The Last Curtain Call

by Juliet Blackwell

  “And that, my friend,” I said to Dog, “is the power of dog lovers.”

  I grabbed a quick bagel sandwich for lunch in Montclair’s shopping district, then drove slowly along the twisty roads that snaked through the hills. There were no bike lanes here, not that this stopped ambitious bicyclists who wanted to train on the challenging hills while imagining themselves competing in the Tour de France. In fact, there were also no sidewalks, and very little parking other than the dirt shoulder on the side of the road, which dropped off steeply to the hillside below. I spotted Lorraine’s address on a wooden sign tacked to a redwood tree, and squeaked into a spot behind a car in the driveway.

  An American flag and a stars-and-stripes wind sock blew in the soft breeze. Bunting decorated the front of the house, which was deceptively simple. Built in the 1970s, it was the sort of place that would have sold to a middle-class family in other parts of the country. But in the Bay Area, given the view of San Francisco beyond the bay, this home was probably valued in the millions.

  I was surprised when Lorraine Delucci opened the door. For some reason I’d expected a little old lady, white haired and frail. In reality, Lorraine was of medium height and heavyset, with a rather garish shock of obviously dyed red hair framing a pleasant seventysomething face. When she saw Dog in the car, she urged me to bring him in.

  “I have a Chihuahua named Lulu. I’m sure they’ll get along!”

  I brought Dog in, and after greeting Lorraine enthusiastically, he and Lulu sniffed each other, tails wagging. Tiny Lulu seemed unimpressed by his size, and Dog appeared thrilled to find a canine playmate.

  “There you go!” Lorraine said, ushering me in and offering me coffee. “Dogs are so genuine, aren’t they? They either like someone or they don’t.”

  “Indeed. I appreciate your speaking with me,” I said as I took a seat in a comfortable sunken living room with a multimillion-dollar view shining through large plate-glass windows. “What a gorgeous view. Perfect for watching the fireworks, I’ll bet.”

  “They’re predicting fog, as usual,” she said with a smile as she handed me a mug of weak but fragrant coffee. She let out a sigh. “Frankly, I never really cared about the view. That was all my husband, Cal. He liked that sort of thing. I would have preferred to be able to walk somewhere myself. But now that I don’t get around as well, I suppose it’s nice to have the view. I was never one for watching television, so I enjoy watching life unfold out there, in the world beyond.”

  The remoteness of these residences in the Oakland hills always gave me pause. The views were indeed stunning, but the more central location of our new house—LandonHenge?—would allow us to walk to the lake, to the grocery store, to the venerable Grand Lake Theatre, even to an old-fashioned neighborhood hardware store. I spent a good portion of my day in my car as it was, driving from one job to another, fighting traffic, so I was happy not to have to get into a car in my free time.

  Framed movie posters crowded the walls, and more Fourth of July stars-and-stripes paraphernalia decorated the bookshelves and tabletops.

  “I was sorry to learn about the loss of your husband,” I said. The whole way here, I tried to figure out a nice way to ask if his death had been suspicious. I decided there wasn’t one, so I hoped she might volunteer that information. “A heart attack, was it?”

  She nodded. “He ate a lot of red meat; we both did back then.”

  “I understand he owned a couple of local theaters. As I mentioned on the phone, I’m working on the renovation of the Crockett.”

  “That’s such a spectacular place. It was my Cal’s dream to bring it back to its former glory, but we never managed.”

  “What kinds of problems did you face?”

  “Simple lack of funds. My husband, rest his soul, was raised quite wealthy and was never all that good with money. As I’m sure you know, a project like the Crockett will take millions, not to mention a lot of time.” She shook her head and sipped her coffee. “In the end, I suppose he—we—simply ran out of time.”

  We sat silently for a few moments. Cal Delucci had died several years ago, but as I knew only too well with the loss of my mother, time might alter the grief, but did not make it less intense.

