The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  Annette appeared ashen but nodded. “Show us the way out of here, please, Mr. Henley.”

  “Call me Skeet. Everybody does,” Skeet said, waving us through the open door. “It’s a real rabbit warren in here. Doors lock automatically to keep people out.”

  “Yeah, well, you need a better system,” said Annette. “Because not only do the locked doors not keep people out—they trap people in. That’s a serious fire code violation. Mel, make a note.”

  “Yes, Inspector,” I said.

  “I don’t understand it. Everything should have been locked up properly,” Skeet said. “How’d you two even get down here?”

  “We’re intrepid,” I said. “Can’t keep a good woman down.”

  I heard Annette muttering. We traipsed through a twisting and turning corridor, up another set of steps, and finally found ourselves back in the once-resplendent lobby. The lights were back on, and the ghosts were gone. No more otherworldly moans, no jeering audience, no Isadora dancing onstage.

  Outside in the fresh night air at last, we joined Skeet in the security pod. He made us mugs of coffee from freshly ground beans, in his personal drip coffeemaker. I approved. We coffee people have to stick together.

  “Where’s Thad?” Annette asked.

  “Dropped by and found the boy napping. Don’t blame him, used to do that myself from time to time. Late-night shift can get pretty quiet. But he’s not much good asleep at the wheel, so I sent him home. Good thing I did, huh?”

  Skeet noticed me staring at the movie poster on the wall of the trailer. He held up his hands in surrender.

  “Yup, I took that one. I mean, I don’t like to think of it as stealing, as much as taking care of it for its rightful owner, whoever that turns out to be. There are a lot of those posters in the theater, just rolled up and left on the floor. Most are falling apart, but this one was in decent shape, so I figured if I framed it, it would help to keep it nice. I also rescued those things.” He gestured to a shelf in the corner on which sat a grimy roll of paper movie tickets and a broken saucer in a jade green that looked like Depression ware.

  “Again, I hope you don’t think I was looting. I mentioned it to Mr. Thibodeaux, who said I could hang on to them for the interim. I planned on giving them over to the owner of the place, whenever I figured out who that was.”

  “I understand the love of old things,” I said with a nod. “You should see my place.”

  “Always been a big fan of the movies,” Skeet said. “Used to come here, back in the day. My mom used to take me. She loved movies, too.”

  “Don’t we all?”

  “Some more than others, I guess.”

  “Mel said you told her that Isadora had something she wanted to tell you the night she died,” Annette asked.

  “That’s what Isadora said,” Skeet agreed. “Don’t know what it was, though.”

  “Did she give you any indication about what she intended to discuss?”

  Skeet shook his head. “After she—well, afterward, I asked a couple of the squatters about it, but no one seemed to know what she was up to. I noticed, though, that someone has gone through her stuff in the ladies’ lounge.”

  I shivered. It had been one heck of a night.

  “You’re a local boy, are you, Skeet?” asked Annette, sipping her coffee and acting as though she had all the time in the world to chat. I knew her well enough now to recognize that Inspector Crawford was back and asking questions.

  “San Francisco, born and raised.”

  “You don’t meet many natives in the city anymore.”

  “True that.”

  “Your folks from here, too?”

  “My mom was orphaned young. From the Town.” Around these parts, San Francisco was the City, and Oakland was the Town. “She came from nothing, worked hard her whole life. It was a tough childhood, so she wanted us to have the best. We weren’t rich, but we got by, even had a little house over near Hunters Point for a while, but we lost it to back taxes.”

  “You mentioned you loved the stage. Did you do any acting?” I asked. If Annette’s gambit was to get him talking, I could play along.

  “In high school, sure. Dancing, singing. Wasn’t half bad either. Spent a little time doing community theater, that sort of thing. But soon enough I had to go to work.”

  “What kind of work did you do?” I asked.

  “Picked apples for a while, then decided to see the world.” He gave a chagrined smile. “Got as far as Washington and Oregon before running out of money. Came back and landed a warehouse job driving a forklift. Worked my way up to warehouse manager, got married, raised a family. The wife and I get over to Reno every once in a while, see a show and do a little gambling, but that’s about all for the travel.”

  “And now you’re working security?”

  “You know how it is,” he said, shrugging. “I got old, but I guess I forgot to save enough for retirement. Also, I’ve got grandkids in college, and I’m trying to help them out. Want them to outshine their grandpa, have all the opportunities I never had. My granddaughter shows a real talent in the arts. So here I am most days, and a few nights.”

  Annette placed her empty mug on the desk. “Mel here said you were speaking with a fellow when she arrived with Thibodeaux the day Isadora died. What can you tell me about him?”

  His eyes got wary. “She asked me about that already. I don’t remember him.”

  “Don’t remember the incident at all?”

  “You know how it is. Memory fades. Didn’t write anything down in the book, so it must not have been important. But if Thibodeaux saw him, you might ask him.”

  “I will. Thanks,” said Annette, standing. “By the way, why did you come looking for us in the theater? You aren’t supposed to be doing rounds until we release the scene.”

