“Is that the famous soon-to-be ex?” he asked. “I don’t recognize her when she isn’t smiling cheerfully.”
“I take it you saw the story,” I wiped at the spilled coffee.
“I did and I hated it,” he said. “But at least it’s an attempt to salvage our tattered reputation, so…” he shrugged.
“I’ll take that as a win. And I’m sorry they made it sound like showing classics was all my idea. I would never have said that.” They’d been showing classic films long before I’d gotten to the Palace.
“We know you wouldn’t,” Callie said.
We were interrupted by the ping of a text on my phone. I’d been getting them all morning as people had seen the story, but this one was different.
Nora, we haven’t met but I believe we have some interests in common. This is Otis Hampton. Please contact me at you earliest convenience.
“What?” Marty was looking at me closely. “Why do you have that weird look on your face?”
“Otis Hampton just sent me a text.”
“Otis Hampton the billionaire?”
Otis Hampton the billionaire who had been dating Priya Sharma right up until she got engaged to my rat of a husband.
“I don’t think there’s another Otis Hampton.”
“That’s practically incestuous.” Marty got himself a Coke from the soft drink machine. “What does he want?”
If he was anything like me, he probably wanted both Ted and Priya to fall into an active volcano on their honeymoon. Or free-dive into a school of sharks. Or ski into an avalanche, maybe. Not that I’d been indulging in any violent fantasies or anything. “I have no idea.”
“I mean, call him.” Callie said. “Maybe Ted and Priya broke up again. Or maybe he wants you to help him split them up.”
“Oh, God. Not this again,” Marty moaned.
I shot him a pointed look. “I’m not the least bit interested in splitting them up. Ted and Priya are none of my concern.” Maybe they’d go sky diving.
He gave me a look right back. “Try that again, this time like you mean it.”
“You should still text him,” Callie said. “I mean, Otis Hampton.”
Sure, Otis Hampton, but I had things to do. I had to make sure none of the fire extinguishers were expired before the building inspector showed up. I had to get in touch with that carpenter about fixing the stage, I had to prove that Cora or McMillan or both of them had been behind the murders of Warren and Sam. I had to have a lot more coffee.
I glanced up at the balcony landing and saw someone there. At which point there was only one thing I had to do.
I had to talk to Trixie.
“Nora! Yoo-hoo! Hi, Nora!”
I grunted something in Callie and Marty’s direction and dashed up the stairs.
“Nora, I’m so glad to see you! I came back last night, and I don’t know how long I’ve been gone. How long have I been gone? And why aren’t there any pictures on the marquee? It says we’re closed. Why would we be closed? What—”
She burbled all this while I was on my way up. Knowing Callie and Marty were watching me, I swept past her without a glance, but as soon as we were in the hallway behind the closed door I turned and swept my arms right through her in a cold attempt at a hug.
“Trixie, I’ve missed you so much. How are you? Are you okay?”
I’d expected her to return traumatized, or at least sobered, by what she’d seen before she’d vanished. Watching Sam fall had shocked her so badly she’d disappeared for days. But now she showed no signs of distress.
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Her penciled brows came together. “What’s going on?”
Looking at her confused face, I thought I understood. “Let’s go to the office where we can talk.”
Once before, after she’d seen something terrible, and done something terrible, she’d come back from “away” with no memory of it. I’d wondered at the time if her loss of memory was some sort of mental protection, blocking out something she couldn’t bear to remember. Now, thinking the same thing might have happened, I hoped it was true. I hoped she had no memory of seeing Sam fall as she herself had fallen.
“Everything’s fine,” I told her when we got to the office. She perched on the desk, her feet on a guest chair, while I paced and tried to figure out what to say. “You’ve only been gone a few days.”
“Whew! Gee, I was worried. I couldn’t tell. But why are we closed?”
“There was an accident in the balcony, so we have to have a safety inspection, that’s all.” I looked at her closely. “Do you remember the accident in the balcony?”
She blinked rapidly. “Why? Was I there?”
“I—” To be absolutely honest, I didn’t know if she’d been there. If she’d been glued to McMillan, she’d have seen him push Sam off the balcony. That was if he’d been the one to push her. “I’m not absolutely sure.”
While I was happy that Trixie had been spared the trauma of remembering Sam’s death, her blank spot meant I didn’t have a witness to what had really happened. “What’s the last thing you remember?” I asked her. “You disappeared on Monday, the day all the realtors were here.”
“I remember that!” she said eagerly. “I was Mata Hari!”
“You were an amazing Mata Hari.” I sat in the second guest chair, looking up at her. “The last time I saw you that day it was lunchtime. You were with Stan McMillan and a bunch of guys at his table on the balcony landing. Do you remember?”
She nodded, curls bouncing. “I do!” Her face clouded. “Oh, Nora. I don’t think you should be friends with that man. He says some terrible things.”
“I have no doubt.” I leaned forward. “What happened when you were at the table?”
She blinked rapidly, and adjusted her little cap. She clasped her hands, then shook them out, scrunching her face in concentration. She fidgeted with the top button of her uniform, biting her lip. I was ready to scream by the time she answered.
