At this Jackson looked interested.
“And this person saw some texts on that phone,” I blundered on. “From a girl. A woman. Not Callie.” I grimaced. “I thought I should tell you that you should be looking for two phones, and for this other woman. She’s tall with short blonde hair.”
“And your employee could tell that from her texts?”
“Um, well, as it happens, he saw Warren with her a couple of times.”
Jackson sat back, regarding me. “That seems coincidental.”
I shrugged, all innocence on Brandon’s behalf. “Nevertheless. I just thought that this woman might be worth looking into. If she found out that Warren was serious about Callie, that he had a girlfriend and this blonde was just a…a fling or something…”
I was full-on babbling by that point, worried that any suspicion I might throw on Blondie was also something that could be said about Callie. Also that I was painting Brandon as a stalker with jealousy issues. Why hadn’t I minded my own business? And for that matter, why hadn’t Brandon minded his?
“I’m going to have to speak with this employee of yours,” the detective said.
Of course he was. What had I been thinking? I couldn’t tell the police something like that second-hand and expect to leave it at that.
“Tomorrow,” he said, picking up his spoon. “First thing. I’m assuming it isn’t Albert?”
I probably winced in response. “Brandon,” I said. “He really doesn’t want Callie to know that he’d been…”
“Understood,” he said. Which wasn’t a promise of discretion. “As for Ms. Gee…” Jackson slurped an enormous spoonful of noodles, making me wait for the rest of his words. “You can tell her she can have her phone back.”
I let out a breath. I’d been bracing for something entirely different. “Really? She’ll be so happy.” Happy like a junkie about to get a fix.
“We cloned her data,” he said. “We don’t need to keep the actual phone.”
“That’s great,” I said. “Should she drop by the precinct, or…”
He sighed heavily and pulled Callie’s phone, no longer in its plastic evidence bag, from an inside pocket. “I was going to give it to Marty, but will you be seeing her?”
“In the morning,” I said. I hadn’t planned on it, but it was the least I could do. Particularly since I might have just given the police her motive for Warren’s murder.
“I don’t suppose you could tell me anything,” I said. “I mean, if it really was just a break-in gone wrong, then none of this really…”
I trailed off as his eyebrows came down in a meaningful way. He handed Callie’s phone over. “Thank you, Nora.”
I may not be a great detective, but I deduced that was the end to our conversation.
I picked up my to-go order on the way out and stood on the sidewalk outside the shopping center after summoning another car to take me home.
I’d failed spectacularly in finding out whether the police had figured out what Warren was talking about in his last text to Callie. Who had he seen at the bar that night? In fact, I’d failed spectacularly in finding out anything new, except perhaps where to get good ramen.
I waited for the car down the block from the Kabuki. I was mad at myself for bungling the conversation with the detective, and that anger somehow turned into hostility toward the bustling theater. Bustling at this late hour, when Marty and Brandon would have already closed up the Palace for the night. Hostility—and, yes, jealousy—bloomed at the number of people streaming in and out of the Kabuki’s large glass atrium. What would it be like to draw those kinds of crowds? To have reserved seating and computerized ticket kiosks? To have a full bar in the balcony?
Then I saw what was playing and consoled myself. Things with robots and superheroes. Things with helicopter chases instead of witty banter. I’d take my small crowds and silver screen classics any day.
The car came and I went home with my soup.
Tomorrow, Scarlett, would be another day.
Chapter 9
The day dawned chilly and clear. I knew that because I was awake for it. I’d been far too occupied with obsessing over everything to sleep in.
I knew that Callie’s mother had insisted she stay home for a while, and that “home” meant her parent’s house, not the tiny flat near Ocean Beach that she shared with two other grad students.
I got her mother’s phone number from the emergency contact info on Callie’s employee file, and from there it only took a minor amount of internet sleuthing until I had her address. Which was, I found, in the eye-wateringly expensive neighborhood of Pacific Heights.
It was still early, too early for an unexpected visit, so I puttered around at home for a while, drinking coffee and asking myself a lot of questions I couldn’t answer. It took all of five minutes to tidy up the perfectly appointed little kitchen of Robbie’s guesthouse, throw a load of laundry into the compact stacked washing machine, check my messages and emails (still no acknowledgement from Ted about Sundance, and I refused to send him a follow-up text) and take a concerning number of empty wine bottles to the recycle bin.
Then, having waited until the eminently reasonable hour of eight o’clock (reasonable to me, although possibly less so to a grad student) I locked up and headed to Callie’s. She might not be thrilled to see me (on her mother’s doorstep, especially) but I knew she’d be thrilled to see her phone.
It was about a forty-five-minute walk to the Gee home, up to Washington, over to Lyon, and then uphill some more. As the hills grew steeper the houses grew larger, until they gave way to actual mansions worthy of having suspects gathered in their drawing rooms on dark and stormy nights.
At the corner where Lyon met Broadway the street ended. It was at the crest of the hill and the downhill drop was too steep for cars, so there were just stairs for two blocks down. Gorgeous, greenery-filled, garden-lined steps, with what looked like a fountain in a square at the midpoint.
