“I’m fine.”
Robbie—Roberta Prowse—was a massively successful TV show runner and my best friend in the world. She lived in LA and was responsible for me being safely removed from the Hollywood mayhem surrounding Ted’s poor choices. She co-owned the Palace, and had sent me north to San Francisco and a haven of classic films when I’d needed a haven the most.
“Girl, don’t tell me you’re fine.”
“I am,” I said, and I was surprised that it was true. Mostly. “I didn’t know, but I should have. It makes sense.”
“Nothing that fool does makes sense. Nothing except his crawling back to you.”
“He didn’t exactly crawl.” He’d arrived in a Tesla, which he promptly gave me, along with a diamond bracelet I’d never worn and a shower of “never agains” I didn’t quite believe.
Particularly when looking at a photo of him with his arm around Priya Sharma’s willowy waist.
“It’s an old picture,” Robbie said, reading my mind from her LA office.
“Yup.” I’d seen it before. The world had seen it before. But it still had the power to make my stomach heave.
Robbie waited.
“I told him to get a manager,” I said. “I told him to get an agent. He probably did and they probably told him this would be good for the movie. And no doubt it will be. My point is, I’m done with taking care of Ted’s career for him.”
“Right.”
“I’m done with taking care of him, period. And we’re not back together.”
“Right.” Pause. “But you’re not not together, either.”
Which pretty much summed things up.
“Is he there?” she asked.
It was a reasonable question. Ted had spent the last few months hanging around San Francisco whenever he wasn’t contractually obligated to be somewhere else. Hanging around in a suite at the Ritz, I should underscore. Not in the little guest house behind Robbie’s second home a few blocks from the Palace, where I was staying until I found a place of my own.
“Here in the city? I think so. But here in the theater? No.” Only because I’d banned him. He’d spent the holidays flashing his megawatt smile at the customers and charming the staff with his movie star anecdotes. I had found this enormously irritating. I already knew he was charming. But he was also a lot of other things and I didn’t need everyone looking at me like I was crazy for not instantly taking him back.
“What are you going to do?” Robbie asked.
“Well,” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “The first show starts in forty-five minutes. I think I’ll go make some popcorn and watch it.”
“Good plan,” she said. “A movie is always a good idea. You can do some good thinking in the dark.”
“Right.” Especially while watching this particular movie. From 1930, staring Robert Montgomery and a completely unleashed Norma Shearer. The Divorcee.
Chapter 2
I didn’t make the popcorn after all. By the time I headed back down to the lobby the rest of the Palace team had arrived and everything was humming along. Their smooth efficiency never failed to surprise me, especially since the main team, in addition to Callie, consisted of a high school student, a nonagenarian, and the grumpiest man who had ever run a projector.
I knew the projectionist was in because he had blared his opening salvo, the drum-and-trumpet fanfare of the 20th Century Fox overture, through the sound system upon entering the theater. It was Marty’s signature, how he started every day, and the way it rattled the coffee cups didn’t bother me anymore.
“Hey, everyone,” I greeted them from the stairs.
“Do not start with me.” Marty was slumped on a stool behind the concessions stand, an unshaven tower of flannel and corduroy slurping down a soft drink and reading a newspaper. An actual newspaper. A paper paper. He claimed to prefer them simply on their luddite merits, but I suspected what he really liked was the ease with which he could hide behind the pages.
“Hi Nora. Latte?” This was offered by the student, Brandon, who had taken charge of the new espresso machine with something approaching religious devotion.
“I’m okay for now.”
“Are you?” The look Callie shot me was layered with meaning.
“I’m fine,” I said. Strenuously.
“Well, you’d better be, because I can’t keep going through this.” Marty ruffled the paper for emphasis. “Will they or won’t they was a tired plot before talkies, and I refuse to be a party to any more of your angsty soul-searching over the highly untalented Ted Bishop.” He turned a page forcefully and buried his face in the Arts section.
To be clear, Marty had never been a party to my soul searching, angsty or otherwise. Not that I hadn’t been indulging in increasingly elaborate “what if” scenarios ever since Ted’s dramatic attempt at a return to my life. My friend Robbie had probably heard enough to fuel multiple plotlines on any one of her hit TV shows. But Marty? He didn’t exactly invite confidences.
Albert, the incredibly caring relic of the Palace, placed a gentle bony hand on my shoulder as I reached the bottom of the stairs. He peered at me from behind his round silver glasses. “We’re all behind you, Nora, no matter what you decide.”
Marty snorted and turned a page.
“All of us,” Albert said firmly, shooting the rumpled projectionist the kind of glance that probably made Albert’s many grandchildren sit up straighter.
“Of course we are.” Marty stood and gathered his things. “We’re behind you if you take that needy little weasel back, and we’re behind you if you come to your senses and kick his magnificent ass to the curb.” He crossed the lobby, pausing briefly to stare down at me. “But whatever you’re going to do, do it. No one likes a waffler.”