  “I saw the tape had been cut, and Thad told me you’d gone in. I waited a while, but it seemed like you were in there too long.”

  She nodded. “Well, I’m awfully glad you came looking. Appreciate your help and the coffee. We should let you get back to work.”

  “I’m just sitting here until my shift ends.”

  “You should get a TV.”

  “Management doesn’t approve,” he said, patting the book on the desk. “But I’ve got stuff to read. I’m all set.”

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said, standing and setting my mug down next to Annette’s.

  I glanced once more at the poster and the little assemblage of items Skeet had collected from the theater. Could there be something valuable in the theater, something worth killing for?

  Back at our cars, I handed Annette the reel of film and box of candy she had collected in the projection booth.

  “Well, this should keep me busy tomorrow,” she said. “I can’t wait to see how I write up that field report. Remind me to scratch ‘encountering ghosts’ off my bucket list.”

  “Was encountering ghosts ever on your bucket list?”

  “Not really, no.” She let out a wry chuckle, then took a deep breath and sighed. “I see a lot of awful things in my line of work. But nothing as shocking as what I saw tonight. I honest to God don’t know how you do it, Mel. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re so crazy now.”

  “Did you think I was before?”

  “Crazy-ish. Not so much as some, a lot more than others.”

  “I don’t blame you. It’s one of those things that’s impossible to imagine until it happens to you.”

  “Speaking of which . . . tell me something straight.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Could the ghosts, or whatever those things were, have had anything to do with Isadora’s murder?” A worried frown marred Annette’s forehead.

  I paused a moment before replying. “I don’t think they could be responsible for Isadora’s death, if that’s what you’
re asking. Ghosts are immaterial. They can’t strangle someone, even if they wanted to. But often violence and sudden death seem to stir things up. Especially when . . .” I trailed off, wanting to get the words right.

  “Especially when what?”

  “When there are parallels between past and present. From what I understand, the ghostly usher was killed by a romantic rival. Maybe Isadora was murdered for similar reasons?”

  “We’ve spoken to the two men she was rumored to be intimate with, but they have alibis. I don’t like them for this crime.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What about her brother, Ringo Sepety? There was bad blood there.”

  “He also has an alibi and seemed genuinely broken up by her death. I’ve been fooled before, of course, but Ringo wanted Isadora’s help with his project. Killing her wouldn’t make a lot of sense.”

  “Since when does murder have to make sense?”

  “Hmm, seems somebody’s been listening to her favorite homicide inspector,” Annette said. “True enough. You can drive yourself crazy trying to find a rational reason for a murder because in most cases there is none.”

  “I hear you,” I said. “Rational reasons don’t explain ghosts either, yet there they are.”

  She nodded. “Anyway, thanks for dinner. I’m going to limp home and try not to think about what I just experienced, then get up in a few hours and try to catch a killer. You?”

  “Me, too. I mean, the getting-up-in-a-few-hours part, not the catching-a-killer part. Because that’s a job for the professionals in the SFPD homicide department.”

  “Very funny,” Annette said with a reluctant smile. “But seriously, Mel, be careful.”

  “You, too, Inspector. You, too.”

  Chapter Twenty

  There were more cars on the Bay Bridge than one would expect at eleven o’clock at night. Not so very long ago, a person could commute into San Francisco without too much trouble and even find parking. All that had changed, and now there was almost no time of day or night that one could be sure the traffic would be light.

  I realized my conscious mind was ruminating about traffic while my subconscious processed everything that had just happened in the theater. I wished it good luck.

  Poor Annette, I thought as I drove across the bridge, the lights from Oakland’s busy shipping terminal far below reflecting off the dark water. This sort of thing messed with a rational person’s worldview.

  I plugged in my dead cell phone and saw several messages, including one from Lily Ivory. “I’m not big for talking on the phone. Any chance you could stop by to chat about your dress?” That put me in mind, again, of going by the new house—Land-Mel’s Manor?—and talking to Hildy directly. After all, she had been easy enough to communicate with the first time. But the image of her holding that bloody knife gave me serious pause. After what had happened with Annette at the Crockett, I felt like one of my flashlights: I didn’t have a lot of battery left, and my beam was dimming fast.

  Going straight home was the right decision. Dog rushed to greet me at the door, and I spent a few moments hugging him. It always helped to hug a dog. The house was quiet; a few bowls and spoons in the sink suggested a round of ice-cream sundaes before bed. My father’s keys sat beside a small stack of mail, right where he always put them. A mess of photos—my sisters and me as kids, my mom in later years—and notes and novelty magnets were stuck in a hodgepodge on the fridge.

  Everything was blessedly normal.

  Stan had already turned in for the night, as had Landon. Dad had fallen asleep in his comfy chair in front of the television. I crept through the room and up the stairs, trying not to wake him.

  Landon was in bed reading, but put the book down as soon as I walked in.

  “Hello, my love! At long last. I wondered when you’d—Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You look . . .”—he seemed to search for the word—“. . . tired. Long day?”

  I nodded. “I just got back from the theater.”

  “You went back to the Crockett?”

