“That’s nice of you.”
“I’m not entirely unselfish,” he said. “It’s like having a wacky grandma who worked in old Hollywood and knew everyone. She’s walking history. I like to think of myself as an amateur filmmaker of sorts; I love old films. Old things in general.”
“I’m a fan of old things myself. There are a few of us around, I guess.”
“So you’re in charge of the renovation now, huh?” Baldwin asked. At my nod, he continued. “Interested in seeing old photographs of the theater?”
“I’d love to.” The file supplied by the Xerxes Group had included some old photos, but I would take all I could get. Photographs of a historic building were a boon to renovators. Physical descriptions were better than nothing, but only a photograph could offer the kind of detailed information about the particulars of interior and exterior designs that I needed to do my best work.
Baldwin pulled an iPad from his backpack and started scrolling through photos that, he explained, he had scanned and uploaded. “I run a Facebook group for the Crockett Caretakers. Our page includes historical photos and updates on the theater’s progress. You’re welcome to join and see what we have there.”
“Very impressive,” I said. I wondered why Gregory hadn’t mentioned it; this could be a resource.
Baldwin flipped past a map, and I stopped him. “Is that a floor plan of the theater?”
“It is, yes. Since you’re doing the renovation you probably have the original blueprints, but as I’m sure you know, buildings don’t always conform to the original plans. Walls are moved, bathrooms are added, that sort of thing, as needs change.”
“What’s the date on it?”
“From the 1950s, I think. It’s accessible online as well.”
“This is really great information, Baldwin.”
He beamed. “Thank you. It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it. So, if it’s official, I’ll post that Turner Construction is taking over the renovation of the Crockett?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
“Bald-win,” Coco called from the kitchen, “would you be a dear and come open this jar for me?”
While Baldwin assisted our hostess, I took advantage of her hospitality and looked around. Even before I was in the trades, I had adored exploring houses, especially elegant historic ones like this. It wasn’t just the beauty of the lines or the craftsmanship of the details, the ceiling borders, or the carved lintels. I imagined myself in every home I entered, picturing in my mind the different sort of life I would have lived if this were my home.
My Realtor friend, Brittany, once said I would have been a nightmare client because of that tendency—also because I would have flatly refused to enter any I deemed lacking character.
The walls in Coco’s apartments were decorated with numerous framed playbills interspersed with artworks from all over the world.
“These are nice,” I said, noting a dented corbel, a small carved cupid, and a chipped finial sitting on a shelf.
“Salvage,” Coco said, coming up behind me with two steaming mugs in her hands. “Earl Grey. Mel, do you care for sugar, or honey, or lemon, or cream?”
“No, thank you. This is perfect.” I took the tea and blew on it. “So, you salvaged these pieces?”
She nodded. “A couple of decades ago, they started tearing down many of the old buildings in the city. Even plain-looking apartment buildings often had these decorations, little bits and pieces to lift them above the plebeian.”
I nodded. “I can see why you became involved with the preservation of the Crockett.”
Coco smiled and without warning burst out into a rendition of “Memory,” from the musical Cats. Her voice wasn’t bad, but she had clearly been trained in projecting to the cheap seats, and sang very loudly. I wanted to back away but thought that would be rude, so I just stood there, sipping my tea and smiling.
I glanced at Baldwin, who was watching Coco and beaming.
“Let your memory lead you . . . If you find there the meaning of what happiness is, then a new life will begin!”
Coco clasped her hands under her chin. “‘I was beautiful then,’ so goes the song. And I was.”
“You were indeed,” I said, looking at a framed glamour photo of Coco taken when she must have been in her twenties. “And you still are.”
“I second that opinion,” said Baldwin. “Most heartily.”
“Oh, pshaw,” Coco said, waving us off. “I was a dancer, really. Never terribly successful at singing or acting, though I tried.”
I pointed to a framed photograph of Isadora Duncan, the renowned dancer from the early 1900s, that was perched on a table next to the sofa. In the photo, Duncan held her head so high she was looking down her nose at the camera.
“Is Isadora Duncan your hero?” I asked.
“I suppose so. Whether people realize it or not, she’s probably a hero to any modern dancer. Much like Martha Graham, but so much earlier.”
“All I really know about Duncan is her manner of death, I’m sorry to say.”
“Ah yes, such a tragedy. Her long scarf got tangled in the wheel of the car she was riding in. She was yanked clear out of the car and her neck broke, just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Very dramatic, very memorable.”
The way Coco said this made me wonder if she, too, aspired to an equally dramatic, memorable death.
“But she is worth remembering for much more than her manner of death,” Coco continued. “She was a revolutionary artist, a dancer who broke the rules of conventional ballet. She was also proudly bisexual and a communist, at a time when it was scandalous to be either, much less both.”
“I didn’t know that. Fascinating.”
“Isadora Duncan grew up in Oakland, did you know?” added Coco. “Gertrude Stein said of her, after her death: ‘Affectations can be dangerous.’”
