are you all staying there again?”

  I wondered who would be in charge of their creative society now, but hesitated to ask. Isadora hadn’t liked to be called “leader”; as she said, the whole hierarchical thing was anathema to their creative vision of the world.

  Mitch got up gracefully and peeked out the door. “Looks like it’s died down out there—you can probably make it back to your car without being assaulted by the press.”

  “Thanks again for getting me out of there,” I said.

  “No problem.”

  “Mitch, how do you and the others get in and out of the theater?”

  “You ever see that movie Fight Club?”

  “As in ‘the first rule of Fight Club’ . . . ?”

  He nodded. “Don’t talk about Fight Club.”

  * * *

  * * *

  After swinging by Beronio Lumber and Discount Building Supplies to check on the status of some current orders, I considered heading to the Bay Bridge and home, but hesitated, thinking of the early Friday traffic. Besides, I was in no rush. I was on my own tonight: Landon had a late meeting with his doctoral students and would grab dinner at the faculty club, and Dad and Stan were meeting a bunch of old construction buddies for pizza and beer at Zachary’s.

  I wanted to stop by the new house in Oakland to take a stab—pardon the pun—at getting Hildy to tell me why I had “seen” her with a bloody knife. But first things first: I wanted to know more about our resident starlet, and about what happened at the Crockett.

  I called Annette Crawford.

  “Anything?” the inspector demanded without preamble.

  “Not really . . .”

  “Then why are you bothering me?”

  I liked to refer to Annette Crawford as my “friend in the SFPD,” but “friend” is a relative term since we didn’t really spend time together except when I had stumbled across another murder. And when she was on a frustrating case, Annette’s patience with me tended toward the short.

  “I was wondering if I could buy you dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Or a drink, maybe?”

  There was a long pause. “Are you asking me out on a date? Not to be too personal, Mel, but you’re not really my type, romantically speaking. Besides, aren’t you engaged?”

  “Um . . .” I was pretty sure, but not entirely certain, she was joking. It was hard to tell with Annette. “The engagement’s still on. I have a ring and everything.”

  “But no date set yet? My mama always said it wasn’t a real engagement without a ring and a date.”

  “I’m working on the second part. Anyway. Do you have time to meet?”

  “Let me think about it,” she said. “But fair warning: This is an ongoing case, Mel. I can’t talk to you about it in detail.”

  “I know,” I said. “Can you at least tell me if the medical examiner has issued a finding on the cause of death? That would be public information, wouldn’t it?”

  “Homicide. Strangled with her own scarves.”

  Ugh. I wondered whether this was some sort of homicidal irony or merely a coincidence. After all, if you were planning on killing someone and those long scarves were right there, already wrapped around her slender neck . . . they would come in awfully handy. I shivered at the thought of what Isadora had experienced at the end.

  “Your turn, Mel. Remember how I always say you should let me know everything, even if it doesn’t seem important? I’m willing to bet there are things you haven’t mentioned. Tell me now.”

  I told her about the Xerxes Group firing the previous contractor, Avery Builders. “Not that I think Josh Avery had anything to do with the murder. He’s a good guy. But you might want to speak with him.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. What else?”

  “Well, Skeet the security guard mentioned the Sepety family. Isadora was arguing with her brother about some reality show he wanted to pitch—she wanted nothing to do with it. Also, the family held a press conference in front of the theater a little while ago.”

  “Yes, my partner showed me some of the footage from that. They identified you as a local ghost buster.”

  “That wasn’t my fault. I was just—”

  “What else?”

  “I tracked down a couple of the squatters, Tierney and Mitch.”

  “We’ve spoken with them already. Did you find anything they said helpful?”

  “Not really. They’re worried about Liam. He’s a former drug user. That’s all I can think of, but I’m sure there’s more . . .”

  She let out a loud sigh. “All right. Meet me at Akiko’s on Bush at seven. I could do with some sushi. I’ll call and get a table—I know a guy.”

  “You’re so much cooler than I’ll ever be.”

  She chuckled. “I love their omakase. Dinner’s on you, by the way. I am but a humble public servant.”

  I had no idea what omakase was, but figured I would learn soon enough.

  With time to kill before meeting Annette at seven, I checked my phone.

  No call from Lily about the dress
, but I assumed she would be in touch when she knew something. Before I geared up for another chat with Hildy, I really wanted to know if she might be inclined to kill someone.

  Standing with a cigarette in one hand and a bloody knife in the other . . .

  If ghost busting had taught me one thing, it was that it could be dangerous to ignore history.

  And speaking of which . . . I checked the time. The California Historical Society would be closing soon, but I called one of the head archivists, Trish, who had recently become a friend.

  When you’re in my line of business, a historian was a very useful friend, indeed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  By the time I parked the car, the society had officially closed. But Trish unlocked the door to let me in, greeting me with a smile and a big hug.

  I loved visiting the archive, especially after hours. Even the smell of the place energized me: a dash of old leather-bound books and newspapers mixed with the energy of inquiring minds.

  Trish was in her fifties and had worked here for years. Her dishwater blond hair was streaked with gray, but her eyes were a bright, piercing blue. She wore cardigans and half-glasses on a beaded chain—“My librarian armor,” she called it, because it helped to intimidate the occasionally troublesome patron.

  “So good to see you, Mel! It’s been a while,” Trish said as she led the way over to the reading desks. “What are you up to these days?”

  “Oh, you know me . . . That can be a complicated question to answer.”

  She paused. “Another . . . What should we call it? Incident?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But it always turns out all right, doesn’t it? The lighthouse is just lovely. Your friend the innkeeper offered me a complimentary night’s stay there. I look forward to taking her up on it.”

  “Alicia’s wonderful. You were so helpful when we were trying to figure out what was going on out on the island.”

  “I really didn’t do anything special. All in a day’s work.”

  “You were a huge help, Trish. You historians are the keepers of precious knowledge, which can be very useful, especially when it comes to spooky old buildings.”