  “This might seem like an odd question,” I said, “but have you ever heard rumors about the theater being haunted?”

  She chuckled. “Oh yes, that’s what they say. Never saw anything myself. I believe buildings have different feelings about them, but what some people call ‘ghosts’ are probably just our picking up on those historical sensations, don’t you think? Or do you think there are really spirits floating around?”

  “I, uh . . .” One of my many failings as a ghost buster is that I didn’t know how to tell people I was able to communicate with ghosts, if only because it wasn’t something that can be dropped into a conversation without a lot of follow-up discussion. I see ghosts is a conversation starter, not a conversation killer. I wondered if I should tell Lorraine about my experiences at the Crockett or just wimp out.

  I wimped out. “I think there’s a lot more out there than we understand.”

  She nodded.

  “So,” I said, “your husband inherited the theater from his father?”

  She nodded. “Yes, he did. His father, William Delucci, was a very wealthy man. He made a lot of money investing in the early film industry, and a fortune off of those theaters as well. Back in the day, the theaters were real cash cows. Of course, he lost a lot of it in the Depression, but managed to hold on to the theaters.”

  Lorraine got up and brought over an old-fashioned scrapbook full of old photos and newspaper clippings touting the Niles Canyon Essanay film studios.

  “I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve never been to Niles Canyon,” I said. “I’m planning on going with my family tomorrow.”

  “It’s well worth a trip. They have a lovely little museum there. We donated several items before Cal passed away.”

  “What can you tell me about Cal’s father?”

  She hesitated. “I never met my father-in-law; he was sixty years old when Cal was born, and passed away long before I met Cal. But by all accounts, he was not a very nice man, and was ruthless when it came to business. From bits and pieces of family lore that I’ve put together, it was something like the Wild West in the film industry back then. William’s brother, Jimmy, was the one who was most involved in producing the films; he was a very early investor—most prescient of him really.”

  “His name was Jimmy Delucci?”

  She nodded and sipped her coffee. “They say Jimmy had a ‘thing’ for starlets, if you know what I mean.”

  “Did he . . . Do you happen to know if Jimmy ever had a child by one of those starlets?”

  “Oh, I really don’t know, though I wouldn’t be shocked to hear that he had. Bad behavior is hardly limited to current generations, now, is it? I do know that Jimmy and his wife never had children, so when Jimmy died, William inherited the theaters, which were later passed down to my Cal.”

  “Jimmy died early?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’m sorry to say that Jimmy did not come to a good end: He was killed by one of the starlets he toyed with. Stabbed to death, as a matter of fact; she killed herself after.”

  I shivered at the memory of Hildy telling me about killing Jimmy and rushing me in the attic.

  Lorraine flipped the scrapbook to a newspaper clipping that described the crime in salacious detail: The married producer, the ambitious starlet, the murder-suicide when the “murderess” turned the knife on herself. I was happy to note, at the very least, that the murder did not occur on the grounds of my new house, but in a “gentleman’s club” near Lake Merritt. Lorraine read the article over my shoulder and pointed out the passage that read: “Miss Hildecott was an out-of-wedlock mother to a young child.”

  “You may be right,” said Lorraine. “It says here Ji
mmy’s killer had a child; I suppose it might have been Jimmy’s. But there’s no way to know, is there? Well, what’s done is done.”

  “It was a long time ago,” I said, though to Hildy it was still very relevant, indeed.

  “Cal received many offers to buy the theater over the years,” said Lorraine, putting away the scrapbook. “He was involved in a court battle and had to sell the Grand Lake Theatre, and the new owners did a splendid job sprucing it up. But Cal never gave up on his dream of bringing the Crockett back to life.”

  “Why did you finally decide to sell?” I asked.

  “When Cal passed, the dream died with him,” she said. “I held on to it for a while, then decided it was time to pass the torch to a new generation, as they say.”

