“I mean, I’m furious,” I told her. “With him, of course—”
“Of course.”
“But even more with me. How can I still feel this horrible when I’d already made the decision to divorce him? It’s over. I decided it was over. I decided not to take him back. So why do I still feel like the trash he pays someone else to take out?”
“Probably because you’re a human woman,” she said. “He, in stark contrast, is a low-down dirty dog.”
“I could kill him,” I said. “If he walked in here this minute, I could kill him. This is how murders happen, isn’t it? And I don’t even love him anymore. Imagine how hard I could kill him if I still loved him.”
“You need to use all that and write a dark, twisty screenplay,” she advised.
“I would, except I’m not you.” Robbie’s first hit TV series had been set in a cutthroat firm of divorce attorneys. Following her divorce. From a divorce attorney.
“No you’re not. You’re a better writer.” Which wasn’t true. But it was nice of her to say so.
“Robbie, I just feel so stupid,” I wailed.
“Okay, I’ll give you today for that, but tomorrow you get on with things. You’re the one who’s always telling me about strong female leads. How many times did Bette Davis get divorced?”
“Four.”
“Right, and Joan Crawford?”
“Four,” I said. “No, three. The last one died.”
“Well there you go. Strong women go on. And you’re a strong woman if I’ve ever met one.”
“Thanks, but film stars of the forties are not exactly role models for happiness.”
“You’ll be happy when you get past this. Which you will, in less time than you can imagine right now.”
I sniffed. “I know you’re right.”
“Do you want to come down for the weekend? Or for me to come up?”
There was no way I’d willingly go into the den of slavering paparazzi known as Beverly Hills right now. “I’d love it if you came up,” I said. “But I know you can’t.” She was too busy to catch her breath most days. “I love you for offering.”
“And I love you for being you. Take a shower. Call your lawyers. And go watch a movie. What’s playing?”
The lineup would be changing today. “The Women,” I told her. “And Libeled Lady.”
“Okay. Not the best choices for right this minute.” True. One concerned a group of women largely failing in their high-society marriages, and the other was about scheming journalists inventing scandal. “Maybe just go for a long walk.”
I took a deep breath. “I will,” I said. “And then I’ll divorce that lying liar and I’ll buy a place up here and I’ll build a whole new life for myself.”
“A whole new happy life,” she said.
“Damn right,” I agreed. “Damn happy.”
Then I hung up the phone and cried. But only for half an hour.
At which point I remembered why I’d thought Robbie was calling. She still hadn’t told me if Stan McMillian was trying to buy the Palace.
“He’s a shit and you’re better off without him. Do we have to discuss it further?”
This is how Marty greeted me on the sidewalk outside the theater. He’d just come down the ladder from changing the lineup on the marquee.
“Please let’s not,” I replied.
I knew Albert would say something sweet and comforting, so I avoided him and went straight up to the office. I didn’t want to start crying again.
Callie sent me a text, as did Monica. Both were supportive. Neither made me feel better. Hector also sent a message.
You should have taken me up on my offer.
Presumably he meant his offer to have Ted killed. Which I still chose to believe had been a joke. Because I still chose to believe that Hector was retired from a life of crime. I liked to think of him as a scrupulously legitimate businessman enjoying the economic boom back home in Colombia. Sometimes with his shirt off.
I answered his text.
Make me another.
Then I did the only thing I could. I got through the day.
Callie and I had called Detective Jackson the night before with our theory about Stan McMillan. We’d sent him the incriminating photo from the bar, but we hadn’t heard anything back from him yet. So there was nothing new to distract me on the who-killed-Warren front. I busied myself with tickets and popcorn and schedules and bills, all while obsessively checking my phone for messages from my lawyers. They streamed in throughout the day, calming and terrifying by turns, and ultimately saying nothing in very expensive, lawyerly words.
The seven-thirty was just about over, and I was dreading the thought of heading home for an evening of solitary wallowing when there was a knock at the office door.
“Nora?” The door opened.
Callie hadn’t come back to work yet, so I was surprised to see her. I was doubly surprised to see her wearing much-too-big pink striped pajamas, rolled up at the cuffs and sleeves.
“Sooo…are we doing this?” She came in. Her mass of thick curls was piled into a messy bun and she looked cute and girly and very unlike her normal ultracool self.
“If I say ‘doing what?’ am I a bad person?” I asked.
She came into the room and I realized she was holding another set of pj’s. These sporting enormous purple polka dots. “Pajama Game,” she said. “The midnight movie?”
The look on my face must have shown two things. One, that I’d totally forgotten it was Friday night and that we were having a special showing of The Pajama Game (1957, Doris Day and John Raitt). And two, that I’d rather do just about anything than put on a pair of polka-dot pj’s and serve “1950’s company picnic” food to a light-hearted crowd humming along to the score.
“No,” I told her.
“That’s what I thought,” she said. “But then I thought, like, if I can you can. And I decided I can. So you totally have to.” She plopped the pajamas down on the desk in front of me.
