The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  She smiled. “And speaking of spooky old buildings, what are you working on lately?”

  I gave her a quick rundown of the recent events at the Crockett Theatre.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about that young woman’s death. What a tragedy.”

  I nodded. “It really is. So now I’m trying to figure out whether I can help by looking into the history of the place, anything that stands out or seems odd that might offer a clue . . .”

  “Hmmm,” she said, tilting her head back as she mentally reviewed the society’s holdings. Nobody knew them better than Trish. “I don’t think we have any corporate records—the early film theater business was pretty wild and woolly, with constant changes and not a lot of record keeping—but I believe we do have a bunch of photos of the Crockett Theatre, if those would be helpful. Last year we got a grant to digitize our photographic collection, so I can e-mail them to you.”

  “That would be great. Thank you. There’s a Facebook page with a lot of photos, as well.”

  “And there was a man killed at the Crockett a long time ago, if I recall,” Trish said. “He worked there. Was it a ticket taker?”

  “An usher.”

  “Let’s see . . .” Trish got up and moved to a computer at the counter. “Yes, the crime scene photos.”

  The black-and-white photos showed a man lying facedown on the mezzanine carpet, just where Alyx had taped the outline. So Alyx knew the poor usher had fallen right there, the victim of a homicide, and yet he decided to make that mezzanine his home? He was gutsier than I.

  The usher’s arms were splayed out; one knee was cocked. He wore a uniform jacket and a cap, just as I had seen him. A newspaper article identified him as Harold Hancock of San Francisco, age twenty-three. According to the article, his assailant disappeared into a horrified crowd.

  “Was the murderer ever found?” I asked.

  Trish typed into the computer, skimmed a few follow-up articles, and shook her head. “Apparently he was never apprehended. The Chronicle reported: ‘The man suspected of the murderous deed was one Carl Jacobs, who vied with Mr. Hancock for the love of a young woman.’”

  “What a ridiculous reason to kill someone.”

  “It doesn’t take much,” said Trish. “Believe me, the history books are peppered with tragedies caused by utter foolishness.”

  Other than the fact that the usher Harold Hancock had showed himself to me at the theater, there was no connection I could think of between his death and Isadora’s murder. I tried to think of what else to ask.

  “I understand a neighborhood association was invaluable in keeping the theater from being torn down,” I said.

  “That’s what I heard, as well.” Trish typed more into the computer. “Looks like after the theater was sold to the city, it was slated to be torn down and turned into a parking lot, but the association got involved. Huh, this is fun: The theater used to encourage attendance by holding raffles and giving away free dishes. It was the original ‘Depression ware.’”

  “Really? I love Depression ware.”

  I had started collecting bits and pieces of Depression ware when I was a little kid, and it now filled the shelves of my bedroom at my dad’s house. When we moved into the new house, Landon kept reminding me, I would have a whole new set of shelves to fill with my beloved artifacts from demolition sites, junkyards, and yard sales. As big as that house was, I wondered whether we’d have room for everything.

  “When they say there are tax revenues and fund-raising, how much money are we talking?”

  Trish shrugged. “Enough to make it attractive for the group redoing the theater.”

  Josh Avery had hinted that the Xerxes Group might have had an angle other than a love of old buildings. Was it money? “Who oversees those city funds? Is there an auditor or . . . ?”

  “I don’t really know, but since they’re public monies, there must be some kind of official oversight.”

  I nodded, wondering why Gregory Thibodeaux hadn’t mentioned it—and annoyed with myself for not thinking to ask.

  “Seems like the previous owner, Calvin Delucci, really loved the old place,” said Trish, who was still reading. “Shame he died before it could be renovated. Officially, he died of a heart attack.”

  I thought I heard a note in her voice. “What do you mean, ‘officially’?”

  “There were rumors that his cause of death was more complicated, though that’s all they were—rumors. If you’re interested, you might try talking to his widow, Lorraine. She lives in the East Bay, in Montclair.”

  “That’s not far from my new house.”

  “Is that right?”

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I asked. “The rumors and whispers, as well as the documented history?”

  “You just have to keep your ears open and know where to look, Mel. People are fascinating. And they love to gossip.” Trish smiled. “Anyway, Calvin Delucci inherited the theater from his father, William. The building dates from 1923, which was early for film, so they also hosted vaudeville acts and that sort of thing.”

  “When did movies become a real thing?”

  “The first full-length ‘talkie’ didn’t come out until 1927, though filmmakers had been experimenting with ways to coordinate film and sound as early as the turn of the last century. A popular technology was ‘sound on disc,’ which meant the images were on film and the audio was on a wax record. The idea was to connect the film projector and the record player through a synchronizing mechanism. Didn’t always work, though, so it wasn’t uncommon for the sound not to match the images being shown on the screen.”

  Again, I thought of the ghostly usher and the way his words seemed out of sync to his movements.

