The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

I grabbed the wallpaper and gently but firmly pulled it back, realizing I was onto something—this was new glue, the kind you could unpeel without ruining the plaster underneath. The old adhesives weren’t nearly so forgiving.

  I spied the corner of plastic and carefully pulled it out. Within a sealed plastic Baggie was an official-looking document: a last will and testament, signed with a flourish by James Anthony Delucci, leaving the Crockett Theatre of San Francisco to one “Hildegaard Marie Hildecott, of Oakland, California, and her issue.”

  Hildy’s “issue” was Darlene Hildecott Henley, mother of one Bill “Skeet” Henley. A man too old to be forced to work nights, in my opinion.

  A man who, if we could authenticate this last will and testament, was about to become the owner of one venerable Crockett Theatre and the valuable land on which it stood.

  Chapter Thirty

  I’ll take that. Thanks,” came a man’s voice from behind me.

  I turned to find myself face-to-face with Baldwin, who was holding a gun on me. A 9mm Glock, unless I missed my guess. My dad’s favorite firearm.

  I didn’t have much choice, so I handed the will to him, and he shoved it roughly into the pocket of his oversized sweatshirt.

  “Cell phone, too, please,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “The battery doesn’t hold a charge in here anyway,” I said, but did as I was told.

  “C’mon.” He gestured with his head.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  “Basement. Move.”

  As I walked through the labyrinthine back hallways of the theater and down to the dressing room area, I tried to think. It wasn’t easy: My heart was pounding, and my nose was running, and I felt sick to my stomach.

  I hated having guns pointed at me.

  Baldwin was a lot bigger than me, and he held a very deadly weapon. Skeet was outside in the trailer, but he’d never hear me, no matter how loud I might scream. There were no security cameras or anything else that would give anyone a clue as to what was going on inside this building. Landon would show up pretty soon, but he’d probably chat for a few minutes with Skeet before coming to look for me, and even when he did, how long would it take him to search the entire theater?

  “Why the basement?” I asked as we neared the door Annette and I had passed through, the one that opened onto the creaky metal steps.

  “I’ve got everything all set up.”

  I didn’t dare ask what, exactly, was all set up. When I paused at the top of the stairs, Baldwin said: “I won’t hesitate, you know. One tiny squeeze of the trigger and bye-bye, Mel Turner.”

  “I just get a little vertigo with heights,” I said.

  “Want me to push you down? It’d be quicker.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was kidding, and even if he was, it was in poor taste. I took a deep breath, held tight to the handrail, and started down.

  When we finally got to the bottom, I saw he had set up a bunch of antique camera equipment and standing lamps.

  “What’s all this for?”

  “Told you, I’m a film buff. Did you like my short of Isadora dying?”

  “It was horrifying.”

  “Right? All for the love of art, I always say.”

  “Why did you put the film of killing Isadora on when I was here? Did you want me to see it for some reason?”

  “Didn’t even know you were there until after I put the film on. Just wanted to see it on the big screen. And then I heard you two in here and figured a little time down here in the basement might give you a new perspective on things. Go stand over there—I put your mark on the floor. See it? I need to take some readings on the light.”

  I moved over to a chalk mark on the ground. “So, I have a choice? Death by gun, or by drowning?”

  “You’re a tad deluded there, Mel. You’re not the big contractor now. You’re just a bit player. Your death is not your choice. It’s mine. I’m the director here.”

  He started playing with the lights and fiddling with the camera.

  “You ever see the tunnels at the armory?” I asked.

  He snorted. “I don’t watch those kinds of movies. Do you?”

  “This is just an evocative space for making a movie, is what I was thinking.” What I was really thinking was that if I could get him chatting, maybe Landon would show up. Or Skeet would get curious. Or someone would show up from the donut shop or the tattoo studio. Or some other miracle would occur.

  “You’re a fan of Good and Plenty?” I asked.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “I noticed you liked black licorice when we were at Coco’s. Also, you left a box by the film of Isadora dying.” He nodded but kept working on the camera, looking through the lens, checking a device that measured the light. As though he really did care about the outcome of his little film. Was this the birth of a serial killer who kept taped “souvenirs” of his kills? “I like Red Vines myself. But I only eat them when I’m at the movies, interestingly enough. It’s not like I ever buy them elsewhere, even though I’m sure they’re available.”

  He finally looked up. “Why are you talking to me about candy?”

  To keep you distracted while I try to figure out how to escape, I thought to myself. Like every bad movie I had ever seen.

  “You were trying to sell parts out of the theater?” I asked. “Cocoapuffs on eBay, that’s you?”

  “Yeah, that eBay ad’s been up there for a while, I guess. Didn’t produce as much money as I thought it would. Thibodeaux caught me, though, trespassing. All these squatters in here, but they found me stealing stuff, so I had to put most of it back. Still, they gave me a job, so who’s complaining?”

  “So, you were on Xerxes’ payroll? Were you the one who doctored the city documents?”

  “Or ‘lost’ them, like the request for the audit. Always useful to have friends in the city—don’t doubt it.”

  “Did Xerxes hire you to murder Isadora?”