  I nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “Plus, I got a heck of a lot of money for that old rat trap,” she said with a cat-and-the-canary smile, sipping her coffee and gazing out at her multimillion-dollar view.

  * * *

  * * *

  I collected Dog, said good-bye to Lorraine, and headed to Skyline Drive to take a long walk in one of my favorite local spots, Redwood Regional Park. And then I did something I almost never do: I turned off my phone.

  As Dog darted about, marking trees and getting cussed out by squirrels, I thought about what Lorraine Delucci had told me.

  I was sure that Hildy’s daughter, Darlene, was also Jimmy Delucci’s daughter. I wondered what had become of her; nearly a century had passed, so it was highly unlikely she was still living. But maybe Hildy simply wanted to know that her daughter was all right. I knew the yearning for one’s child did not cease upon death: The last ghost I had dealt with, at a lighthouse, had been searching endlessly for her lost son.

  I breathed deeply of the evergreen-scented air, gazing up at the July sunshine as it filtered through the branches of the tall redwoods. Isadora would never again smell this scent, never be able to look up into the trees and feel the breeze. I took a moment to appreciate all that I had.

  As always when I took the time to hike, I vowed I would come more often. It felt good to get away, if only for a little while, from work and home and ghosts and murder, to simply stroll amongst the trees with my dog.

  Victor, my acupuncturist (and Luz’s “boyfriend”), called this “forest bathing,” which seemed like a pretty highfalutin name for a walk in the woods. Still, he urged me to take a moment while on my walk to close my eyes and stand still, and I did so now, noting what I heard: the distant sound of roadwork, birds singing and flitting, a plane high overhead, kids at a summer camp yelling and laughing, the wind in the leaves, the water trickling in a small creek.

  I stayed that way for a moment, concentrating. What else could I hear? The whisper of my own breath.

  And Dog, whining, wondering why I was just standing there interrupting his good time.

  “Sorry, bud,” I said as I finally opened my eyes. I leaned down to scratch his neck and pull a foxtail, the bane of Bay Area dogs, from his thick fur. “Let’s go sniff some more redwoods, shall we?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Whenever I turn off my phone for any length of time, I usually end up paying for it, and today was no exception. While I was communing with nature, I received three calls: two from artisans declining my invitation to bid on the Crockett, and one from Mateo, returning my call, hoping everything was all right, and informing me he was spending the holiday weekend in Tahoe, where he had spotty cell reception.

  I dropped Dog off at home, happy and ready for his midafternoon nap, then drove across the bay to San Francisco. I had an appointment to see Eamon Castle.

  It wasn’t what I was expecting. For one thing, it wasn’t really a castle, though I supposed buildings made of stone with six-story towers are rare enough in these parts that the “castle” moniker was appropriate. It was very pretty, though: Tall and slender, with narrow windows, it was surrounded by manicured grounds and elaborate topiary.

  I was met at the door by a young woman who introduced herself as Shanice and insisted she was “so very glad!” I had come.

  Inside, there was a lot of chunky woodwork, beamed ceilings, and lofts, and the castle had been decorated throughout in a muted palette of beige and taupe that set off the white stucco and stone walls. A massive gray stone hearth was topped with a pounded-copper mantel that gleamed in the occasional ray of sunlight.

  “So do tell,” urged Shanice. “What’s the date of your wedding? And will the lucky man—or woman—be having a say in the venue, too?”

  “I haven’t set the date yet.”

  Her eyes dropped to my left hand, and she cocked her head. “But that’s a beautiful ring. Somebody loves you,” she said in a teasing, singsongy voice. “Lucky girl!”

  I smiled, unsure how to respond. By far the most awkward thing about being engaged was how public it was, how many people now felt free to comment upon my love life without knowing either Landon or me. I didn’t take it personally, because I assumed they meant well, but I felt a bit like a pregnant woman who has strangers laying hands upon her belly on the subway.

  We toured the venue, which didn’t take long. Despite its impressive façade, Eamon Castle was not a large building. Still, it was historic and it was definitely beautiful.

