The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  “No doubt,” Mr. Raymond said to me in a quiet aside, as though sharing a secret. “But we also have DVDs for sale in the gift shop. Charlie Chaplin and Broncho Billy, a history of Niles, all sorts of great things.”

  “We’ll check that out,” I said.

  “Don’t miss the tin-lined projection booth, young man,” he called out after Caleb.

  “’Kay, thanks,” said Caleb as he wandered off.

  “Are you the historian here?” I asked. “I was hoping to ask someone a few questions.”

  “Happy to help, if I can,” said Mr. Raymond as he took tickets from an older couple and directed them to the restroom.

  I explained to him that I was involved in the renovation of the Crockett Theatre, and he spent a few minutes explaining the connection to Essanay. Most of what he said I already knew: Jimmy Delucci, the original owner of the Crockett, had also invested in films shot in Niles.

  “I’m wondering if there might be something in the theater valuable enough to incite violence.”

  “I guess that depends on how badly someone wants something. Am I right?”

  “Of course. Can you think of anything offhand . . . ?”

  He pushed his chin out, as though pondering the possibilities, while taking tickets from a young couple with a toddler in a stroller. “There are collectors of all kinds of old paraphernalia, of course, but their value probably wouldn’t amount to much. Though I suppose you never really know, do you? Every once in a while, someone poking around old movie theaters or sets hits pay dirt.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, the ‘Holy Grail’ of movie paraphernalia was a stash of letterpress blocks for movie ads from a publishing house in Omaha—back in the day, that place made the posters for just about every movie released in the States. Usually the blocks are destroyed after being used, but the owner of this shop kept each block and plate they created.”

  “And they’re worth a lot?”

  “Eventually they were sold to an antiques shop, and years later two women found them on a shelf of miscellaneous junk, bought them for a song, cleaned out the gunk and the white powder left over from the ink that had collected in all the crevices.” He rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “I guess everyone thought those women were crazy. But they got the last laugh when they sold those blocks and plates for fifteen million.”

  “Fifteen million dollars?”

  “Cash money.” He nodded. “But like I say, that treasure trove is considered the Holy Grail. Most movie collectibles aren’t worth near that much. Still, some movie posters from the 1930s were auctioned off recently for half a million each, and one was traded privately for more than a million.”

  I thought of the rolled-up old posters lying around the Crockett Theatre. There was also one hanging in the security trailer, and Coco had several in her apartment as well—could those be from the Crockett? Even if so, how would that explain Isadora’s murder? She urged the squatters not to loot the theater, but it wouldn’t be hard for someone to take a poster or two.

  “Those posters were in pristine condition, of course,” said Mr. Raymond. “One small museum in Ontario, Canada, recently found a bunch of silent-movie-era posters lining the walls of a little garage out back. There were several layers of them, and they had been covered over with cardboard.”

  “Why in the world?” asked Landon, who had joined us.

  “Insulation?” I guessed.

  The museum curator nodded. “Exactly right, young lady.”

  “I find old newspapers stuffed behind walls all the time,” I told Landon. “People didn’t waste things back then, and tended to find uses for most of what they had. Old posters, considered worthless, would have helped to keep out the wind and the cold.”

  “This little lady knows her business.” Mr. Raymond gave a wink to Landon. “You’d best keep her.”

  “Thanks,” said Landon, putting his arm around me. “I’m trying my best.”

  “Of course, those posters were falling apart,” said Mr. Raymond. “Only value was historical.”

  “This might sound odd,” I said. “But would vintage candy wrappers have any value?”

  “Candy wrappers?”

  “Some still have the candy,” I said, realizing as I said the words aloud that they sounded pretty far-fetched.

  The look on Mr. Raymond’s face said it all. His walrus mustache twitched.

  “I didn’t think so,” I said hastily. “Just a thought. One last question: Have you heard of an actress named Hildy Hildecott?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell . . .”

  “Okay, I’ve taken enough of your time. I’ll let you get to other people’s questions,” I said, though the other patrons seemed absorbed in the museum’s various displays. “Thanks so much.”

  Landon and I went to join Dad and Stan, who were checking out an antique camera. Caleb and Luz were looking at an exhibit of Chaplin on location in Niles.

  “The murderess?” Mr. Raymond asked loudly from across the room. Several heads swiveled first to look at him, then at me.

  “Um . . . ,” I said.

  “You said ‘Hildy Hildecott,’ right? The one who murdered her lover, Jimmy Delucci?”

  I cleared my throat. “That’s what they say, yes.”

  “You are such an interesting woman,” Landon whispered in my ear as we returned to speak with Mr. Raymond. I stifled a giggle, which seemed inappropriate when talking about murder.

  “I don’t know much,” Mr. Raymond said. “In fact, if you know enough to ask about her, you probably know more than I do. I just don’t like it when I can’t remember a name, and of course, Delucci’s death was quite the scandal back then. He was married, and there was talk of an illegitimate child as well.”

  “Do you know any of the movies Hildy Hildecott was in?”

  “The Heiress is the only one that comes to mind.”