  “Not in so many words. I overheard her talking about the last will and testament, and told Xerxes. They instructed me to get my hands on it, if it actually existed, but Isadora wouldn’t tell me where it was.”

  “Why kill her before she gave it to you, then?”

  “They asked me to do whatever was necessary to slow down the process of renovation on this big place. They didn’t specify how.”

  “I guess a homicide investigation bought you a few days, but at the cost of a life.”

  “It wasn’t intended to stop it for a few days. I thought—I dunno. I thought it would put an end to things, maybe. People already think the place is haunted. Let them think it’s cursed, too, and maybe that would bring everything to a standstill.”

  “Why did Xerxes want to slow things down?”

  “They absorbed the city money but didn’t want to put a lot of their own into it. If we delay it long enough, they’ll be able to turn around and sell it to that space billionaire guy. That way they’ll make pure profit. They’re cutting me in on a percentage.”

  “Clever. So you’re saying all of this was over money. That’s why you turned yourself into a killer?”

  “That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” he asked. “I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m a ‘killer.’ I just happened to have killed one person.”

  “And now aren’t you planning on killing another?” I winced as soon as I said it. Way to remind him why we’re here, Mel.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am. And we should get to it. After all, you know what they say: Time is money in the movie business.”

  I heard scratching at the door, and a faint sound of dripping grew louder.

  “What’s that?” he asked, whirling around.

  “The ghosts are back,” I whispered.

  “Get out of here,” he said, turning back to me before I could reach for anything to hi
t him with. “There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “You don’t think so? Then what’s that sound?”

  Someone had turned on a faucet upstairs, and Alyx’s system had kicked in, siphoning water into a pipe that gurgled and moaned overhead as the water passed. I didn’t blame Baldwin for finding it strange; just as it had in the caverns below Eamon Castle, it sounded a bit like a basilisk moving through the pipes.

  A look of confusion passed over his face. “Are you doing that? How are you doing that?”

  “It’s not me, Baldwin. I’m telling you, believe in them or not, but this place is haunted as all get-out. For instance, were you the one who knocked Gregory over the head?”

  He shook his head. “I made myself scarce after . . . you know. In fact I didn’t even realize you guys were up there. Isadora and I had something of a stand-off down under the stage, and I gave her one more chance to tell me where the will was. She declined my offer, so I made good on my promise.”

  “Your promise to kill her.”

  He nodded.

  “And why put her on the Wurlitzer?”

  “I had my film equipment all set up down there ’cause I was planning to make a movie of the Wurlitzer rising, but I couldn’t figure out how to get it to move, much less play. After the thing with Isadora, it started up all by itself, so I placed her on it. I’m only sorry I didn’t have a second camera up on the main floor so I could have filmed her rising on the Wurlitzer, all the way. You got to see it, though. It must have looked awesome.”

  More scratching at the door, now with added whining and whimpering; more gurgling and dripping from the direction of the cistern.

  “That’s what I figured,” I said. “I think the ghosts made Gregory faint, and they probably started the Wurlitzer, too.”

  The scratching and whining at the door intensified.

  “And there they are now,” I said.

  “That’s no ghost,” he sneered. “What, you bring your dog to work?”

  “One of the perks of construction. But the thing is, Dog can see ghosts, too.”

  Baldwin snorted. “Yeah, right.”

  “And he’s not a small pup. He might well claw his way through that door.”

  “Like I care.”

  “I thought you were Mr. Conservation. That’s an original door, you know. His claws can do quite a number on it. Plus, he’ll start on the moldings next, if he hasn’t already.”

  “All the more reason to get on with it,” Baldwin said, though I thought I saw a glimmer of doubt in his eye.

  “So, you were the one who locked Inspector Crawford and me down here?” I tried to keep the desperation out of my voice. I had to keep him talking until Dog made it through the door, or Landon or Skeet caught up with him.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t do more,” said Baldwin. “I thought about it until that security guy showed up, but I didn’t even have my filming equipment set up. But I mean, really, what does it take to get rid of you people?”

  “You really don’t want to do this, do you, Baldwin? I mean, one murder could be explained away as manslaughter, a crime of passion. Maybe even get a suspended sentence if the story’s convincing and you squeeze out a few tears. But there’s no way you can talk yourself out of two murders. This one would be premeditated, plain and simple.”

  “No kidding, genius. I’m filming this. That’s pretty clearly premeditated.”

  I was hoping he wouldn’t think of that.

  And then, of all things, a ghost came to my rescue.

  May I show you to your seat? Harold the usher hissed from behind Baldwin.

  “What?” Baldwin whirled around to see who had snuck up on him.

  Then bam! Dog—or was it Landon or Skeet?—threw himself against the door, and Baldwin spun around the other way. This time I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the antique camera and swung as hard as I could, smashing him on the head.

  He stumbled and dropped to his knees, losing his grip on the gun. We both dove after it, but it skittered away and fell into the water with a splash.

  “Oh great,” Baldwin said, standing up slowly and glaring at me. “Now neither of us can use it! So I guess that answers your question: death by drowning.”