“Is that right? I saw that phrase in the Crockett Theatre, written on a wall in the ladies’ lounge. What does it refer to?”
“I suppose Stein meant that those putting on airs would rue the day, in the end . . . I don’t know exactly, to be honest. Perhaps it was simply that we shouldn’t wear long scarves, at least not while riding in convertibles.”
“Gertrude Stein was also from Oakland,” Baldwin mentioned. “The East Bay must have been a happening place back in the day.”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “I recently learned that Niles Canyon was the original Hollywood of California, in the days of the early silent films.”
“Oh my, yes. Licorice?” Coco held out a plate of candies. “I’ll warn you, though, it’s black, from Holland. Very strong, and rather salty, actually.”
“Oh no, thank you. Don’t want to spoil the tea,” I said. “I’m more a Red Vines girl myself.”
“I’ll have one,” said Baldwin, taking several.
“So few of us like the classics anymore,” Coco said with a sigh. “But speaking of Niles Canyon, the Crockett Theatre was built by one of the partners in the Essanay film company. The Delucci brothers made a fortune producing the early movies.”
“Not a lot of overhead in those days,” said Baldwin, chewing his candy. “They didn’t blow up cars or require digital effects.”
“No, indeed.” A hard glint came into Coco’s eyes. “Things have certainly changed from my era. Back in the day, you needed actual talent to be onstage or -screen. Nowadays it’s all reality TV, as though anyone cares.”
“Are you referring to the Sepety sisters?” I asked.
“The who?” Coco asked.
“It’s a reality show,” said Baldwin. “I can’t imagine you’ve seen it, Coco. Not worth your time.”
“I don’t even own a television set!” she said, as though delighted to share the news. “Anyway, so long as the Space Campus headquarters isn’t replacing the theater, I’m happy.”
“The what, now?” I asked, looking from Coco to Baldwin.
“It was one of the ideas floated after the parking lot idea was squashed,” said Baldwin. “Some stinking-rich guy wants to build himself a rocket, and tried to buy the whole block the Crockett sits on to build his global headquarters. Offered the city a hell of a lot of money for the land and buildings, but refused to disclose what his plans were.”
“A rocket, like to go to the moon?” I asked.
“To the moon and back, I suppose. Maybe even to Mars one day. Space tourism, it’s a pretty trendy subject.”
I had enough trouble reminding myself to remain connected to this Earth, much less taking on other planets. But to each their own—which was especially true when it came to the extremely wealthy.
“A space rocket, can you even imagine?” asked Coco. “Why, it would destroy the entire feel of the neighborhood.”
Chapter Thirteen
I thanked Coco and Baldwin for the tea and company, and girded my loins to finally join the traffic crowding the Bay Bridge. I headed for Oakland, dinner, dog, and family.
At the home office I received notice from Gregory Thibodeaux that he had been released from the hospital, and that the Xerxes Group was ready to move ahead as soon as the crime scene was released by the police.
Stan had been going through the photographs I had downloaded, comparing them with the former ones the consortium had provided us with for the original bid, starting to work up categories of supplies and specialty items. While we had worked on a lot of highly decorated San Francisco Victorians, Turner Construction had never renovated a theater. We needed to replace stage lighting, for instance, and hire a specialist to assess the Mighty Wurlitzer. I doubted the fabrics could be repaired, which meant finding someone capable of reproducing the massive stage curtain. And of course an enormous movie screen. I started putting out feelers for theater-equipment vendors, and unlike Josh Avery, I wasn’t going to hesitate lining up my favorite decorative painters and craftspeople. The best were in demand, and I wanted to get on their radar.
I noticed orbs in all the photos I had taken. Little shining lights, just about everywhere. It was possible I was just a terrible photographer, but given what I had seen and heard at the Crockett, I thought there was more to the story.
I studied the photo I had taken in the ladies’ lounge. It showed the wallpaper hanging down in a strip from the wall, and the phrase “Affectations can be dangerous” written on the plaster, surrounded by paisley designs. Probably it just referred to Isadora’s name, and her namesake, Isadora Duncan. Was Duncan Isadora’s personal modern-dance hero?
And could it have anything to do with Isadora’s untimely death?
* * *
* * *
In bed that night, I read another few passages from my mother’s journal while Landon was brushing his teeth and showering.
She wrote up a list for dealing with spirits:
Always remain calm. Fear agitates and inspires (note to self: work on this)
Many simply enjoy harassing the living and causing mischief; they are like children that way. Don’t give in. Let them know you’re in charge (is that what was happening at the theater? Childish ghostly antics?)
Just like humans, some are decent, but others should be avoided.
Try, always, to come from a place of empathy. Some want something from you, but not all. Some spirits merely want to be left alone. Much like living people.
I think of it like being underwater: It’s strange, and scary, but the calmer you are, the longer your breath lasts. Let the water buoy you.
Landon came to join me, smelling of soap and toothpaste, looking good enough to eat. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, but I had to tell him about Hildy.
“So, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something,” I began as he climbed into bed. “Do you remember when we were at our house yesterday morning?—”
“Turner Arms?”