“Marty,” Albert said reprovingly.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I prefer to think of myself as considered, but—”
“Ha!” Callie said, possibly not realizing that she’d spoken out loud and not commented on a post. When I looked over at her she shrugged. “I mean, we just have to look at the lineup to see what your subconscious is telling you.”
The lineup was the selection of four movies a week that I’d put together for the month of January. Double features that changed on Tuesdays and Fridays. Today, Tuesday, it was a double bill of The Divorcee and The Gay Divorcee (1934, Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.) On Friday we’d switch them out for The Women (1939, Norma Shearer and Joan Crawford) and Libeled Lady (1936, William Powell and Myrna Loy).
“That isn’t my subconscious you’re seeing,” I informed them. “It’s my marketing genius. I’m leaning in to the publicity about Ted. If I can’t fight ’em, I can exploit ’em.”
“Uh huh,” Callie said, while Brandon began vigorously polishing the espresso machine and Albert found something on the ceiling to claim his attention.
“Just wrap this subplot up and get on with your life,” Marty said. “I can’t take it anymore.” He tossed his papers in the recycling bin. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s drama.” With that he flung his scarf around his neck and swept up the stairs to the projection booth.
The text from Ted came during the two-thirty show. I was upstairs in my office when I got it.
Baby. It’s nothing. I didn’t even know she was going to be there. You know I don’t care about her. If you want me to drop out of Sundance I will.
Would he? I doubted it. In fact, I knew exactly how it would play out. He’d claim that he tried, but that the producers insisted. And he didn’t want to get a reputation for being difficult, did he? I didn’t want him to damage his career, did I? Not over something as silly as a work thing with an ex, right?
Right. Except she’d only been an ex for three months. Before that she’d been the worldwide sex symbol that he’d left me for. So there was that.
I had my finger on the button to turn my phon
e off when another text pinged in. This one from a lawyer back in Hollywood.
Nora. I know we’ve been in a holding pattern, but let me know if you want to start the process up again in light of recent developments.
“Recent developments.” That was a diplomatic way of describing the possibility of my husband reuniting with his dazzling paramour. And “the process” was a tactful way of referring to divorce proceedings.
I waffled, not knowing which text to respond to. Marty was right about one thing, I was undeniably a waffler. I didn’t want to respond to either text. What I wanted was for Ted never to have cheated and left me in the first place. But since no one was offering me passage on a functional time machine, the chances of that happening were slim.
I took a glance at one more text, this one wholly unexpected. It was short and to the point.
Say the word and I will have him killed.
It was from Hector Acosta, a former crime lord and smoldering specimen of South American manhood who had briefly visited San Francisco when his brother was murdered in my theater. He’d stayed in town long enough for me to start having some very interesting thoughts about him, but he’d gone back home to Colombia soon after Ted reappeared. This was the first I’d heard from him since and I assumed he was kidding about having Ted killed. I was sure he was kidding. He had to be kidding, right?
I didn’t answer that text either.
Only one thing was very clear to me. I’d fallen in love since moving to San Francisco. Fallen in love with the city and the Palace. Whatever I ultimately decided about Ted, I knew I wouldn’t be moving back to LA anytime soon. That was why, before the holidays, I’d marched myself two blocks down Sacramento Street to Howard Realty, introduced myself to June Howard, and started the process of finding someplace of my own to live.
“A house?” I’d suggested when she asked what I was looking for. “Something walking distance to the theater?” I’d been thinking of something like Robbie’s house, tall and roomy on a tree-lined street. Lots of windows and character. I didn’t need anything as big as Robbie’s, but I didn’t want something quite as small as the studio-sized guest house in her backyard, where I was temporarily camped out.
June had been cheerful about my prospects. Then she’d told me that the average price of a house on Robbie’s tree-lined street was about ten million dollars, and on the rare occasions when one became available it was snapped up in less time than it would take the average banana to ripen.
And I’d thought Beverly Hills was cutthroat.
I honestly didn’t know what my budget was, having been in a “holding pattern” on my divorce settlement since Ted had come bounding back into my life. The initial proposal the lawyers sent me had been impressive, but a draft settlement is not a final settlement, and for that matter a separation is not a divorce. On the other hand, an apology is not a reconciliation.
I really had to figure out what I wanted.
Meanwhile, under any scenario, ten million seemed, um, steep. So I’d lowered my expectations and June had gone to work. Two months later I was still looking, and June was due to drop by with an update.
“Knock knock!” She breezed into the office, impeccably and expensively dressed in a winter white suit. She was Chinese-American and had that well-tended-woman-of-a-certain-age thing going on where she could have been anywhere from her forties to her sixties. There was one dramatic streak of white in her otherwise glossy black hair. On anyone else it would have prompted Cruella de Vil comparisons, but on June it looked chic. “You have to promise not to let me have any popcorn on my way out. I can’t stop myself—I never could. My teenage years would have been much slimmer if I’d worked at some shoe store instead of the Palace.”
I’d heard similar things from any number of locals who’d spent their high school years working at the theater. The fact that June had once worked the concessions stand had made me sure she was the right realtor for me.
“I never get between anyone and fresh popcorn,” I told her.