  “Oh, now this is interesting,” Trish said, looking up from the city records. “The Crockett Theatre was built on the site of an old fort, which in turn was built on top of a freshwater source. Wasn’t that smart?”

  “Smart how?” I asked, thinking of the many ways water intrusion could weaken a building. “Why would that be a benefit?”

  “In case of siege. With a little planning, it’s possible to stockpile enough food to last for months or years. But maintaining a source of freshwater is much, much harder.”

  “They were preparing for a siege?”

  “Military strategists prepare for many contingencies, I suppose. Like the armory, on Mission. Have you seen that place?”

  “The porn set?”

  “Before it was a porn set, it was the armory, and it has a spring in the basement. Have you taken the tour? It’s really interesting.”

  “I’ll bet it is. Especially since it’s a porn set.” I couldn’t resist teasing her. Trish appeared so buttoned-down in her cardigan and glasses, but in her spare time, she loved salsa dancing and was a volunteer organizer of medical supplies for Doctors Without Borders. And toured porn sets.

  “That reminds me,” I continued. “Have you ever heard of Eamon Castle?”

  “The old brewery near Candlestick?”

  “So you have heard of it.”

  “When I was a kid, everyone said it was haunted, but I think that was just because it was old and empty. And built of stone, which is unusual for this area.”

  “Not a lot of castles in San Francisco, stone or otherwise.”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s funny . . . There was an underground water source at another one of my other jobs a while ago. Who knew there were so many?”

  She blinked. “Isn’t that a ghost thing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “According to what I’ve heard, ghosts—death in general, come to think of it—are often associated with water. Then again, you’re the expert in that regard.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. The ghost expert.” Not. “But tell me more.”

  “My grandmother was from the B
alkan Peninsula. There’s an old Balkan wives’ tale, that when someone dies, you’re supposed to put a tub filled with water by the door for Death to wash his scythe.”

  “Huh. Interesting. Not sure what that has to do with an underground spring at the Crockett, though.”

  “Again, I’m just spitballing here. My impression is that ghosts are supposed to be able to move along water routes more easily than over land, or something along those lines.”

  She looked away, as though embarrassed. This was a reaction I often noted when paranormal talk came up amongst educated, scientific-minded souls. It was hard to ignore what we saw and heard, but it was equally hard to forget that there was no scientific proof that ghosts exist.

  “Hey,” I asked. “Have you heard of a TV show with the Sepetys?”

  “Of course. I take it you haven’t?”

  “I fear I don’t have my fingers on the pulse of popular culture.”

  “You’re not missing anything.”

  “What can you tell me about it? Are they actors or . . . ?”

  She tilted her head. “It’s a reality TV show that follows young women around while they shop and fight and pursue romance.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why does anyone care?”

  “That’s one of the great mysteries of our day. Why are you asking about the show?”

  “Because the young woman at the theater, the woman who was killed . . .” My voice wavered. “Her name was Isadora Sepety. The rest of the family was at the theater today, holding a press conference. I guess Isadora was the family nonconformist and wanted nothing to do with their show. But according to the security guard at the theater, her brother was trying to convince her to do a reality show set in the theater, about the squatters.”

  She frowned. “That seems odd.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  “And you think that has something to do with her murder?”

  “Maybe tempers were running high. They were arguing. Things got out of hand?”

  “How was she killed?”

  I hesitated. “Does it matter?”

  “It might. A fundamental of law enforcement is that to learn about the criminal, analyze the crime. If she was shot, strangled, or died from blunt-force trauma, it may be a crime of passion. If she was poisoned, the murder was most likely premeditated.”

  “You watch a lot of cop shows on TV?”

  “British mysteries,” she said with a smile. “Can’t get enough of them.”

  “Isn’t poisoning considered a woman’s method?”

  “That’s a traditional assumption,” she said. “Poison has the advantage of creating physical distance between the murderer and the victim, which makes it a safer way for a woman to murder a man. However, not only were many of the most famous poisoners in history men, but women are increasingly more comfortable using weapons to kill. Not that that’s a step forward in equality, if you ask me.”

  “Indeed. Oh hey, speaking of murder: Where would I find information about a murder in Oakland in the 1910s or ’20s?”

  “I would check back issues of the Oakland Tribune. It started publication in the 1870s, and by the early twentieth century was a dominant newspaper in the Bay Area and indeed the entire state. If the murder was a crime of passion—as opposed to a simple mugging, for example—it probably would have made the San Francisco papers as well. They were hungry for news.”

  “This involved an actress in silent films.”

  “Even more likely, then.” Trish glanced at a slim silver watch on her wrist. “But I’m sorry to say I won’t have time to look it up now. I was supposed to leave ten minutes ago to meet some friends for dinner. Why don’t you write down as much as you know, and I’ll see what I can find for you first thing Monday morning?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I met Annette Crawford at Akiko’s on Bush Street.

  “This is my favorite place for omakase,” she said as we waited to be seated.