I smiled. “Demetrius Abbey, maybe? Anyway. Remember how Mateo mentioned a closet in the attic that had been sealed shut?”
“Ah yes. I forgot to ask: What did you find inside?”
“Some great old dresses.”
“Like the one you brought home yesterday?”
“Exactly.”
“Can’t wait to see it on you.”
“Yes, I, um . . . About that . . .”
“Are you trying to tell me something?” He scooched down farther on the pillows, leaned on his elbow, and cupped his head in his hand. His voice took on a gentle, lightly teasing tone: “Might that be your proposed wedding dress, Ms. Melanie Turner? Are you ready to set the date?”
“What? No. Of course not. I mean, I don’t think so. It’s not that. It’s . . .”
His smile was replaced by a wary look. “What are you trying to say, Mel? Do you think the house is a mistake? I know it was rather impulsive of me, buying the old thing.”
“It’s nothing like that. I adore the house, Landon. Really I do. I’m so excited about it. It’s just that . . . Well, this is hard to put into words.”
“Try.”
“I found something else in the closet, besides the dresses.”
“Something else?”
“Someone else.”
There was a long pause.
“Another ghost?”
I nodded.
“And that same day, you went to the Crockett Theatre and found ghosts there as well? And a dead woman, on top of that?”
“It was something of a banner day.”
“My poor Mel,” he said softly, reaching out a hand to smooth my hair. “You doing okay?”
I nodded. “So far anyway.”
“So, who is our attic ghost?”
“A woman named Hildy Hildecott. I think she may have been an actress in very early films . . .”
“Which is why you were asking about Niles Canyon.”
“Exactly.”
“How did she die?”
I hesitated. “I don’t know. She didn’t seem malevolent or anything—quite the opposite, in fact. But . . .”
“But?”
“When I tried on the dress she gave me, I had a vision. As though I were Hildy.”
“That’s disturbing.”
“I haven’t even gotten to the really disturbing part.”
“Continue.”
“In the vision I was holding a big knife. And it was dripping blood.”
There was another long pause.
“Come here,” Landon said softly, pulling me into his embrace. Then he lifted his head and looked into my eyes. “I thought you were a little on edge. Are you sure you’re handling it okay? How can I help? I’d like to go with you next time you’re expecting to encounter spirits, and killers, for that matter. I know I can’t speak to ghosts, but I want to be your backup.”
I smiled, thinking of how lucky I was. “I can’t think of anything for you to do at the moment, but do you have any idea how much I appreciate the offer?”
He gave me a squeeze. “I waited a lifetime for you, Mel. For us. I’m not about to give that up because of ghosts and murderers and the like. Next time you set foot in any of those haunted structures, I’d like to be at your side.”
I kissed him, and he kissed me, and there was no more talk of ghosts. Or murderers, for that matter.
* * *
* * *
The next morning, what I really wanted to do was to play hooky from work and stop by the new house for a little chat with one Hildy Hildecott. Or go check out the film museum at Niles Canyon, to try to figure out what roles she had played in the early industry, on- and off-screen. Or go back to the Crockett and figure out how to break in to find out what those ghosts wanted, if anything, and whether they’d had anything to do with what happened to Isadora. But ghosts an
d murderers (and possibly ghostly murderers) be damned, I still had a job to do. Time and tide and construction deadlines wait for no man, my father always said, though he added or woman when I took over the business.
And so, well caffeinated and wielding my coveralls, steel-toed boots, and toolbox, I headed back over the bridge and across much of San Francisco to a gracious neighborhood called St. Francis Wood.
This was a beautiful section of the city, an early planned community from the 1920s with gracefully winding streets and sylvan, clipped gardens.
Here Turner Construction had done a sequential remodel: We started in the kitchen; then the homeowners decided the kids’ rooms needed sprucing up, and after that, the dad wanted his shed overhauled, and later the mom wanted the attic transformed into a combined yoga-meditation room. This kind of domino effect was common in my line of work: Once a homeowner likes your work and realizes she can trust you, she remembers all the other things on her wish list. And once a relationship was established, and the client proved to be prompt in paying the bill, it was hard to say no—despite whatever other construction commitments we might have.
A few weeks ago, the homeowners watched some kind of home-makeover reality show and decided they had to have a gray-water system, which was environmentally wise but tricky to install in a city like San Francisco, with its stringent building codes. Our elaborate filtering system involved cascading household runoff into a series of ponds with filtering plants and fish, which then would be used to water the garden.
It was a pretty cool design, but a giant pain in my you-know-what.
Turner Construction wasn’t officially a “green” builder, but even before it became fashionable, my dad had incorporated recycling and passive-solar techniques into his renovations as much as possible. I shared that commitment, and because of my love for all things ancient, I also saved everything I could from a renovation, from old brass drawer pulls to the drawers themselves.
And ultimately, saving old structures, instead of razing them and starting over, was the greenest building technique there was.
The Last Curtain Call Page 14