“They were all talking, and I was trying so hard to follow because I wanted to tell you everything, but I’m sorry, Nora. I didn’t understand a lot of what they said.”
“That’s okay,” I told her. “That’s fine. It was probably all about real estate anyway.”
“I think one of them is in demolition or something,” she said. “He kept saying he was ‘crushing’ everything.”
I nodded. “He’s probably in demolition.” Or he was just an obnoxious bro. “What happened then?”
She thought, then her expression cleared. “Oh! I remember! Somebody screamed!”
There it was. The confirmation I hadn’t wanted. If Trixie had been with McMillan on the balcony when Sam screamed, he couldn’t be the killer.
“And you were with McMillan when you heard the scream?” I said, just to be sure. “You saw him?”
She nodded. “I remember because he said, ‘What the—’” She stopped herself, her eyes wide. “Oh, Nora, the way he talks.”
“I’m sorry you had to hear him,” I said. “What happened after the scream? Do you remember?”
“Everybody rushed into the balcony to see what happened,” she said. “Not him, not right away, but one of the fellas who was at his table got up to see, and a bunch of other people were already going in.” She brightened. “Marty! He came out the hallway door and went past us right to the balcony. Maybe he can tell you what happened!” She looked pleased at the thought.
“That’s a great idea. But do you remember anything else?” A thought struck. “What about Cora? Did you see her?”
She blinked. “I don’t think I know her. Who’s Cora?”
Right. I’d only met Cora that Monday myself. “She’s one of the real estate people,” I said.
“Oh. Oh!” She sat up. “Then I don’t think she went in after the scream. I saw the ladies go in before. It
must have been one of them who screamed. What happened? Did they see a mouse or something?”
“Do we have mice? Never mind,” I waved a hand. I didn’t want to know. “Which ladies went in? Was one of them tall and blonde?” Had Trixie seen Sam enter the balcony?
Trixie nodded eagerly. “She was one of them, but she was with another one. The older one. They both went in together before the scream.”
The older woman. Cora.
“Trixie, what did the—”
At that moment the office door slammed open. I jumped and yelped. Trixie squealed and vanished. Marty stormed into the room. “All hands on deck,” he yelled. “David just called. He’s on his way here with the building inspector!”
Chapter 34
“NO!” I looked around the office, but Trixie was gone again.
Marty thought I was talking to him. “David put some pressure on to get the inspection done early, so he can rule out a faulty balcony in the investigation. We can get cleared by the city and the cops at the same time, but it’s happening today. What are you waiting for?”
I was waiting for Trixie to materialize again and confirm that it had been Cora who pushed Sam off the balcony. Then I realized what Marty had just said.
“What? The—When?” I focused. “How much time do we have?”
“None.”
“Okay.” I thought fast. “You get down and take that snarky message off the marquee. I’ll lower the screen to hide the hole in the stage.” I was already halfway down the hall.
“Callie! Go outside and send me a text the minute you see them pull up.” I yelled this from the landing before opening the balcony doors to make sure the police tape was still up, and everything looked in order for the inspection.
Callie’s production equipment was still in place down front, but everything else was normal. I took a breath and told myself there was nothing structurally wrong with the balcony, and that everything would be fine. Then I dashed back out and down the stairs to hide the hole in the stage.
Once in the auditorium I turned the house lights all the way up and took the stairs to the stage two at a time. I went straight to the control panel and nearly knocked the fire extinguisher off the wall in my rush to open the panel next to it. The screen lowered slowly—which was a safety feature—so I spent the next few minutes trying not to ignite in frustration as it inched its way down. It finished just as Callie’s text pinged, announcing the inspector was here.
I turned off the backstage lights and hopped back down the stairs for a look. Good. You’d never know there was a potential deathtrap lurking in the darkness behind the screen.
“Showtime,” I whispered to myself. Then I went to the lobby to meet my fate.
“Thank you, Vik,” I said wholeheartedly. “And thanks again for rushing this. We really appreciate it.”
“No problem.” Vikram Khatri, San Francisco Building Inspector and my new best friend, had just handed me a certificate that said the Palace was good to reopen. He shrugged into his jacket and looked around the lobby, none too eager to head back out into the rain. “My daughters love this place,” he said. “They’d have killed me if I hadn’t passed you in time for you to show National Velvet next week. It’s their favorite. And I wouldn’t let them come here if I wasn’t sure the building was up to code. This just verified it.”
“I hope giving your daughters all the free popcorn they can eat isn’t considered a bribe, because I fully intend to give your daughters all the free popcorn they can eat when they come in,” I told him.
I’d never loved a human being more. I’d never loved National Velvet more. And I loved National Velvet (1944, Elizabeth Taylor and Mickey Rooney) a lot. I closed the lobby door behind Vik, thinking nothing but lovely thoughts for one lovely moment.
The only thing the inspector had dinged us on was the rickety wooden ladder Marty used to change the marquee. He’d given the balcony a thorough going-over, but never even glanced at the stage.
