The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  Stan was more than a family friend. He was family.

  “Yes,” Stan said with a smile. “Exactly like me.”

  “I don’t know . . . ,” I said, getting back to our discussion. “The whole thing sounds a little fishy to me.”

  “You’re suspicious because they’re so wealthy.”

  True. But I claimed: “That’s not true.”

  “A lot of your clients have money,” he noted.

  “Exactly. And I’m fine with them.”

  “To a point. Also, Landon has money.”

  “Uh-huh.

  “Face it, Mel. You have issues.”

  “I don’t.” Don’t ask Landon. “It’s just . . . it seems fishy to me.”

  “So, I expect you heard the rumors about the Crockett Theatre before you ventured in?”

  “Not really. I mean, only in general. Why? What have you heard?”

  “Supposedly there’s an usher who never left—I guess you ‘saw’ him yesterday?”

  May I show you to your seat? I shivered at the memory.

  “Probably. What was his background story, do you know?” I asked.

  “According to what I read, he was engaged to be married to a young woman, but another man was infatuated with her as well. The rival shot the usher one night when he was showing him to his seat.”

  “On the mezzanine.” I nodded, remembering the outline Alyx had laid down with tape. “When was that?”

  “In the forties, I think. I sent a few links to your e-mail.”

  It was hardly a surprise that the Crockett would be haunted. What was it about old theaters? The willingness of actors to inhabit lives and take on personas other than their own? Could “method” acting have an eternal impact?

  First ghosts, and now murder.

  I glanced at the contract for the Crockett renovation. Stan had specified that the building had to be vacant and ready before the onset of construction, so the investors were officially responsible for relocating the squatters. We still had time to back out of it. I could do as Annette suggested, and as Luz wanted me to do, and as my family would prefer, and walk away. I could turn my back on the majestic lobby and the faded marquee, harden my heart to the gilded dentil molding and the painted panels and huge gold idols and lions marching along the grand stairwell.

  I could reconcile myself to the fact that many such historic buildings were torn down and paved over, and life went on. It wasn’t the end of the world. After all, everyone liked a nice place to park.

  Yeah, right.

  Before Isadora’s death yesterday, even Dad had thought taking on the renovation of the Crockett Theatre was a good idea.

  I downloaded the theater photos from my phone onto my computer, and looked through them quickly: the tapestries, the murals, the chandeliers and niches and terra-cotta carvings.

  Though part of me would have loved to simplify my life, it was awfully hard to lay people off. Turner Construction needed the work.

  Besides . . . the Crockett Theatre deserved to be saved.

  And poor Isadora deserved justice.

  And that spooky usher might need a little help to find peace, as well.

  And finally . . . could Hildy’s fate somehow be connected to all of this?

  Chapter Ten

  Office work completed, I gathered my things for my workday. I placed Hildy’s carefully folded dress into a tote bag; I knew someone in San Francisco who might be able to tell me more about it. In my backpack I packed the ghost-busting equipment I had bought at Olivier’s shop: my EMF (electromagnetic field) reader, the EVP (electronic voice phenomenon) recorder, the full spectrum–infrared camera with night vision, the vibration and motion detectors, an extra flashlight, and several sets of batteries. My dusty coveralls still had the cold-water tap from the Crockett in the deep front pocket.

  Then I grabbed my toolbox, because after all, besides all this ghost business I’m still “in the trades.”

  Before joining the bumper-to-bumper traffic queuing up at the tollbooths to cross the Bay Bridge that led from the East Bay to San Francisco, I swung by Berkeley to see the Doctor, on San Pablo Avenue.

  I loved this shop. It was jammed full of pedestal sinks and old-fashioned slipper bathtubs. Dozens of antique clocks filled the space with constant ticking, and gongs or cuckoo calls noted the hour. The whole place smelled of dust and old things, adding to the aroma of whatever mystery solvent the Doctor was using on whatever project was the current focus of his skilled ministrations.

  The Doctor greeted me with a nod—he was a man of few words—and listened carefully as I gave him the rundown on what I might need for the Crockett job, and sketched several of the items I had seen in the theater’s storage room with Gregory.

  I placed the cold-water tap on his counter.

  “This?” the Doctor said as he picked up and studied the piece. “For what you wish, I will need more than this.”

  “I realize that,” I said. “I just happened to find this piece and thought it might give you an idea of the time period and the style.”

  He used a pencil to write laboriously on a paper tag: Crockett Theatre, SF, 1920s, Mel Turner. Then he tied the tag to the tap with a piece of old string and placed the tap on a dusty shelf next to dozens of other tagged projects awaiting his attention. I could only guess how long it would take him to get to it, which did not bode well, considering the hundreds of items in the Crockett that needed work. But no one in the Bay Area was as talented as the Doctor, so I would just have to wait.

  “I will call you,” the Doctor said, and returned to his work.

  I considered swinging by the new house to chat with Hildy, maybe ask a few direct questions and see if I could get any answers, but in light of last night’s unsettling vision, I decided it would be best to find out a little more about my attic ghost before approaching her again. Also, I needed a break. Talking to spirits took focus and energy, and I had been a near-witness to a murder yesterday; I was not at my ghost busting best.

