“Why?”
“I have no idea, and my contact at the permit office didn’t understand it either. I figured out the previous contractor was Avery Builders, and when I spoke with Josh Avery yesterday, he wasn’t sure what was going on. According to Josh, his crew was on schedule when all of a sudden he got a check and was told not to bother showing up again. Josh said he got the impression that the Xerxes Group wasn’t all that interested in finishing the job.”
“Huh.” Annette didn’t sound especially interested, but she jotted down a few notes in a small notebook she had pulled from her pocket.
“Also, what do you know about the Delucci death?” I asked.
“Who are you talking about now?”
“Calvin Delucci was the former owner of the Crockett Theatre. He conveniently died of a heart attack that rumors suggest may not have been a heart attack.”
“‘Rumors suggest,’ huh? And what would that have to do with my body?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe more.”
“I swear, Mel,” she said, jotting “Calvin Delucci” in her notebook, then fixing me with a look as we sipped our miso soup. “I can’t tell if you’re a crime-busting savant or just paranoid.”
“Maybe a bit of both?”
“I thought you brought me here to talk about ghosts.”
“Why would I do that?”
She shrugged.
“So, when can I get back into the theater to start work?” I asked. “I don’t have to tell you that this will be a pretty big job.”
“I plan on releasing the scene by Monday, provided the medical examiner doesn’t find anything more.”
Trays of sushi and sashimi were set in front of us, and the server explained each piece of omakase. Annette thanked her but studied the food silently, her expression troubled.
“Annette? You okay? There’s no whale blubber, is there? ’Cause there’s a burger place around the corner. We could slip out the back.”
“It’s not that,” Annette said quietly. “In the movies and television, it looks easy.”
“What does?”
“Strangling someone to death. In reality, it requires a lot of strength and takes much longer than most people realize. Standing right up close to the victim, watching them struggle for breath, seeing their panic and pain . . . that takes a pretty cold heart, if you ask me.”
I played with mixing wasabi into my little dish of soy sauce, sobered by her words. “So we’re looking for someone strong enough, and ruthless enough, to have strangled Isadora.”
“No, ‘we’ are not looking for anyone,” insisted Annette as she skillfully manipulated the chopsticks to pick up a piece of sushi, the orange of the fish contrasting beautifully with the white of the rice, all wrapped up like a little present with seaweed for the ribbon. “Remember? You are working on a remodel, whereas I, the trained police professional, am looking for a killer.”
“But maybe I can help,” I said as I struggled to work my chopsticks. I could manipulate one at a time, but not both together, and wondered how embarrassing it would be to ask for a fork. “Sometimes the spirits have something to say to me, some kind of clue.”
“I thought you told me that the murder victims can’t remember what happened to them, and therefore can’t tell you who killed them.”
“That’s true. They can’t. At least, I haven’t yet met a spirit that could. But they often do remember parts of their lives before the murder, so if someone had been threatening her, or something like that, Isadora might be able to put me on the right track.”
“You really think she could tell you . . . ?” Annette trailed off and shook her head, as though warding off a spell. “Wait a minute. We’re talking about a ghost here. How would I begin to explain to my lieutenant that my confidential informant was not of this world?”
“You don’t have to explain it, once you find the killer. You can work backwards, say you had a hunch. Or I could be your informant. They get paid, right?”
Annette laughed out loud. “Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”
Another tray of beautifully prepared and artfully arranged food arrived. I had sort of gotten the hang of the chopsticks, and we dug in for real, savoring the salty soy sauce, the spicy wasabi horseradish, the buttery fish. Annette asked about my father, whom she had met at the scene of another homicide that now seemed like a very long time ago. We chatted about my new house—MelLand House? Landon’s Walk?—and my reluctance to set a date for the wedding, and she told me a little about having been engaged once herself. But, she said, they had parted ways. Last she heard he worked security as a special agent with the US Secret Service, which was probably also not as cool as it sounds.
“Speaking of security, what’s Skeet’s story?” I asked.
“He passed a standard background check. Why?”
“He seemed so friendly and easygoing at first, but then he seemed to change. Asked me to leave the premises, didn’t even want me standing on the sidewalk in front of the theater.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“I know, I know,” I said. “Not everyone finds me as charming as you do. But he was perfectly friendly yesterday until he got a phone call, and then all of a sudden he wanted me gone ASAP.”
“You think the phone call was about you?”
“Could be. In any event, my presence was no longer welcome.”
“Didn’t you tell me Skeet mentioned Isadora had something she wanted to tell him or show him? Ever find out what that was?”
I shook my head. The server refilled our teacups, whisked our trays away, and asked if we wanted anything else. Stuffed with fish and rice, we asked for the check.
Annette leaned back in her chair and let out a long breath.
“Here’s something that’s been bothering me,” she said, flipping through her notebook and reading an entry. “You said you ‘saw’ Isadora dancing onstage before finding her body.”
“Yes.”
“And the spotlight was following her around on the stage.”