  “Oooh, I forgot your wedding-planning kit!”

  “I really don’t need—”

  “Nonsense! I love putting them together.” Shanice leaned in as if sharing a confidence. “It’s really just a folder with a brochure and a few informative items and photos of previous events, but with luck it will help to fire your imagination! At Eamon Castle, your wedding can be everything you wish it to be—and then some!”

  “That sounds nice,” I said. Shanice was sweet, so I didn’t want to be rude and confess that I was in the running for the title “Least Inspired Bride in the World.”

  “It’s in the office,” Shanice said. “Feel free to look around while I run and get it.”

  I’d used the wedding-venue idea as a ploy to get in, but as I looked around, I had to admit Eamon Castle would have been a really nice place to celebrate a special occasion. I tried to envision myself here, surrounded by my family and my friends, holding hands with Landon, drinking champagne and sharing a tiered wedding cake . . .

  I turned around slowly as I imagined it in my mind’s eye.

  When I opened my eyes, I found myself face-to-face with the balding, middle-aged white guy I had seen speaking with Skeet outside the Crockett Theatre a few days ago.

  It’s possible I let out a little screech and flailed a bit. I’m nothing if not cool under pressure.

  “You startled me,” I pointed out, unnecessarily.

  “Sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry. “What are you doing in here? Did you have an appointment?”

  “Yes, I did. Shanice just ran back to the office for a moment. I’m . . . I’m looking at the castle as a possible wedding-reception venue.”

  His gaze shifted to my hand, as though looking for an engagement ring. Landon had insisted on a big rock, so big it sort of embarrassed me. But I had to admit I liked the way it sparkled.

  The man stared at me another moment. “Have we met?”

  “No, I don’t think so.” I told the truth: we hadn’t been introduced. I waited for him to introduce himself now, but he didn’t, so neither did I. After all, I was the bride.

  His mien changed abruptly. “I think you’ll find this is the perfect venue for any occasion, but especially for fairy-tale weddings. Follow me and I’ll show you the courtyard, and the cisterns if you’re interested. What do you think of the place? Isn’t it amazing? I grew up in this neighborhood, and whenever my parents took us out to eat at the old Dago Mary’s restaurant across the street, I would gaze at this old place and wonder.”

  “‘Dago Mary’s’?” I asked. “That was a restaurant’s name?”

>   “It was a different time,” he said. “People said what they meant, none of this political correctness nonsense.”

  “Mmm.” I wondered how someone in the hospitality industry could have been so insensitive. He had no way of knowing if I, or my fiancé, was Italian. “This building is really something, all right.”

  Shanice returned and handed me a folder made of heavy card stock, with wedding-planning kit—for your special day embossed in a curlicue script.

  “I see you’ve met the boss!” she said, and assured me that I could get in touch with her anytime, and that she could not wait to meet again to discuss my special day and make my dreams come true.

  “I’ll just hand you off now! You’re in good hands! It was lovely to meet you!” Shanice hurried out of the room. I watched her go, wondering at the odd interaction.

  “This way, please, ma’am,” he said, and I followed him down the hall and out into a medieval-looking courtyard made of the same stone as the building. A rough-hewn handmade ladder led up to an outdoor terrace.

  “Back then the whole place was overgrown and encircled by a cyclone fence. The kids in the neighborhood said it was haunted.” He chuckled and shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything. Still, fun to think about. Am I right? Maybe your guests will have an ‘encounter’! That would perk up any reception, don’t you think?”

  “I should think it would.” Again, I wondered about this man’s business sense. A haunted venue seemed more likely to repel wedding celebrants than attract them. After all, it was supposed to be the bride’s special day.

  “Tell you what, though. Those old haunting stories helped protect this place. Don’t get a lot of people willing to poke around in the dead of night, if you know what I mean. By the way, it’s also available for short-term rentals on Airbnb.”