I turned around to share the triumph, but I had the wrong crowd. Marty was by the candy counter, glowering as usual. Callie was on her phone, furiously alerting social media that the Palace was back in business. Detective Jackson, standing at the foot of the balcony stairs, was also texting, although with less gusto.
“Hey,” I said, “anybody feel like celebrating?”
Nothing.
“Detective Jackson, I wish I’d known you had so much pull with the building inspector. I could have saved myself a trip downtown.” And a promise to read some kid’s screenplay.
He glanced up from his phone. “No problem. I’ve just gotten clearance from the crime scene squad that you can take down the tape. They have everything they need.”
“What does that mean?” I asked him. “You’re still investigating Sam’s death, right?” They couldn’t be closing the case. Not when I had a ghostly eyewitness who had seen Cora go into the balcony with Sam moments before she fell. Not that I could tell Jackson that.
“We’re still investigating,” he assured me. “With the faulty-balcony scenario off the table we’re down to Sam’s death being either an accidental fall or a deliberate act. But in either case we’re confident we have all the physical evidence there is.” He pocketed his phone.
“We can reopen,” I said. I felt a little lightheaded. “We can really reopen.”
Jackson flashed a rare smile. “Eleanor Powell fans can sleep well tonight. There will be Broadway Melodies tomorrow.”
At this, Marty made a strangled sound and crossed the lobby swiftly, moving toward the detective with a focused look on his face. I wasn’t sure what was happening. When he got to Jackson he didn’t slow down, he just swept him into the kind of swirling embrace that can only be described as cinematic. It was Rhett-and-Scarlett level stuff, and it went on for a while.
“Are you two going to, like, get a room?” Callie finally said. “Because Albert wants to know how much champagne he should bring for our grand reopening party.” She wiggled her phone. “He’s waiting.”
Marty released his hold on Jackson, who staggered a bit before clearing his throat and straightening his raincoat. “I think I should go back to work,” he said. Then he looked at Marty meaningfully. “I’ll see you later.”
“That’s right you will.” Marty watched as his boyfriend (I don’t care what he said, I was calling Jackson his boyfriend) made his way out into the rainy afternoon.
“What?” Marty said, looking between Callie and me defiantly. “He remembered about Eleanor Powell.”
“I totally get it,” I told him.
“I mean,” Callie said, waving the phone again, “Albert? Champagne?”
“A lot,” I answered. “Tell him to bring a lot.” Then I ran after Detective Jackson to tell him about Cora’s wristwatch. Because I couldn’t tell him what Trixie had seen, but at least I could tell him that Cora had been at the Irish Bank the night Warren was killed.
At least that was something.
I’m so relieved! I knew everything would be fine, but I’m so relieved!
The text was from Robbie, in response to mine telling her the Palace would be back up and running tomorrow night. Another message appeared.
I hope you’re celebrating. Are you celebrating?
We’re about to open another bottle of champagne.
The Palace break room had never known such revelry. Marty ordered pizza, which arrived just as Brandon came by after school. We made a fuss over his cast and crutches, and he basked in our attention. At least in Callie’s. He seemed to find the rest of us embarrassing.
I thought about inviting Hector, but this was a family party. The only person missing was Trixie. I kept looking over at the open door, thinking she’d be drawn to the fun, but she made no appearance.
My phone pinged with another text.
I understand this may seem odd, but I really do t
hink we should speak.
From Otis Hampton again. I didn’t know what I wanted to do about Priya’s ex-boyfriend, so I didn’t do anything. If there was one thing I was good at, it was ignoring texts.
“Nora?” By the way he said it, I assumed this wasn’t Albert’s first attempt to get my attention.
“Sorry. What?” I shook my head.
He smiled. “How many shows do you want tomorrow? Can we show all three features twice?”
“Probably not. Nobody will come to anything before noon, so how about we do ’38 and ’40 in the afternoon, then all three in the evening?”
“Why doesn’t ’36 get two showings?” Marty asked.
“Because it’s the weakest of the three.” Eleanor Powell made three Broadway Melody movies, Broadway Melody of 1936 with Jack Benny, Broadway Melody of 1938 with Robert Taylor, and Broadway Melody of 1940 with Fred Astaire. No offense to Jack Benny, but everybody knew ’36 was the weakest.
“I beg your pardon.” Marty on champagne was possibly more hair-triggered than Marty on caffeine. “Who says it’s the weakest of the three?”
“Common knowledge,” I said airily.
“Oh, dear,” Albert sighed.
“Are you seriously going to sit there and tell me that ’36 didn’t pave the way for everything that came after it?” Marty demanded.
“Are you seriously going to stand there and deny that ’38 improved on it?” I countered. “Do I have to remind you that Judy Garland was in ’38? Do I have to bring up Sophie Tucker?”
“You know I worship them both as the goddesses they are!” he shouted. “Which doesn’t change the fact—”
“Can we all simply agree that ’40 was the best and leave it there?” Albert interjected. “After all, Fred Astaire. And Cole Porter.” He nodded sagely.
Marty sniffed. “Fine. But only because I don’t have time for this. I have a date.”
“Fine,” I agreed. I was not one to argue against Cole Porter.
Murder in the Balcony Page 23