  “Not to sound like an idiot,” I said, “but what is omakase, exactly? Normally I’m up for adventures, but I’ve had a rough couple of days. Not sure I want to accidentally order fish sperm or whale blubber or some such thing.”

  Annette smiled. “Literally, omakase means ‘I trust you.’ In other words, we leave it up to the chef, who should know which fish is at its peak. Trusting the chef means a lot in a sushi restaurant.”

  The hostess ushered us to a small table in the corner, and she and Annette had a short exchange—in Japanese.

  “You speak Japanese?” I asked Annette as soon as we were alone. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I’ve been studying a little online and occasionally try it out in sushi bars. I get particularly good omakase when I attempt a few words in Japanese.”

  “And that brings me to my next question: Since when have you started trusting people?”

  “I trust people,” Annette said, sounding a bit defensive. Then she sat back and shrugged. “Some people anyway. I trust sushi chefs in a restaurant like this one.”

  “And is good sushi the only reason you’re learning Japanese?”

  “That’s just an added benefit. You know what they say: Learning a language is the key to brain health, and I already know Spanish. So I thought I’d try something completely different.”

  “Because you have so much free time.”

  “Mel, if you haven’t learned this already, then here’s a piece of advice: Sometimes you have to make time.”

  “You’re something else,” I said with a smile, shaking my head. “Full of surprises.”

  The server brought us a bowl of edamame and poured mugs of fragrant green tea.

  “Also,” said Annette as she shelled an edamame and popped the salted beans into her mouth. “It’s a nice break from my usual routine. One can only handle so many dead bodies without needing to change gears.”

  “Ah yes, back to the crux of things.”

  “You said you have information for me?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, exactly,” I said, backpedaling a bit. “I mentioned on the phone that I spoke with Tierney—”

  “At the tattoo shop.” She nodded. “We talked to her earlier today.”

  “And with Mitch, who is staying in the back of the donut shop.”

  “Any of the others? We’d already spoken with both of them.”

  I shook my head.

  “The phone numbers you had for them were helpful,” Annette said.

  “They answered? They don’t pick up when I call.”

  “Of course they didn’t answer. Nobody answers my calls either.”

  “I do.”

  “And I appreciate it,” she said with a smile. “No, we tracked them down through their cell phone records. But let me handle this, Mel—it’s my job, not yours. One of them might well be a murderer, lest you forget.”

  “I’m not actively looking for them, at least not anymore. As a matter of fact, Mitch found me, not the other way around. He sort of rescued me from the Sepetys.”

  She gave me a questioning look.

  “From the cameras, I should say. Oh hey, I also wanted to mention a suspicious man who was talking with the security guard the day of the murder.”

  “I’m only now hearing about this?” Annette frowned.

  “I didn’t think of it at the time.”

  “Description?”

  “Let’s see . . . average white guy, probably in his fifties, chinos and button-down shirt, balding.”

  “Well, that’s helpful,” she said dryly. “What was suspicious about him?”

  “He exchanged a strange look with Gregory, as though they didn’t like each other. But the security guard—”

  “This is Bill Henley?”

  “Um . . . I was told he went
by Skeet.”

  “Right, same guy.”

  “Anyway, when I asked Skeet about it, he claimed he didn’t remember who the guy was. Suggested it was probably a neighbor curious about the remodel.”

  “And you don’t believe him?”

  “When I saw them talking, they weren’t acting as if it was just a casual conversation between strangers.”

  “That’s curious, I’ll grant you. But there could be a million reasons.”

  “Maybe. But there’s something else. Skeet writes things down in his journal—it’s a log for the security guys. If you haven’t looked at it, you should.”

  “I did check the log. I check everything. In fact, I wanted to ask you about an employee of yours.” She flipped to a page in her notebook. “One Mateo Suarez.”

  “Mateo? He’s one of my foremen.”

  “He has a criminal record.”

  “He’s worked for my dad, and now me, for years. He’s a great guy, made some stupid choices when he was younger, paid the price, been straight ever since. Why are you asking about him?”

  “Skeet wrote his name down in his journal, about a month ago.”

  I blinked.

  “What’s his connection to the Crockett?” Annette continued.

  “I have no idea. I didn’t . . . He hasn’t mentioned anything. Did Skeet write down any details?”

  “Just that he stopped by and that he worked for you—his business card is taped next to the notation.”

  “I don’t suppose I could see a copy of the journal?”

  “Don’t suppose you could.”

  “I’m just thinking I might recognize something you wouldn’t.”

  “Mel, has anything in our interaction over the years suggested that I would be willing to agree to what you just asked?”

  “Not really, no. But I figured it was worth a shot.”

  “Well, I admire your gumption. The answer is still no.”

  “Okay, here’s something else. Turner Construction wasn’t the first company hired to renovate the theater. The previous contractor was fired, and when I asked who it was, I couldn’t get a straight answer. So I figured I’d just get the name from the building permits. But when I pulled the file at the city permit office that information—and only that information—had been blacked out.”