  He leapt at me, taking me with him into the water. I can swim, but I’d never had to fight off an attacker underwater. Operating purely on instinct, I grabbed his beard and yanked; he grabbed my hair and pulled. I tried to go for the vulnerable points, as I’d learned in self-defense class: the eyes, the groin. But each time the water prevented my blows from striking him with any significant force, whereas he easily succeeded in holding me under. I was losing strength and starved for air.

  He was much stronger than I—and cold-blooded enough to have strangled Isadora for no reason other than to delay a construction project.

  I struggled to keep away from him, but I was running out of time—and air.

  I thought, then, of what my mother had written in her journal: I think of it like being underwater: It’s strange, and scary, but the calmer you are, the longer your breath lasts. Let the water buoy you.

  I went limp, pretending I’d drowned, and let the water buoy me.

  Perhaps because he needed air as much as I, Baldwin believed my ploy, and swam toward the surface. I was practically convulsing with the need for oxygen, but I knew I had one last chance. I reached for the gun lying at the bottom of the cistern. Would a waterlogged gun still fire?

  A 9mm Glock would.

  Baldwin reached the surface of the water. In the bright lights that Baldwin had set up for the camerawork, I could see Dog’s face at the water’s edge, and though it was muffled, I could hear his loud snarling and snapping.

  Baldwin reared back.

  I retrieved the gun and, feeling oddly calm, with the last of my breath, I pushed off the bottom and surged up, aimed, and fired before even breaking through the surface of the water.

  * * *

  * * *

  “Lucky shot?” Annette Crawford asked a while later.

  Baldwin had been taken away in an ambulance, bleeding profusely, escorted by several patrol cars. Dog and I were wrapped in blankets and sipping hot coffee. Well, I was anyway. Dog was alternating between wanting to lick my face and sleep in my lap.

  Landon was similarly devoted, except rather than trying to sleep in my lap, he refused to take his arm from around my shoulders. He had followed Dog to the door that led to the basement, and heard the shot. He burst in to find me holding the gun on the injured Baldwin, both of us panting and soaking wet, but neither of us dead.

  “I thought about going for the groin,” I said, “but went for the knee instead.”

  “Good aim.”

  “It’s nothing. I grew up with my dad.”

  “He the one who taught you that pistols can fire underwater?” asked Landon.

  I nodded.

  “Good idea,” said Annette. “That knee will give him trouble the rest of his natural life.”

  “And his unnatural one, as well,” I said. My fear had given way to rage. I was sick and tired of low-life scum trying to murder me.

  “That’s the spirit,” Annette said, approvingly. “By the way, you’ll be glad to hear that the Delucci last will and testament survived, thanks to the sealed Baggie.”

  This was one use of plastic bags I wasn’t going to quibble with.

  “So the will spells out that Hildy was supposed to inherit the theaters,” Landon said, “and that upon her demise the properties would pass to her daughter, Darlene?”

  I nodded. “After Hildy’s death, little Darlene was taken in by the Jeffress family, who lived in the house—our house now—where Hildy rented a room. They never knew that Darlene was actually an heiress.”

  “And Darlene went on to have one son, named Skeet.”

  “Skeet, otherwise known as
Bill Henley,” said Annette, “who is now likely to become a very wealthy man.”

  “Not to be hokey,” I said, “but he already was wealthy in love and family. But now he no longer has to work a security job, or nights, if he doesn’t want to. More time with the grandkids.”

  “So poor Hildy was set up for her lover’s murder,” said Landon. “Was that why she’s hanging around in the attic? Or was she trying to get justice for her child and grandchild?”

  “I’ll talk to her about it—I think she helped push us toward this crazy renovation job in the first place. But it’s possible we’ll never know for sure,” I said with a yawn. Adrenaline crash. “As I like to point out to people, it’s not as though I know what I’m doing with these ghosties. But I guess I’ll keep trying.”

  Epilogue

  In the majestic lobby of the newly renovated Crockett Theatre, the aroma of freshly popped popcorn had replaced the scent of mildew and abandonment. Tonight, the concession stand had an “open bar” policy, serving popcorn and candy—and as a treat, tonight only, wine and champagne.

  It was a special evening.

  Overhead, the massive crystal chandeliers sparkled and gold-gilt moldings gleamed. The domed ceiling, painted with clouds and flitting birds, was illuminated by soft uplighting hidden behind the moldings, and all signs of water leaks had been carefully touched up. The walls were a riot of original colors, with reds, ochers, teals, and greens painted throughout. Lions marched up the stairwells, and velvet benches in the mezzanine had replaced Alyx’s temporary “home,” but three of his industrial designs were on display in subtly lit niches. Inside the main theater, the curtain had been reproduced, the chairs reupholstered, and even the waterfall had been made to work again.

  I asked the bartender serving at the concession stand for a glass of Napa Cabernet.

  “Is that the proper pairing for Red Vines?” Luz asked.

  “Absolutely. Says so in Wine Spectator. You know me. I’m a wine snob.”

  “This is really amazing, Mel. I’ve known you a long time, and I’ve seen your work through the years, but this tops them all. You’re really good.”