  One thing in particular troubled me: Hildy had not seemed the least bit sinister when I met her. So why had I envisioned her holding a bloody knife? And for that matter, since when did I start having “visions” while looking in mirrors?

  So instead, I joined the throng of cars waiting in line for the Bay Bridge tollbooths. As we inched along, I thought about what had happened yesterday at the Crockett. According to Inspector Annette Crawford, most of the squatters were nowhere to be found when the police arrived at the theater.

  I thought about the audience with their vacant stares, and the fervent usher, and Isadora’s spirit dancing with grace and joy upon the stage. Why had those spirits shown themselves to me? Were they trying to tell me something? Maybe I was the only one who had the necessary insight to solve Isadora’s murder. And speaking of which, Luz had a point: If I knew who—or what—had killed Isadora, I might better understand what the spirits wanted. Annette would wave me off, of course, but I felt drawn to the theater. I had my ghost-busting equipment with me . . . Maybe I could talk my way in?

  First things first. I made it across the bridge and into the city, where I stopped to check on the progress of a relatively small residential project in Cow Hollow. As I reviewed the final production schedules and went over the punch list with the project foreman, my mind kept going back to Isadora. And Gregory, and the audience made up of ghosts. And the usher. And Hildy with the bloody knife . . .

  I spent a few minutes reassuring the home’s owners—a nice couple who had saved for nearly twenty years to be able to afford a house in this city—that all was going well, not to worry. Then I drove to the Crockett Theatre, parked, and ducked into a nearby donut shop for coffee and donuts. As I walked around the theater to the alley closed off by the cyclone fence, I glanced at the rear actors’ entrance, which was now crisscrossed with yellow crime scene tape.

/>   Another walk-through was probably best done with Homicide Inspector Annette Crawford’s permission. And I wasn’t likely to get that anytime soon.

  Just as I approached the locked gate in the fence, Skeet emerged from the trailer.

  “Hey, Skeet, good morning,” I said, raising my chin in greeting. “You’re here again. Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “Hey,” he said, then shook his head and let out a long sigh. His dark eyes searched me, worried. “You okay?”

  I nodded and held up the coffees and a white paper bag. “I brought us coffees and donuts. A nutritious lunch.”

  “That’s nice of you. Thanks,” Skeet said as he opened the gate and accepted the cardboard cup of java. “Want to come into the office a minute?”

  “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  We walked down the alley and climbed into the trailer.

  “I can’t believe what happened yesterday,” Skeet said as he took his seat at the desk and added two packets of sugar to his coffee. Stirring thoughtfully, he continued: “I mean, I’m a ‘security guard’—I always thought that meant making sure nothing burned down or whatever, not . . .”

  Murder. “It’s a little hard to take in, yes.”

  “Mmm,” he said as he peeked into the bakery bag. “Old-fashioneds, my favorite. How about you?” He held out the bag, and I chose a maple bar.

  We sat in silence for a moment, sipping coffee and relishing our donuts.

  “Here’s what I really don’t get,” Skeet said. “Isadora seemed like a real nice person. I mean, I didn’t know her well, but—Thing is, I’m no spring chicken, Mel. I’ve been around the block of few times, and I’ve met lots of people. Some good, some bad, some really bad. Isadora struck me as one of the good ones. Why would someone have wanted her dead?”

  “I was wondering that myself. Did she have any enemies that you knew of? Any tension with others in the squatters group?”

  “I went over all this with the police yesterday,” Skeet said, shaking his head. His eyes were shaded with sadness, and I remember how fondly he had spoken of the squatters yesterday. It had struck me as odd at the time, but sitting by himself in that portable guardhouse all day, every day, he had probably gotten to know some of them and enjoyed their company.

  “I know,” I said. “I’m just trying to see if I can help.”

  “How?”

  “Just in case I hear or see something, or whatever . . .” I trailed off. Best not to be too specific. In case the murder has something to do with the ghosts wasn’t a statement most people could handle.

  Skeet helped himself to another donut, and so did I, even though I knew I shouldn’t. All kidding aside, this wasn’t doing me any favors, and I had upcoming wedding photographs to think about.

  Still. Donuts.

  “I had spoken to Isadora earlier in the day. Right before you and Mr. Thibodeaux arrived, as a matter of fact. She said she had something she wanted to tell me. She seemed kind of excited about it.”

  “Any idea what it was about?”

  He shook his head. “We were both real theater buffs, you know? So I guess she found something in the theater, maybe? Dunno. I guess I’ll never know.”

  Could it have been something valuable enough to kill over?

  “Why was the original contractor fired?” I asked. “Do you know?”

  “Failure to obtain the objective, I think it was.”

  “Can you tell me who it was?”

  “I’m sorry. I signed a nondisclosure agreement when I was hired. The Xerxes Group requires it.”

  Did it, now? I hadn’t signed one. I made a mental note to ask Stan about that.

  “So . . . tell me more about Isadora,” I urged.