If I ever write a musical set in San Francisco, you can bet there will be a dance number set on those steps. I stood at the top and took in the view. The bay was sparkling in the near distance, the woodsy Presidio to the left, and I would have bet anything that right down the street was the house they had used for the exteriors in Fred Astaire’s The Pleasure of His Company (1961, Late-career Astaire, early-career Debbie Reynolds, and the timeless Lili Palmer).
I’ve seen my share of mansions. I’ve even lived in them. Beverly Hills estates with pools like football fields and balconies for days. Villas in Tuscany, Châteaux in the south of France, manor houses in the English countryside. I was—am—after all, married to one of the biggest movie stars on the planet. We got around. That being said, the Gee house was impressive.
It looked directly onto the garden-filled Lyon street. Looked down, I should say, since it was accessed via semi-circular staircases on either side of a fountain featuring a lion’s head spitting water into a round flower-bedecked pool. More flowering bushes ran the length of the house, which rose three stories in pristine white stone to a classic California red-tiled roof.
Callie had once told me that her father was a doctor. A second-generation Chinese American who had worked his way through Stanford medical school. She’d also told me that he loudly and frequently despaired of his filmmaking daughter’s career prospects. If this was the kind of place you could buy on a doctor’s income, I kind of saw his point.
It didn’t look like the household was awake. But with a house that big it was hard to tell. There was a balcony inset on the third floor, discreetly hidden behind three arched openings. As I stood looking up, wishing I knew which window was Callie’s so I could throw some pebbles at it or something, she saved me the trouble by stepping out onto the balcony.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed down.
“I was just in the neighborhood,” I said. Because I’m hi
larious.
“Wait right there!” She vanished inside.
I had no intention of waiting right there. I was more curious than ever about her mysterious mother. I jogged up the stairs and was standing on the doorstep when Callie opened it. She popped out and pulled the door shut behind her.
“How did you find me?”
“Were you in hiding?” I asked. “And yes, it’s nice to see you too.” I smiled broadly.
“This is literally not happening,” she said. Probably more to herself than to me.
“Don’t worry,” I relented. “I won’t say anything to destroy your starving student street cred.”
She gave me a wary look. “Just because my parents are, like, loaded doesn’t mean I am.”
“Of course not,” I agreed. “And thank you, I’d love a cup of coffee.”
“You are so not coming in.” She placed herself between me and the door. “Why are you here, anyway?”
I was about to say something else hilarious, perhaps about craving caviar for breakfast, but then I took a closer look at her. The shadows under her eyes and drawn look to her face reminded me that she was staying at her parents’ house because she needed a place of refuge. She was grieving.
She was also barefoot, and her feet must have been freezing.
“How are you, Callie?”
Something in my voice must have told her that the teasing had stopped. She brushed the hair off her face. “I mean, my mom is driving me crazy and that detective literally won’t tell me anything.”
I nodded. “I spoke to him last night. He sent you this.” I pulled the phone out of my messenger bag.
I had expected wild glee at the sight of it. Instead she just took it, turning it over and looking at it with an expression I couldn’t read.
“Thanks,” she said. “But I got another one yesterday.” She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and produced a shiny new phone. “I didn’t know how long they’d keep that one.”
“Sure,” I said. “Well, you can always keep the old one as backup.”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking her if Warren had kept a second phone as backup. That would inevitably lead to her asking why I’d asked, which was a road that could only lead to Brandon’s revelations about Warren, and last thing I wanted to do was cause her any more pain.
She sniffed. “How’s everything at the Palace?”
She’d only been away for a day. “Pretty much the same,” I said. “Marty and Albert send their best.” Which they would have, I was sure, if I’d told them I was going to see her.
She shivered, and I realized again how cold she must be. “Okay, you get inside before you catch cold,” I said. “And stay in touch, okay? Come back whenever you feel like it, but take as much time as you need.”
She nodded. “Thanks, Nora.”
And then, much to my surprise, she threw her arms around me in a fierce hug. I hugged her back, feeling her shaking through the fabric of her sweater. When she pulled away, she wiped at her eyes. “I mean, you’re still not going to meet my mother.”
“Not today,” I agreed.
She went back inside, and I retraced my way up the steps. I had a lot to think about.
I’d had no idea Callie came from wealth. Not that it mattered, but it showed me how much I didn’t know about the people around me. I’d had no idea that Marty was dating anyone, much less David the homicide cop. On top of that, I’d learned that the cherub-faced Brandon was something of a stalker. Who knew what I’d find if I started looking into Albert’s private life. Or anyone’s.
We all had secrets. I certainly had mine. Case in point: I used a pen name to blog about classic films and nobody at the Palace knew about it. Marty’s head would explode if he ever found out, because he actually liked my blog—Sally’s blog. It would kill him to know he’d actually complimented me.
Warren, too, had kept secrets. At least one, anyway, involving a blonde and a second phone. Were there more?
Had one of his secrets gotten him killed?
