I wondered if Detective Jackson had any leads. Not that he’d tell me anything.
“I mean, I can’t believe how into him I was,” Callie said.
“Don’t blame yourself. Clearly he was very good at convincing women they were the only one.”
“I mean, he was with me early on Friday, and then with Ingrid late Friday, and all the time he knew he’d be seeing Tabatha Saturday morning.”
By this time we were in front of the dry cleaner, but we didn’t go in yet. “Did Ingrid tell you she met up with Warren outside the bar?”
Callie nodded. She’d heard the same story I had.
“Did she say if there was anything weird? If she noticed anything when they were waiting for the car?”
“The only thing she remembered was that there was this woman who was also waiting for a car. She was super drunk, and Warren knew her, but he didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want her to see him, so they went around the corner.” Callie gave me a look. “He told Ingrid that he’d be so in with June if he told her about it.”
“Holy hell, Callie, way to bury the lead! That must have been who he texted you about. Who was she?”
“Ingrid didn’t know. But she said she was, like, older. Not old-old, but older. Probably older than you.”
Great. At least I wasn’t old-old. “Anything else?”
“Ingrid told me the woman was wasted, but still seemed to be super uptight.”
“Was she alone?”
“She was by the time Ingrid got there, but who knows what went on before? Do you think she’s the one who was with that creep McMillan?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. But the way Ingrid had described her did call someone to mind. A middle-aged uptight type. I’d met someone like that recently.
June’s assistant Cora.
Was she the mysterious colleague?
Chapter 31
Callie and I went our separate ways after dropping the curtains at the dry cleaners. She walked back to the Palace and I headed down the street in the opposite direction, toward June’s office.
I’d already sent June two texts, one the day before, right after Cora told me about Sam, and one that morning, asking if we could talk. She hadn’t answered either, which is why I’d decided to just show up.
It was mid-afternoon on a Wednesday, so I was surprised to see a Closed sign in the window when I got there. Inside all the lights were off. Which didn’t seem right. I would have totally understood if June and some of the other people in the office who’d been close to Sam hadn’t come in that day. That would only be natural in light of Sam’s death. But shuttering the whole office? If June had taught me anything about the San Francisco real estate market it was that snoozers were losers and closings waited for no one.
So why was the office shut up tight?
I rapped on the door, but nobody appeared from a back room. It looked like the whole place was deserted. Which had me worried. Specifically, I was worried about Cora. If June’s assistant had been the mysterious middle-aged woman at the bar that night, she could be the next person in danger.
Or she could be a killer.
I walked back to the Palace, thinking everything over, not figuring anything out. I was still wearing Robbie’s borrowed clothes, including her ridiculous heels. I didn’t know how people walked around in those things all day. I’d probably be limping by the time I got back.
It was a drizzly afternoon, the kind of afternoon that was a perfect San Francisco backdrop for the warm glowing lights of the Palace marquee. So it was especially bleak to look down the street and see the lights were off and the marquee was dark. I’d asked Marty to take the Tuesday lineup down and replace it with “Reopening Soon!” but he’d used a little editorial license. When I got closer, I saw the unlit marquee read “Reopening As Soon As The City Comes To Its Senses.”
I’d have to have him change it before the building inspector came on Friday. There was no need to preemptively antagonize a city official. Now that I thought about it, I’d have to remember to tell Marty to stay home on Friday.
Inside, the Palace was bustling. Not with paying customers, but with most of the staff checking off the items on my let’s-spruce-this-place-up list. Mike and Claire, the brother-and-sister teenagers who sometimes worked after-school and weekend shifts, each had cans of paint and small brushes and were touching up all the scuffs and dings along the wall going up the balcony stairs. Callie had just lowered the enormous chandelier down from the lobby ceiling and was on a stepladder, ready to begin polishing each individual crystal. I had no idea what Marty was up to, but I saw that Albert had taken all the candy and snacks out of the vintage glass-and-wood concessions stand that ran almost the full length of the lobby. He was cleaning the glass, section by section, inside and out. It was one of the less physically-taxing jobs, but I still wasn’t crazy about him exerting himself beyond his normal duties.
“Hey everyone,” I called out as I closed the lobby doors behind me. “The place is looking great. Thanks for everything. I’m sure we’ll be open again by the weekend.”
This earned me a somewhat lackluster response, which is all it really deserved. I was sure the balcony was sound, and that the city inspector would find nothing wrong with it. But now there was also the issue of the boobytrapped stage being a potential deathtrap. I wasn’t entirely optimistic that we’d be able to open again for the weekend, when we were scheduled to show a triple feature of Broadway Melody of 1936 (1935, Eleanor Powell and Jack Benny), Broadway Melody of 1938 (1937, Eleanor Powell and Robert Taylor), and Broadway Melody of 1940 (1940, Eleanor Powell and Fred Astaire). I was raised to believe there’s no such thing as too much Eleanor Powell, but this might not turn out to be her weekend.