  “I really don’t know much about her,” Skeet said. “I mean, we chatted a few times, but we weren’t what I would call friends. She was a character, though. I can tell you that. Well, you met her. A hard woman to forget.”

  “She did make an impression. I noticed she seemed to be on good terms with the other squatters, at least from what I could see. Was that your impression, too?”

  He nodded. “As far as I knew, she was popular. Maybe too popular—at one point, she had a couple of different boyfriends . . . I couldn’t keep up.”

  “Are the other squatters around? I’d like to talk to them.”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. All I do during my rounds is walk through the theater and stop at a few checkpoints. Then I come back and log it in this journal, here.” He patted a bound book on his desk. “But the inspector asked me not to go on my rounds for the moment. Normally, though, lots of times I don’t see anybody at all. They have a way of disappearing, then coming back. Like I said, I don’t even know how they get in and out of the building. The police weren’t able to speak with most of them about what happened, which was pretty frustrating.”

  “Were you friendly with any of the other squatters? Or did you see anything else unusual on your rounds?”

  He hesitated.

  “Skeet?”

  “The only thing—I told the police this already. I saw Isadora arguing with her brother. A few times.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “The way I heard it, they’re part of the Sepety family, from LA.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You never saw that reality show, The Sepetys? You know, with the . . .” He made a curvy sign with his hands, sketching an hourglass figure. “The sexy women buying clothes and all that?”

  “I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

  “There’s some good shows on these days.”

  “Oh, I know. I hear about them, but I get up early so I usually fall asleep in front of anything I’m watching.”

  He smiled. “Anyway, that’s Isadora’s family. Their dad was already superrich from producing movies and TV shows, and now they’re even richer.”

  “If Isadora was so rich, then why was she squatting in a run-down theater?”

  “I think she was disinherited or something. She wasn’t involved in the TV show. That much I do know.”

  “Did she ever talk to you about it?”

  “I asked her about the show once, and she rolled her eyes and called it ‘pure dreck.’ Said she didn’t want to be associated with it, or with her family, which was why she always just went by Isadora, didn’t mention the Sepety part.”

  “But she was close to her brother?”

  Skeet shifted in his seat and looked away, and I got the impression he didn’t much care for Isadora’s brother. “That guy. He was always sneaking around. Seemed like a punk, you ask me. Pushy, too. He and Isadora didn’t seem to like each other very much.”

  “I take it he wasn’t on the show either?”

  He shook his head. “It’s just the girls. It’s that kind of show, I guess. I think that’s probably why the brother proposed his new idea.”

  “What new idea?”

  “The reality show.”

  I was confused. “What reality show?”

  “A reality show based on this place.”

  “You mean, a show about the squatters and the theater?”

  “That’s the way I heard it. I told all this to the cops,” Skeet said, giving me the side-eye. “But they weren’t as interested as you.”

  Probably because it was just gossip, I thought. On the other hand . . .

  “What’s the brother’s name?”

  He snorted. “Get this: Ringo. Like the drummer in the Beatles?”

  “Yes, him I’ve heard of.”

  “I think he’s a friend of Alyx’s, too.”

  Ringo Sepety. If that was his real name, he ought to be easy enough to track down.

  “Hey, who was that man you were talking to yesterday when Gregory and I first arrived?” I asked.

  “Who?
”

  “Middle-aged white guy, balding . . . ?”

  Skeet shook his head. “Don’t recall. Prob’ly someone from the neighborhood asking how long the reno was going to take. That’s usually who stops to chat. Though if he had an ax to grind, he might be one of those preservationists.”

  “I got the sense he knew Gregory Thibodeaux, but they didn’t like each other.”

  Skeet’s cell phone rang. He checked the screen and said: “I have to take this. I really gotta get back to work anyway. ’Scuse me.”

  I was dismissed.

  “Of course,” I said as I got up and dusted off a few donut crumbs from my lap. “Thank you for your time.”

  I left the security trailer and walked toward the street, pausing at the temporary cyclone fence to gaze at the decrepit old building and the octagonal old ticket kiosk out front. This place really must have been something, back in the day, bustling with vaudevillian actors, beckoning to all and sundry to come spend their Friday paycheck on an evening of glitz and glamour.

  Except what was with those ghosts with their vacant expressions?

  Had the appearance of the ghostly audience, followed by the rising of the Wurlitzer organ, been some sort of warning? Or a repeat of the violence that had already happened? Alyx had told me to “wait for it,” as though the ghostly sounds of the audience—which he and Gregory Thibodeaux were both able to hear—had occurred before, and usually preceded the appearance of the Wurlitzer.

  But Alyx certainly hadn’t expected to see Isadora’s body draped over the organ.

  Duh. I had written down Alyx’s cell number, along with those of a few other squatters. I punched in his number, but the call went immediately to voice mail. I tried the others, with the same results. I left a message for each.

  “They’ve gone to ground,” said Skeet, startling me.

  “I’m sorry?” I said as I turned to face him.

  “It’s a survival strategy,” he said. “These kids, something like this happens, they go to ground. Turn off their phones, disappear. Haven’t seen them since this happened.”