“That’s all right. I don’t really want you to.” She grinned and pulled a tablet out of her large leather satchel. “I come bearing fresh listings!”
Her phone pinged repeatedly as we settled on the ancient leather couch that sagged in front of the office window. The window looked out over the Palace’s marquee, which sent a faint pink glow into the room on what had turned into a damp and gray January afternoon.
“Sorry,” June said, tapping the tablet screen until it displayed a photo of a dismal kitchen. “I’ve been gone for fifteen minutes and apparently there’s a crisis. Take a look at these while I see what’s on fire at the office.” She grimaced as she handed me the tablet and donned a pair of rhinestone-encrusted readers to check her texts. The phone was still pinging.
I only had time to swipe through a few disheartening photographs before she made a strangled sound. When I looked over, she was staring wide-eyed at her phone.
“June?”
She turned to me, gripping my arm with one hand while she clung to the phone with the other. “It’s Warren.”
My mind flashed to Callie that morning, wondering why he’d ghosted her.
“What happened? Is he okay?”
She blinked rapidly, shaking her head.
“June, what’s happened?”
Her eyes filled, and I knew.
“They found him this morning,” she whispered. “He’s dead.”
Which is when we heard a scream from the lobby.
Chapter 3
What kind of person posts their colleague’s death on social media within minutes of hearing the news?
OMG the cops just left. They were here looking for #bossbitch because #officehottie is dead! I can’t believe it! He was so cute and flirty and now he’s dead! And the cops wouldn’t tell us anything! I’m really scared, you guys. And so sad! I just know he was going to ask me out. #gonetoosoon #lifestooshort #goodlookingcorpse #whatmighthavebeen
That was the post from June’s receptionist that Callie had seen. That’s how she found out he was dead. No wonder she’d screamed.
I’d left June and run down the stairs to find Callie motionless in the lobby. I pried her phone out of her hands and Albert and I hustled her upstairs to the break room. He fussed over her, patting her shoulder and murmuring soothing things while I made her a cup of strong sugary tea. Because I had to do something and that was the only thing I could think of.
June joined us, coming down the hall from the office looking ashen. I made another cup of tea for her while Albert guided her to a chair at the scarred wooden table.
“I just spoke to the office, and the police,” she said. “They wanted to know when I saw him last. They’ll want to talk to you,” she told Callie.
Callie had been disconcertingly silent since her initial scream. She spoke three languages fluently, but she was looking at June with wide uncomprehending eyes, as though she couldn’t understand a word that was being said.
“What happened?” I asked June. Then, “Callie, are you up to hearing about it?”
She hesitated, then nodded.
We all looked at June. She had found a napkin on the table and began systematically shredding it into increasingly tinier pieces as she told us what little she knew.
“The police wouldn’t say what happened,” she began. “I hadn’t seen Warren since Friday morning at the office. He was out when he got the news that he’d passed his exam and decided to throw some sort of impromptu party. Half the office was planning to join him at a bar downtown after work. Which was fine,” she stressed. “But Warren was supposed to be at an open house on Saturday and he didn’t show up. I got so annoyed with him. I have nothing against celebrating, but when it interferes with your work…I sent him texts and called, but he didn’t…” She put her hand to her mouth, realizing why he hadn’t responded.
June clear
ed her throat and continued. “The only thing we really know is that his neighbor found him. He subscribed to one of those meal kit delivery services, and the box was sitting outside his door all weekend. Finally this morning the neighbor knocked, and tried the door. It was unlocked, and when she went in, she saw that the place was a wreck, and—” Once again June couldn’t continue.
Callie finally spoke, her voice a croak. “Was he…Did they say…?”
June shook her head. “I don’t know. They wouldn’t say anything else, but it sounds like burglars, doesn’t it? Maybe he walked in on them?”
Callie blinked. I glanced at her phone, which I’d silenced. Countless texts and five missed calls. I wondered if any of them were from the police.
Albert pushed the cup of tea toward her. She stared at it, then stood and went to the refrigerator. She opened the freezer, reached in, and pulled out a half-empty bottle of vodka. She unscrewed the cap and took a long swig, shuddering as she swallowed. Then she sat at the table again, still gripping the bottle. “I should have been with him.”
“Oh, sweetie—” I began, but she wasn’t listening.
“I had to leave. I was working the midnight movie.” She looked at me. “If I’d let someone else take my shift I’d have been with Warren. He’d have come to my place, or we’d have stayed out longer, and the burglars would have just taken his stuff and he’d never have…Or maybe if we’d gone to his place, I could have…I should have been with him!” Her speech had increased in both speed and volume as she’d spoken, until she was practically shouting.
“Callie, no,” June said, as I shook my head and Albert covered her shaking hands with both of his. “This isn’t your fault!”
But she didn’t believe us. And I understood. Guilt was natural. It was immediate and it was strong. That didn’t mean it was right.
“Callie,” I said. “It’s nobody’s fault except the person who did this. You think it’s yours because you left for your shift. You could just as easily say it’s mine for putting the schedule together. Or for starting midnight movies in the first place. You couldn’t have known. There was no way to know.”
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