I went over to the candy counter. “Albert, I want to hire a carpenter to take out those trapdoors for good.” Inspector or not, I didn’t want to worry about another accident. “Do you know who we’ve used in the past for that sort of thing? Someone familiar with the building?”
He stopped polishing and adjusted his round glasses. “I believe the fellow that we used has retired, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d still be willing to come help us out. At least to tell us what our options are. Let me see if I can find his name in my notes.”
“You have notes?”
He caught himself, then smiled. “Perhaps it’s time for me to tell you about the project I’ve been working on.”
Since my main objective for this conversation was to get Albert to take a break, I agreed. “Come upstairs. Tell me over a hot cup of tea.”
“I’m writing a memoir,” Albert told me once we’d settled in the break room with steaming mugs in front of us. I eased off Robbie’s shoes under the table.
“That’s great,” I told him. “You’ve had such an interesting life.”
He shook his head, smiling indulgently. “It isn’t a memoir of my life. It’s a memoir of the Palace.”
“Oh.” Then I realized what that might mean. “Oh. Albert, that’s amazing.”
He sipped, pleased with my reaction. “What’s unique about the Palace is the lives she’s touched. I want to tell people how important this theater has been in my life, and my family’s. How it was a place of joy and community during the Depression. How it was a respite from worry for women like my mother, when my father and I were both off at war. How the generations who grew up in this neighborhood passed their favorite films down like family heirlooms.”
“That’s lovely,” I told him.
“But I also hope it will shed an interesting light on life in this city, and in this world, as the decades changed and the Palace adapted.”
“Or didn’t,” I said wryly.
“Or didn’t,” he agreed. “I have to say, I’ve been having the most wonderful time digging into the archives and hunting down old information. Do you know, I’ve unearthed
the original plans for the building.”
“Seriously? Can you show me?”
“I’d be delighted,” he said. “I’ve found out so much about the building. For instance, those trapdoors we need to seal up? They were always causing problems. From the beginning, people broke collarbones and arms from being launched up through them too forcefully.”
“Really? I never thought about anyone making an entrance through the traps, just about making a quick exit.”
“They worked both ways,” Albert said. “At least, most of the time they did.”
“How did anyone ever drop so far without breaking their legs?” I asked, thinking of Brandon. “Were there giant mattresses or something?”
He shook his head. “They didn’t drop that far. Originally there was something like a loft or a platform under that part of the stage. So the players were only raised or dropped a few feet. I imagine the loft was removed at the same time the traps themselves were boarded up.”
“Wow,” I said. Then I had a thought. “I wonder if people would be interested in Palace tours once your book comes out.”
His eyes gleamed. “I had the same thought. Of course it won’t all be about architecture and history. There will be a great deal about the legends of the Palace as well.”
I looked at him. “You mean the ghost.”
Albert had known Trixie in life when he was just a boy going to kiddie matinees every weekend. He’d also seen her, just a glimpse here and there, since she died.
Albert, like Callie’s mother, was a believer.
He nodded. “Of course, I’ll dispel the rumor about the knife thrower’s assistant,” he said. I knew he meant the legend about a vaudeville act gone awry, resulting in another ghost story. But that one really was just a story. Albert had reliably informed me that the showgirl in question had in fact choked on a sandwich and hadn’t even died at the Palace.
“But you’ll talk about Trixie,” I said. Then, quickly. “About Beatrix George. The usherette. Will you say you’ve seen her yourself?”
Maybe he wasn’t as afraid as I was of being carted off to some very relaxing spa with bars on the windows and the kind of robes that tie in the back.
“I will,” he said. “And I’ve found a few others who have had similar experiences.” He peered at me, and I had the feeling he was waiting for me to confirm his suspicions. I suspected he’d suspected something from the first time I’d seen Trixie. I just couldn’t bring myself to say anything.
He blinked and looked away. “I wish there were some way of communicating with Trixie,” he said. “I’ve spoken to Lillian—Callie’s mother—about the possibility of a séance.” He tilted his head, regarding me. “What do you think?”
I swallowed. “What would you want to say?”
“I’d want her permission,” he said simply. “And perhaps her blessing. After all, if the story of the Palace belongs to anyone, it belongs to her.”
This was the point at which I would have loved to hear Trixie’s voice ring out behind me, saying something like “Well, I’ll be darned,” or “Gee, that’s a grand idea.”
But the ghost of the Palace remained silent.
Chapter 32
“You look different,” Marty accused. He’d found me at my desk in the office after I left Albert.
“I’m wearing nice clothes,” I said. “I borrowed them from Robbie.”
I’d also put on makeup and gotten a manicure and a blowout in an attempt to look Hollywood wealthy for McMillan that morning. Not that it had lasted. I’d ruined the hair by wandering around in a drizzle all afternoon. It was now pulled into its customary ponytail, and I was wishing I had some sneakers to change into.