Chapter 10
It was still before ten when I got to the theater. Our first showing of The Divorcee wouldn’t start until twelve fifteen and I knew the others would meander in sometime around eleven. The early shift today would consist only of myself, Albert, and Marty, as Brandon and the other two employees who were regulars—Claire and Mike—had pressing commitments in high school. I wondered if Detective Jackson had interrogated Brandon before first period.
“Hiya, Nora!”
Trixie waved from the top of the balcony stairs as soon as I was in the lobby door.
“Morning, Trixie.” Knowing we were alone I called up to her, unafraid of being overheard and subsequently locked up in a tasteful sanitorium somewhere. I punched in the code to turn the building’s alarm system off and started up the stairs.
“What did I miss?” she asked. “Have they figured out what happened to that stinker Warren yet? Did you tell your husband he can go peddle his papers at that film festival?”
“No, and no.” On the balcony landing I opened the semi-hidden door to the back offices and headed for the break room. I needed coffee.
“Oh.” She seemed perplexed. And a little disappointed. By which answer I wasn’t sure.
“The police are still investigating, and I told Ted I’d go to the film festival with him,” I elaborated.
Her eyes flashed. “Why, Nora. That’s brilliant! That way you’ll get to see him with Miss Homewrecker and see for yourself if it’s over between them!”
I stopped, my hand on the coffee scoop. In my mind, I’d seen myself going to Sundance with Ted. With just Ted. I knew I’d see a bunch of old acquaintances and industry people as well, but it hadn’t actually occurred to me that I’d be seeing Ted with her. The internationally breathtaking Priya Sharma. But of course I would. They’d be doing press and speaking on panels and going to all the events to promote the movie. That’s why they were going in the first place.
“I think you’re so smart,” Trixie was chirping on, oblivious to the fact that she’d just made me realize what an idiot I was. “Why, you’ll know in a minute if there’s still any hanky-panky going on between them. He may be an actor but he’s still a man. He won’t be able to fool you.”
My stomach did a flip. I’d impulsively told Ted I’d go with him in a moment of nostalgia, not really thinking it through. Would I even be able to handle the sight of the two of them together? It was hard enough not to slap Ted every time I saw him by himself. What would it do to me when I saw him with her?
“Nora?” Trixie asked. “Are you okay?”
“I really don’t think so,” I told her. “I really think I’m…angry.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Well, of course you are, honey.”
She saw it. Saw my anger right there on top of everything. Why hadn’t I? All this time I’d been telling myself that I was hurt. That I was rejected. That I was miserable. All true, of course, but what I hadn’t faced about myself—not until just now when I’d imagined seeing Ted and Priya smiling together in the snowy streets of Park City—was that I was furious.
The thought of them together made me want to kill them both.
Which is when my phone pinged with an incoming text.
Babe. I’d love you to come to Sundance but a bunch of stuff is happening. Don’t make any plans yet. Stay tuned. I’m back in LA and I’ll sort everything out. Miss you already.
I stared at the screen, then at Trixie, who was giving me the kind of look usually reserved for unexploded bombs.
“He’s waffling,” I told her.
She blinked a few times, then asked hesitantly, “Is that good or bad?”
“It’s infuriating.”
She pursed her cupid’s bow lips. “What do you want to do now?”
And I knew. Everything else just sort of
fell away, and I saw, stark and clear, what I wanted to do. It had been there all along.
“I want to divorce him.”
Saying it out loud gave me the sensation that a tornado had just swept through the break room.
Trixie put her hands on her hips. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything, you know, until you made your mind up...” She nodded once, her shiny curls bouncing. “But it’s about darn time.”
I needed something stronger than coffee.
I needed a stiff drink or a punching bag or a nice, shiny gun.
No, not a gun. If I had a gun and a quick way to get to LA, things would end badly.
And if I had a stiff drink I might not stop, which would not bode well for setting up for the twelve-fifteen. Or for the rest of my life.
I knew the maze of rooms in the theater’s basement contained a lot of junk, but I didn’t remember seeing a punching bag. Lots of knickknacks that might be very satisfying to smash, but then I’d just have to clean them up, so that sort of took the thrill out of it.
Coffee. And stronger than I could make in the break room. That’s the best I could do at the moment.
Which is how I found myself across the street at Café Madeline, ordering the maximum amount of caffeine possible in a hot beverage and furiously—furiously—texting my lawyers.
“Are you okay?”
From the look on her face this was probably not the first time Lisa had said something to me, but it was the first time she got through. I looked up, dazed. “I’m furious.”
She grimaced. “There’s a lot of that going around.”
Lisa owned the café. She’d named it after her daughter, who was currently a freshman at Yale. It was a busy and comforting hub to the neighborhood, with plenty of tables, free Wi-Fi, and a sinful selection of pastries. I’d developed a casual friendship with her over the past few months. She was a few years older than me and letting her hair go gray, which made her comforting to be around, somehow. Or maybe it was because she always smelled faintly of cupcakes.
Murder in the Balcony Page 6