“That’s right.”
“So who was directing the spotlight?”
I hadn’t thought about that. “Good question.”
“Is that something spirits could manipulate?” Annette looked uncomfortable asking me this, but soldiered on. “Is it possible that her energy somehow conjured it? Or are we talking human intervention of some kind? What do you think?”
“I think I have no idea how to answer those really quite excellent questions.”
“You know, when it comes to ghosts you’re not as helpful as one might hope.”
“I could have told you that,” I said, smiling. “I have an idea. Let’s go check out the theater.”
“You and I?”
I nodded.
“Now?”
I nodded again.
“Why do I feel I have allowed myself to be lured into a trap? Is this what this dinner is all about?”
“You really think I’m that Machiavellian? Annette, I know investigating a murder is a job for the SFPD. But I met Isadora shortly before she was killed. I was in the theater when she died. I feel like I’m part of this, somehow, that I need to help figure it out, if I can. At least with the ghost aspect.”
She nodded slowly. “I get it.”
“So I was thinking . . . it’s usually easier for spirits to materialize at night. There’s less energy for them to fight or something like that. Olivier Galopin could explain it better. Anyway, I just happen to have my ghost-busting equipment in the car. What do you say we go chat up some ghosts?”
Landon had wanted to come with me the next time I entered the ghostly halls of the Crockett Theatre, but having a homicide inspector as backup should appease him. She carried a gun, after all. It wouldn’t be any use against a ghost, but it would stop a murderer.
“That idea makes me nervous,” said Annette.
“I don’t have to tell you that we’re dealing with the untimely, violent death of a young woman.”
“No, you don’t have to remind me of that.” She took a swig of her green tea. I wondered if she wished it were sake.
“Maybe Isadora herself will appear and tell us something.”
“Tell you something. Personally, I’ll be watching your back.”
“Is that a yes?”
Her lips pursed together as though she were highly displeased. But she gave a firm nod.
“Dinner’s on you, right?” she asked, handing me the bill.
“Right.”
“Then pay the tab, and let’s get going before I come to my senses and change my mind.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was only eight thirty in the evening, but the neighborhood looked like a ghost town.
The businesses that shared the block with the Crockett Theatre—the jewelry store, the tattoo parlor, the donut shop, the taquerías—were shut up tight for the night. Even the trendy diner across the street had long since closed its doors to customers. San Francisco wasn’t a twenty-four-hour city like New York, and many restaurants didn’t serve past nine.
Annette and I stood in front of the theater and gazed up at its majestic façade. The building loomed huge and ominous before us, shadowy against the city-lit sky.
The colorful marquee lights flickered on for a moment, then went dark again.
Our eyes locked.
“Maybe it’s saying hello?” I said.
Annette grunted. She was not enjoying this.
We went around to the side. The gate in the cyclone fence was locked, so Annette pressed a button to summon the security guard. The thin, pale young man who emerged from the trailer could well have passed for one of the squatters. His hair was tousled, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if we had caught him napping. The name on his badge read thad.
“Dude, this is a closed—” Thad began, squinting at us nearsightedly.
“Police,” Annette said, flashing her gold badge. “Open up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he hurried over to unlock the gate. “Sorry, Inspector. I didn’t expect to see anyone tonight.”
“No problem, Thad. Thanks for letting us in. Long hours for you today, huh?”
He smiled and scratched at a nonexistent beard. “Skeet worked a double yesterday, so I volunteered to take his shift tonight. Have to study for a midterm anyway.”
“Good luck with that,” said Annette as we passed through the gate to the alley behind the theater. “By the way, did you turn on the electricity a few moments ago?”
He looked confused and shook his head. “What? No. I turn it on when I’m doing my rounds, but you told us to stay out of the building, so I’m just sitting out here in the trailer. Studying.”
She nodded and consulted her notebook. “I have reports of a ‘balding, middle-aged white guy’ who stopped by here the day of the murder. What can you tell me about that?”
“Um . . . nothing? I mean, there are a lot of balding, middle-aged white guys. Can you be more specific? I haven’t been threatened by anyone, if that’s what you mean.”
“Let me see the security logs,” Annette said.
“That’s Skeet’s thing. We just check in using an app on our phone; he’s the one with the journal. I think it’s, like, private.”
“Okay. Thad, this is Mel Turner. She’s with me. We’re going to do a quick walk-through of the place.”
“You can’t.” He gulped and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his long neck. “I mean, there’s crime scene tape up.”
“And it just so happens that I have the special weapon to defeat the crime scene tape.” Annette held up a small jackknife.
“But . . . I thought no one was supposed to go in there. Not even me.”
“That’s right. You’re not,” Annette said as she walked over to the nondescript door and cut the tape. “But I was the one who gave that order, remember? We won’t be a moment.”
I thought we might be more than a moment, but kept my mouth shut.
“Yes, ma’am,” Thad said, and returned to the trailer.