  “Oh right, she mentioned that one to me the first time we met,” I said without thinking. Landon smiled, and Mr. Raymond looked confused. “I mean—the friend who told me about Hildy mentioned that one to me.”

  “I repeat,” murmured Landon, “so very interesting.”

  We went through the rest of the museum, learning about everything from Broncho Billy Anderson to the inspiration for the stunt double to the fire risks posed by early nitrate film, which was why projection booths were built as separate rooms with only a small porthole window and were often lined with tin.

  I checked my phone and found Mateo had called again, and there were two more text messages. I swore under my breath.

  “What’s up?” asked Luz.

  “I missed a call I’ve been waiting for. Also, I’ve been trying to line up artisans to look at the Crockett, but none of them are interested.”

  “They’re getting back to you on a Sunday?” asked Luz. “I call my building super after five on a Friday and I don’t hear from him until Monday, earliest.”

  “Professional courtesy,” I said. “Contractor to contractor, the communication is usually pretty fast, even on weekends. Also, that’s when a lot of us catch up on our messages. What’s weird, though, is that they’re saying no without even seeing the place.”

  “Maybe they’re just busy?” suggested Luz.

  “Wouldn’t matter,” said Dad. “Not many subcontractors would refuse the chance to check out an old theater like that, and most would be racing to submit a bid. Must be something else going on.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” I said.

  “Maybe they’re scared of ghosts?” said Caleb.

  “The boy’s got a point,” said Stan.

  At long last we made it through the gift shop—one of my favorite parts of any museum—and headed home with several DVDs of early films issued from the Essanay studios, including a short shot in downtown San Francisco in 1906, j
ust days before the great earthquake.

  We piled back into the van, Dad grumbling the whole time about it being too late now for him to prepare a proper dinner. Dad was committed to eating at six, and it would take a while to get home.

  “Let’s just stop somewhere, Dad,” I suggested.

  He looked appalled. “You’ve eaten out the last two nights, Mel. I guess someone’s getting pretty big for her britches.”

  “I’ve been big for my britches for a while now,” I said. “But that has more to do with your delicious cooking than anything else. How about Afghani food, since we’re here in Little Afghanistan?”

  “Good idea,” said Caleb. “Stan says it’s the bomb.”

  “I said that?” asked Stan, but he was already looking up reviews of nearby Afghani restaurants on his phone.

  “You seriously want to eat at a restaurant that’ll cost an arm and a leg, instead of my home cooking?” Dad grumbled.

  “I can’t wait for your cooking, Bill,” said Caleb, showing a keen ability to stay in my dad’s good graces. “Thought about it every day in Nicaragua, and when I’m with my dad, well, you know, he’s not much of a cook, and neither is the baby’s mother.” Caleb wasn’t close to his new stepmother. “But we don’t want you to have to cook so late tonight. Or for us to have to do dishes, for that matter.”

  “He’s right, old man,” said Luz. “Give in. You know you want to. Where to, Stan?”

  We wound up at a simple, intimate restaurant. The place was only about half full on this Sunday evening, and the owner cheerfully pushed some tables together to accommodate our large party.

  Not being familiar with the culinary traditions of Afghanistan—and inspired by Annette’s example of omakase—we threw ourselves on the mercy of the owner, who doubled as our server. He brought us several fragrant dishes: Kabuli palaw, a rice dish cooked with pistachios and fried raisins and slivered carrots; Qormah e Alou-Bokhara wa Dalnakhod with chicken; several different kinds of kebabs; and a stack of steaming naan.

  “How hard do you think it would be to make this at home?” Dad asked. “I saw an Afghani grocer down the street here. We could get whatever spices we need.”

  Dad rarely ate out, but when he did, he picked up recipes and ideas to try at home. Once again I felt the bittersweet emotion of knowing I would be leaving his home soon and would no longer come home after a long day to his home cooking. I might even have to start cooking myself—or rely on Landon to do the cooking. We should probably discuss that at some point.

  Of course we would visit Dad and Stan often, but it wouldn’t be the same. But that was okay, I mused. Time passed and things changed.

  “This is my favorite part of history,” said Caleb, grabbing his third mantu, a dumpling filled with ground lamb. “The kind you can sink your teeth into.”

  “Good man,” Dad mumbled, tearing apart a fragrant piece of naan.

  “I have a question for you, Caleb,” I said. “As the sole representative of the under-thirty crowd at this table, can you explain why the Sepety sisters are so famous?”

  He shrugged. “Big booties, maybe?”

  “So they don’t actually do anything?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do they dance, or act, or do something along those lines?”

  He chewed on a mouthful of rice, a thoughtful look in his dark eyes. “I think they mainly don’t wear many clothes and marry famous guys—one of ’em’s married to a rap star and another to an NBA player.”

  “It’s almost as if feminism had never happened,” Luz murmured.

  “Have you ever heard of the brother, Ringo?” I asked.

  “They mention him on social media sometimes, but not much. Listen, I’m no expert, though. I don’t, like, watch the show regularly or anything.”

  “I get it. Thanks.”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “The woman who was killed at the Crockett Theatre was a Sepety.”