“How about neither of us do, and instead we head for the nearest bar? My treat.”
“I would literally love to do that,” she said. “But it would mean leaving Marty in charge of something that’s supposed to be, like, fun. And we kind of want the Palace to still be here in the morning, right?” She pushed the polka-dots toward me.
“Oh, my God. I have to do this,” I realized.
“OMG you do,” Callie agreed.
Trixie materialized just behind her, clapping her hands and beaming. “Oh, how fun!” she said. “A pajama party!”
Right. Fun.
Chapter 14
The Pajama Game was made back when America had a middle class and workers belonged to unions and went to company picnics and sang songs about not being in love as they danced all over the factory floor. Okay, maybe that last bit was only in the movies.
In any case, the Friday night midnight movie event I’d planned—I had only myself to blame—was a pajama party. Anyone who showed up in pj’s would get half off their ticket. Which was only fair, as we’d doubled the normal price of tickets because this was a party and because I’m a financial genius. We were also selling hot dogs, potato salad, and ice cream sundaes in the lobby before the show while playing the movie’s score over the sound system. But it wasn’t only about the profit we might make that night. It was about seducing people into loving classic movies.
“That was such a good picture!” Trixie enthused. “Oh! I have an idea! You could turn the balcony into Hernando’s Hideaway and serve drinks!”
“I could if we had a liquor license,” I said, at which she made a dismissive gesture.
The movie had been made twenty years after Trixie’s death, but she must have seen it dozens of times over the years at the Palace. She was keeping me company in the office as I changed into the polka-dot
pajamas. Callie had gone downstairs to start setting up.
“It’s not like the coppers will raid the joint,” she said, her phrasing reminding me that her tough-guy lingo dated mainly from the time of James Cagney movies. “Not with all the murders going on.”
“Just one murder,” I said. “Just Warren. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.”
She gave me wide-eyed innocence. “Never.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if one copper in particular did show up,” I told her, rolling up the sleeves of the enormous pj’s. I’d pulled my less-blonde-every-day hair into a ponytail. My LA highlights were growing out and my natural color included more gray than I’d realized. I’d have to find a new hairdresser, which shouldn’t be too difficult. There were a ton of salons in the neighborhood. They couldn’t all be about to close because of some evil real estate developer.
“That detective fella,” Trixie agreed. “The one who’s been canoodling with Marty.”
I turned from the mirror to stare at her. First because she’d said the word ‘canoodling,’ and second because she knew about Marty and Jackson.
She grinned, enjoying my reaction. “Oh, I see things, Nora. And I may be a hundred years old, but don’t you dare think I’m old-fashioned.”
I held up my hands in surrender. “Never.”
“Not one word.” Marty put up a warning hand as I met him at the bottom of the balcony stairs.
He was wearing the most ridiculous pajamas I’d ever seen in my life. How they could be oversized on someone as towering as Marty was beyond me. But that was nothing compared to the pattern: giraffes in top hats and monocles.
“Callie?” I guessed.
“It’s a good thing I’m being such a supportive friend in her time of need, because if someone hadn’t murdered her boyfriend, I’d never have agreed to this.”
“You’re a prince,” I told him, at which he glowered more darkly than usual.
Brandon was there too, his pj’s patterned with teddy bears, which probably said a lot about how Callie thought of him. Also in for the shift were Mike and Claire, siblings and high schoolers who worked nights and weekends as their schedules (and parents) permitted. Claire was wearing puppies and Mike was sporting kittens. Albert, sensible man, had wished us well and gone home hours ago.
My phone rang and I saw it was June, so I popped into the empty auditorium away from all the activity in the lobby.
“Nora, I’m glad I caught you.” June’s voice was breathless, as if she’d been on the run. “I know you spoke with Sam yesterday, but there’s been another change in the agenda for Monday and I wanted to let you know.”
“Okay, no problem,” I said, taking the aisle seat on the back row. “What do you need?”
“Well, you know we’d been planning on a moment of silence for Warren, but now we’re not going to do that after all.”
I was surprised. “Really? Why not?”
She sighed, and I thought I heard impatience in it. “Stan—you know Stan McMillan, don’t you?”
I sat up straighter. “Only by reputation.” Reputation as a real estate developer, snake, and possible murderer.
“Well, you know McMillan’s is one of the firms we’re having the event with, and Stan feels—he feels quite strongly—that it would be a poor use of our time to have a moment of silence for Warren when so few people who will be attending actually knew him.”
“Oh. Right.” So he was heartless, too. Was he dangerous? Is that why June had given in to him about this?
She was still speaking. “He made the point that it would just raise more questions among people who didn’t know Warren and hadn’t heard about his death. Stan thinks—and he’s probably right—that people who didn’t know Warren will get sidetracked, asking who he was and how he died and so forth.”
And so forth. Like who killed him. Like maybe Stan McMillan had something to hide.
“So the PowerPoint deck is being reshuffled again,” June concluded. “I’ll have the right version on my laptop come Monday.”