“Give me just a second,” I said as Annette started to open the theater door. I stroked the ring at my neck and tried not to feel awkward because Annette was watching. I did my body scan to prepare, reminding myself that I was in the land of the living. My feet were connected to the concrete, which was laid upon the soil, which connected to bedrock, all the way to the core of the Earth. After a moment I let out a long breath.
“Are you quite finished?” Annette said. “Make me wait much longer and I’m going to change my mind.”
“Okay, ready,” I said.
Annette shone her flashlight beam on the electrical panel and flipped the main switch, and we walked in. The dim, unadorned lights of the pink corridor gleamed their anemic Pepto-Bismol glow. I followed her down the hallway toward the door to the lobby.
She opened it, and we stepped into the spectacular but tattered lobby of the haunted Crockett Theatre.
Entering a building after I had seen ghosts and found a body was always disconcerting, even with a homicide inspector as backup. So I tried to do as my mentor Olivier always coached me: not to anticipate what I might see, hear, and feel, but to be open to anything. The Zen approach to ghost busting.
And, rather like Zen meditation, communing with ghosts was a lot easier said than done.
The lobby was as breathtaking as ever, despite the cobwebs and grime, or perhaps in part because of them. There was something eerie yet romantic about an abandoned building. Although this one wasn’t exactly abandoned, I reminded myself. I wondered whether the squatters were still here, and whether we would run across any during our after-hours visit.
“Why did I let you talk me into this?” Annette whispered. “This place gives me the heebie-jeebies. What are you writing down?”
“Just a note to myself to check on the wiring of those chandeliers. Notice how they keep dimming? Not good.”
“I thought we were here to look for ghosts,” Annette said with a raised eyebrow. “Not to make to-do lists.”
“Professional weakness,” I said, feeling a bit sheepish as I slipped my notebook back in my pocket. “Sorry.”
We walked around the big lobby, checking out nooks and crannies, the concession stand, and the alcoves.
“This place is as spooky as you-know-what,” Annette whispered.
“The whispering isn’t helping,” I said, snapping photos with the special night-vision thermal camera. I fiddled with the EVP recorder and made sure it was on, in case it might pick up the sound of voices from beyond the veil. I hadn’t had much luck with this ghost-busting equipment so far, but one could never tell. Besides, it gave me something to do other than wander around, hoping something or someone would materialize.
“Can’t help it,” Annette whispered. “It’s like a cross between a mortuary and a church in here. So what are we looking for?”
“Ghosts. And a murderer.”
“Is that all?”
“I like to cast a wide net.”
“Great.”
“Actually, what I’d really like to do is see if I can contact Isadora’s spirit directly. I’m hoping she might remember something that could provide us with a clue, like if someone had been threatening her or what she wanted to show Skeet.”
“Too bad she can’t just tell you who murdered her.”
“Would that it were so easy. In my experience, the ghosts don’t remember the pain and trauma of their deaths, which is good. But at the same time, they don’t always realize they’re dead. Which can be . . . awkward.”
“And I thought informing a murder victim’s next of kin was difficult,” Annette said. “I can’t imagine informin
g the murder victim that they died.”
“Welcome to my world.”
I mounted the first flight of stairs to the landing at the mezzanine level, still taking pictures and checking my equipment. Alyx’s things were no longer here, and I wondered if he had moved out.
The building carried the mingled scents of dust and mildew, the aroma of abandonment. I realized I didn’t smell popcorn or hear anything from a jeering audience. Despite trying not to anticipate what I might see, I couldn’t help but steel myself against Harold the phantom usher, who had kept demanding my ticket stub and trying to shoo me into a seat.
“Hello?” I asked in a loud, clear voice. “Anybody here to help me to my seat?”
Annette looked around at the empty theater. “Are you seeing something right now?”
“No, nothing, as a matter of fact.” Still, the needle on my electromagnetic field reader was stuck in the red zone. “But the EMF gizmo is registering energy off the charts.”
“Which means what, exactly?” Skepticism and uneasiness were sketched on Annette’s strong face.
“I hate to have to tell you this, Annette, but I don’t actually know what I’m doing. Usually I stumble around for a while until things start to fall into place or someone tries to kill me to shut me up.”
“How very reassuring,” Annette muttered. “So glad I let you talk me into this.”
“Hey, I’m still alive, aren’t I? My method works. It’s just not something I can predict.” The EMF reader was still registering an overload of otherworldly vibrations. I studied the heavy velvet drapes that hung over the niches in the mezzanine, looking for someone lurking, and searched the corners of my eyes for signs of spectral movement.
Nothing.
I glared at the EMF machine, remembering why I’d never been overly impressed with the gadget. The EMF reader sometimes picked up problems with wiring, or energy bouncing off pipes and other metal objects in the “energy box” common in places such as basements. Speaking of basements . . . I thought about the watery caverns Trish had said were underneath this theater. Could the water really serve as a sort of ghostly superhighway? Should I check it out?
The Last Curtain Call Page 17