  “Whoa—was she the sister who didn’t want any part of things?” Caleb asked. “They mention her sometimes on social media. In fact, once they joked that someone should kill her, and I think one of their crazy fans tried.”

  “They joked about killing her?” I asked, horrified. “What happened?”

  Caleb shrugged. “Not really sure. They didn’t, though. Or . . . you think they did, after all?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. Worth mentioning to Annette, though.

  Landon slipped off to use the restroom and smoothly arranged to pay for the dinner, demonstrating his own keen ability to get on my dad’s good side.

  As we drove back home, I tried calling Mateo once more, but again got voice mail. I left a message that I would be at the Crockett Theatre tomorrow morning at seven, in case he was back in town and able to join us.

  That reminded me: I called Annette to double-check that the crime scene would be released so I could do a walk-through in the morning.

  “As promised,” Annette said. “Anything else?”

  “Apparently Isadora had gotten death threats from the Sepety sisters’ fans.”

  “We checked that out already. There wasn’t anything there.”

  “Well, okay, then. Just doing my civic duty, informing the SFPD of everything I know.”

  She gave a wry chuckle. “Say hi to your dad for me.”

  The moment we got back home, Dad started popping popcorn. Huge dinner be damned, fresh buttered popcorn was de rigueur on movie night. Landon uncorked the Sancerre he’d been wanting to try, which he and Luz agreed was the perfect pairing for popcorn.

  We gathered in the living room and Caleb loaded the DVD of The Heiress into the player.

  About ten minutes into the tale of a young heiress who had been mistaken for a commoner, there she was, up on-screen: Hildy Hildecott, in black and white. She was playing a bit part as a maid, but she was lovely and funny, with a flair for physical comedy. It was fun to see her in all her celluloid glory.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about her stabbing Jimmy Delucci and turning the knife on herself.

  Oh, Hildy, I thought, blowing out a long sigh. What did you do?

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  All was quiet the next morning when Landon and I pulled up to the Crockett Theatre. Dad arrived right behind us in a separate car.

  Even though Dad was “retired,” he always helped to estimate materials and costs at the beginning of large projects. Landon came along to “make sure I didn’t die before the wedding,” which I appreciated. I wasn’t entirely sure he was kidding.

  I noticed a sign in the tattoo shop window stating it was closed on Mondays, which was too bad—I wanted to ask Tierney for help in getting in touch with the others. I had decided to hire any squatters interested in doing some basic cleanup and other unskilled jobs for the theater renovation. I might have been kicking them out of the only home they knew, but at the very least I could employ them temporarily.

  Gregory Thibodeaux was waiting for us at the theater, sporting a small bandage over his eye. He assured me he felt “fit as a fiddle.” As I was introducing him to Dad and Landon, Mateo emerged from the security trailer, a cup of coffee in hand, followed by Skeet.

  “Good morning!” Mateo said. “Mel, is everything okay? I was so frustrated I couldn’t get through to you this weekend. Did something happen at your house? I stopped by there this morning, looked things over, but didn’t see anything wrong.”

  “No, everything’s fine there,” I said, pushing away the memory of Hildy rushing at me. “I hope I didn’t spoil your weekend. I just wanted to ask you a question.”

  I introduced Skeet and Gregory to my father and Landon, then asked Mateo if we could speak privately. We moved over near the cyclone fence.

  “Mateo, did you come by here a few weeks ago?”

  “I did, yes. In fact, I think that might
be how Turner Construction got the job. I spoke with Skeet here and left your name and my card.”

  “Why?”

  “Skeet mentioned they were looking for a new contractor to take over the job.”

  “I meant, why did you stop by in the first place?”

  “It’s . . .” He looked away.

  “Mateo?” I asked, worried now.

  He smiled sheepishly. “It seems silly, but you’ll probably understand. You know that armoire in the attic at your place?”

  “The one blocking the closet door.”

  He nodded. “I found a playbill peeking out from under that armoire. It was for a show that was playing here at the Crockett Theatre, way back when it first opened. There’s a whole stack of old playbills in a box in the attic, but this one was sitting right there against the armoire, almost like it was put there on purpose.” He shrugged as though embarrassed. “So next time I was in the city, I swung by to take a look at the place, and that’s how I met Skeet.”

  Had Hildy managed to put the playbill there, wanting me—or anyone, really—to make the connection?

  “Did you have a good time in Tahoe?” I belatedly thought to ask.

  “We sure did. It’s beautiful there. A friend of mine has a place near the lake and invited us. My wife is staying a few extra nights with the baby.”

  “I hope I didn’t ruin your weekend,” I said again.

  “It was no problem. I was just worried about your house. Glad everything’s okay.”

  “And you already went by there this morning? You must get up even earlier than I do.”

  He shrugged. “You know how this business is. And I’m excited to see inside this beautiful old place.”

  “You won’t be disappointed.”

  Mateo was a good friend and a hard worker, and we were lucky to have him. I felt ashamed for having doubted him, even for a second. I wondered if, on top of dealing with dead bodies and murderers on a daily basis, Annette Crawford went through life having to doubt everyone. No wonder she made time to focus on something entirely unconnected, like learning a new language.