I had a million questions for her, but there was something about her rush of words and defensive attitude that held me back. She didn’t seem defensive on her own behalf so much as on McMillan’s. Why? I’d intended to ask her what she knew about McMillan’s rumored mixed-use development plans for the neighborhood, but now I hesitated. Suddenly I felt like I shouldn’t let June know that I’d heard about it.
She was waiting for some sort of response. I swallowed my questions. I’d think about why later. “Thanks for letting me know,” I said.
She let out a breath. “Of course. And, Nora, another thing…”
Something in the tone of her voice reminded me of a studio executive I knew who would spend an entire meeting talking about nothing and then oh-so-casually bring up the one thing that mattered just as he had one foot out the door. I braced myself. “What is it?”
“I don’t mean to be a busybody,” she hedged, “but I couldn’t help but see the news about Ted and that, um…”
“Actress?” I said drily. “It’s been hard to miss.”
“I’m so sorry. I know you two were trying to work things out. But when I put on my realtor hat, I have to think that maybe it’s for the best. I mean, not for the best, but at least this way you’ll have some clarity about what you can be looking for now.”
Oh. I got it. She was thinking about the money.
She cleared her throat delicately. “At least when you negotiate whatever settlement…well, you’ve been a little hazy about your budget, and maybe this will end up helping your house hunting. It will define your parameters.” She concluded with a little relief in her voice, having successfully navigated through a tricky subject to get to her point.
“That it will,” I agreed.
“Good. As soon as you’re ready I can’t wait to help you find the home of your dreams.”
By ready I assumed she meant flush with Hollywood divorce cash. “Thanks, June.”
I hung up feeling that my parameters were still pretty undefined. June apparently thought I’d be getting a whopping sum from Ted, a sum that would open up whole new vistas of real estate possibilities. And she might be right. When the lawyers had sent me a preliminary figure back in the fall it had been a lot more than I’d expected. But, of course, it had been preliminary. There was a long way to go and a lot to do before it would be final. June probably shouldn’t start spending her commission just yet.
Nor should I start thinking about houses in Pacific Heights. First things first. I had a pajama party to throw.
The Palace didn’t have a commercial kitchen, so I’d arranged for a guy with a hot dog cart to come in for the evening. Between getting him set up in the lobby and putting up the tables for the other food and hanging banners and a giant sign that said “Sleeptite Company Picnic” we were all pretty busy. The good news is that it was worth it. The crowd started showing up around eleven, and for once I didn’t have to use air quotes when I said “crowd.”
I made sure everyone was at their appointed posts and things were going smoothly before taking up my position at the cash register next to the sundae station. Marty was on ice cream duty.
“All the regulars are here.” He gestured with a dripping scoop at the assembled throng.
“Not just the regulars,” I said. “Although hopefully after tonight they’ll all become regulars. Musicals are the gateway drug of classic film.” I handed a happy customer his change.
“I think she’s here,” Marty said. Then he muttered out of the side of his mouth. “You know. Sally Lee.”
“Marty, please don’t make a thing out of this.” I knew I’d tell him the truth at some point or another, but this was not that point.
“It’s not a thing,” he said. “It’s an insanely clever deduction, based on a close reading of her blog. I’ve deduced that
she lives in San Francisco and comes to the Palace all the time. But she didn’t always. Her writing has only started to trail what we’re showing in the past few months. So she’s new in town. Ergo, I’m looking for a new regular.”
Ergo? But I had to hand it to him. He was right.
“My leading suspects are that one on the landing—” he nodded toward top of the stairs, “in the heart-patterned pajama top and blonde wig—”
“It’s a Doris Day costume,” I pointed out. “From the finale.”
“I’m aware,” he said. “Or it’s the woman in the wheelchair over by the hot dog guy. She’s been coming in at least once a week for the past few months. But Doris up there is…”
He kept talking but I tuned him out. I was looking at the woman in the wheelchair. And now that he’d pointed her out, I did remember seeing her a few times before. She was memorable not just because of the chair, but also for her striking, almost dramatic looks. She was probably in her thirties, had long wavy black hair, and wore thick black-framed glasses that would have made most women look like the “before” picture in a not-so-sexy librarian contest. But on her they just emphasized her amazing cheekbones.
“Who is she?” I asked Marty. “And don’t say Sally Lee.”
He was scooping ice cream for another customer, but glanced over to the woman when he saw I was looking at her. “In my mind she’s Dolores del Rio,” he said, naming one of the few (okay, maybe the only) Latina actresses from 1930s Hollywood. “But if she pays with a credit card tonight, what do you want to bet we find out that her name is really Sally Lee?”
“It isn’t,” I assured him. This was one thing I could say with certainty.
I was still looking at the woman. There was something about her that seemed familiar to me. I was embarrassed to be caught staring at her when she turned and suddenly met my eyes. I smiled and she wheeled her way over to us.
“Would you like a sundae?” Marty asked. “We take credit cards. It’s no problem.”
Murder in the Balcony Page 9