Marty made a face. “You don’t belong in nice clothes.” Before I could ask him what exactly he meant by that he flung himself into a chair. “I heard from Brandon. He’s home from the hospital but he’ll be in a cast for at least six weeks. He may try to come in after he gets the hang of his crutches, but until then I’m not covering his shifts.”
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you,” I said. “Brandon interacts with the public.”
Marty scowled.
“I’ll talk to Claire and Mike about splitting up his shifts until he’s back,” I said.
He snorted. I could only assume it was in agreement.
“Has Detective Jackson told you anything about the investigation since Sam died?” I asked. “Are they taking the possibility that someone pushed her any more seriously?”
He shrugged, chewing on a cuticle. “We’re having dinner tonight, unless someone else gets murdered. But I’m sure he won’t tell me anything. Nobody ever tells me anything.”
“Did someone say ‘dinner?’” Hector stood in the doorway, a pleased look on his face and a shopping bag in his hand. The man was like a cat. I never heard him coming. I mean, he was like an incredibly handsome and charming cat, with a sexy Spanish accent, but still.
“It’s a little early for me,” I told him. “What brings you here?”
“I thought you might like these.” He dropped the shopping bag on my desk. “And I hoped to invite you to my new home for dinner. Gabriela will be there and as we speak, she is making her famous ajiaco.” He took a seat in the chair next to Marty and crossed his legs. “It’s a soup. With chicken and potatoes.”
Marty looked from Hector to me and back again. “Well, isn’t that just domestic.”
I gave him a look. “I think you have things to do.”
He grimaced and stood. “I’ll be in the projection booth.” He pointedly closed the door behind him.
“What’s in the bag?” I asked Hector.
“Open it and see.” He watched as I peered in, then pulled out a shoebox.
“Sneakers?”
“I thought your friend Robbie’s heels might grow uncomfortable as the day went on,” he said. “There are also socks.”
I looked at the label. “How did you know my size?”
“I have an eye for such things. Will you join me for dinner? Gabriela’s ajiaco is not to be missed.”
“Sure, I mean, wait—” Something he’d said had just caught up with me. “Your new home? What do you mean your new home?”
“I told you I was considering staying in San Francisco.”
“You told me that three days ago! Don’t tell me you’ve already got a place.”
He shrugged. “Only a rental, for now, but it suits my needs.” He rose. “I’ll be back to pick you up at six thirty.”
I continued to stare at the space where he’d been after he left, thinking something along the lines of “How does he do that?” Then I tried on the sneakers.
They were a perfect fit.
I still hadn’t heard back from June. I checked her website to see if she’d posted anything about the office being temporarily closed. There was nothing on her home page except a photo of a welcoming front door. Nothing about an office closure anywhere, just photo after photo of homes I was sure I could no longer afford. Thank you, Ted.
Thinking of Ted, I realized my lawyers had been ominously silent for a few days. Were they still trying to figure out how to prove Ted had squirrelled all our money away somewhere, or had they moved on to their next high-profile split? And when should I expect a truck containing all my earthly possessions—or at least the ones Ted had identified as such—to pull up outside the theater door? And where the heck was I going to store everything until June found me a house? Assuming June would resurface to do that. Assuming I could scrape together sufficient money for a meagre deposit on anything.
Okay, enough self-pity. I needed to pull myself together. After which I needed to hit social media and start sifting through Warren’s friends’ posts from that night at the bar again, this time looking for Cora in the background. For that task I would love some company. Some very specific company.
> “Trixie?” I said out loud. “Don’t stay away too long, okay? I miss you.”
I held my breath for a moment but didn’t have any sense of her presence. All I could do was wait.
I turned to the laptop. When Callie and I had looked at all the photos of Warren’s party before, neither of us had met Cora. Now that I knew I was looking for her, or at least someone who looked like her, things should be easier.
An hour and a half later I thought I had her.
“I think it’s her watch.”
“Her watch?” Hector repeated. I was back in his car, this time being whisked to his new mystery house for soup with cousin Gabriela. Marty was right. That did sound pretty domestic.
“I noticed it on Monday. Cora kept checking it to keep June on schedule. I noticed because most people who obsess about their watches have those high-tech ones, but this was an old-fashioned men’s wristwatch.” I told him. “It caught my eye. And I’m sure it’s the same watch that’s on the arm of someone in the background of a selfie Warren posted that night.”
“All right,” he nodded. “Let’s assume it’s Cora’s watch in the photo. Does that mean she was the colleague who was there with McMillan? From what I saw of them the other day she despises the man.”
“To know him is to despise him,” I said. “But who knows if that was an act? Maybe it was a case of the lady protesting too much. She could have been covering for their scheming.” I ignored his raised eyebrows and continued. “It’s just too much of a coincidence otherwise. And it ties in with Warren being so smug about having seen someone that June would freak out about. Cora is June’s assistant. She must know everything that’s going on at June’s agency. What if she was secretly feeding information to McMillan? She can’t be earning much as an assistant. What if he was paying her to tell him what the competition was up to? Or to undermine June’s business? That would seriously make June freak.”
Murder in the Balcony Page 21