  “Annette was with me—Homicide Inspector Annette Crawford. She carries a gun.”

  He did not look mollified. “What did you see?”

  “We saw a number of things. I’m pretty sure Annette’s traumatized for life.”

  “And you?”

  “I was already pretraumatized,” I said with a smile. “Unfortunately, nothing we encountered was any help in solving poor Isadora’s murder.”

  “So it was definitely a murder, then?”

  I sighed. “No doubt about it.” My mind flashed on the black-and-white images of Isadora, the scarves tightening around her neck . . .

  “I’m going to take a shower,” I said. “I’ll join you in a minute. I’m beat.”

  When I emerged from the bathroom, Landon was still reading. My mother’s journals sat on the nightstand, calling to me. I started reading one—I was hoping they might point me in a helpful direction—but managed only a few lines before I gave up and laid my head on Landon’s shoulder, listening to the reassuring beat of his steady heart.

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Landon said softly. “You should sleep in late, if you can. Remember, in the evening we’re meeting with Luz and Victor.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “Totally forgot.”

  He laid his book on the nightstand, turned out the light, and wrapped his arms around me.

  “Sleep, Mel. Sleep.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “What the hell were you doing on the TV last night?” Dad asked as I walked into the kitchen the next morning. Stan was sitting at the little pine table, reading the local paper, while my dad stood before the stove, cooking eggs and bacon. “Saw you on the six o’clock news.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” I said, leaning over to greet Dog, who met me with a wild wagging of his plume of a tail.

  “You were on the news?” asked Stan. The newspaper crackled as he lowered it to fix me with a questioning look. “Everything okay?”

  “There was a press conference in front of the Crockett yesterday,” explained Dad. “And they labeled this one here a ‘local ghost buster.’”

  “Better than being a ghost buster from out of town, I suppose,” I mumbled, yawning as I poured coffee into my mug.

  “That explains all the calls we got last night,” said Stan. “It seems there’s plenty of work in the ghost business, Mel, in case you ever want to branch out.”

  My father rolled his eyes and grumbled.

  “I think I’m good with running Turner Construction for the moment,” I said.

  “Breakfast, babe?” Dad asked me as I cradled my coffee.

  “No, thanks.”

  “What did you eat last night?”

  “Dad, I love you, but you are inordinately concerned with my eating habits.”

  “Grabbed some tacos from a truck, as per usual, I’ll bet,” said Dad.

  “As a matter of fact, I had a lovely meal with Annette Crawford at Akiko’s on Bush,” I said. “It’s a sushi place.”

  “Raw fish?” Dad said, shaking his head. I wasn’t fooled; I knew for a fact that my dad was a more adventurous eater than he let on. He had done two tours in Vietnam and raved about the food. But he loved playing the curmudgeon. “Should have brought it home for the grill.”

  Landon joined us then, freshly showered and shaved but wearing a pair of old jeans and a stained T-shirt. These were his “chore clothes,” and it was one of my favorite outfits on him. I did like the look of a well-built man in construction gear. Today he and Dad were planning on reglazing the dining room windows.

  After wishing everyone a good morning, Landon poured a cup of coffee, leaned against the counter, and said, “Did you tell them about going back in the theater, Mel?”

  “Last night?” Stan asked.
r />   “You went back in the theater?” Dad asked, pausing in flipping the hashed browns. “At night? By yourself?”

  “No, Inspector Crawford went with me.”

  “Crawford seems like a sensible woman,” Dad said. “What’d you do, get her liquored up on sake?”

  “Of course not. I suggested the ghosts might be able to tell us something, and that they usually manifested more at night. She carries a gun, you know,” I added to appease the concern on all their faces.

  “Did you see anything?” Stan asked.

  “We saw a lot,” I said, thinking back on the horror of the murder film, of Isadora’s face at the end. “But we’re no closer to figuring out what’s going on. Can anyone think of anything in that theater that would be valuable enough to murder someone over?”

  “Vintage film equipment—or a print of an old film?” suggested Stan. “Or posters, maybe? Lots of people collect old film memorabilia, though I have no idea how much that stuff might fetch on the open market.”

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Want to go to Niles Canyon tomorrow? I’d love to check out the Essanay film museum and see if they can tell us anything. Caleb’s coming home; we could make it a family outing.”

  We were all eager to see him. Caleb might have no longer been my official stepson, but in the Turner house, he was one of us. Forever.

  “I’d love to go,” said Stan, already looking it up on his smartphone. “I’ll check their hours on Sundays, and see if the museum’s wheelchair accessible.”

  Stan had to go through life checking to see whether or not he could go places. Not for the first time, I was grateful for my two working legs.

  “Will you be enjoying the fireworks tonight?” Landon asked Stan and Dad. As Oakland residents, we had been treated to more than a week of illegal fireworks leading up to the Fourth of July. Fortunately, Dog didn’t seem to be bothered by them. I wasn’t sure he even noticed.

  “We might step outside and take a look,” said Dad. “But they’re predicting fog in San Francisco.”

  “No surprise there,” I said, and made a mental note to call Luz in case she was panicking about tonight’s big date.