Movie Palace Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Margaret Dumas

  I ran back up the stairs to let the professionals in.

  The EMT team included the good-looking young man who’d taken Callie home the night of the fire. He grinned as I opened the door. “This is getting to be a habit.”

  “You’re hilarious,” I told him. “We’re going to the basement.”

  The pain had hit by the time we got back downstairs to Brandon. He was completely drained of color, his eyelids fluttering.

  “What happened?” he asked me as the medics assessed his injuries.

  “The trapdoor gave way,” I told him. “Which should have been impossible. It’s been nailed shut for years. Somebody did this deliberately.”

  It was right above us, and one look revealed that, while the other trapdoor was still boarded over and nailed securely shut, the one that now gaped open had damage all around it where the nails had been pulled out.

  “Who would do something like that?” the EMT asked.

  His partner glanced up at the open trap. “Maybe it’s the ghost again.”

  “There is no ghost,” I said forcefully. Which wasn’t true. What I meant was that the ghost hadn’t done this.

  “There’s a murderer,” Brandon said. Then he passed out.

  They let me ride along in the ambulance for the few blocks to the hospital. Brandon came around once the truck began moving. He looked at me, his eyes wide. “Don’t tell Callie I fainted,” he begged.

  “Never.” I squeezed his hand.

  “How is Callie?” the EMT asked. Whereupon Brandon looked from him to me in a stricken sort of way and I changed the subject.

  “Are the police on their way?”

  “They should be,” the EMT said.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Marty.

  I need you to call David and get to the Palace. Now.

  Because Brandon was right. Someone had deliberately opened that trapdoor. Someone whose intention was murder.

  “A clean break to both tibia and fibula, a sprained wrist, and a mild concussion.” This is what a doctor told us a while later. I was standing by Brandon’s bed in the ER, and whatever drugs they’d given him were very much working. “We’ve set the leg, but we’ll leave it in a splint for a while to let the swelling go down before we get him into cast.”

  Brandon gave her a thumbs up. His eyes were glassy.

  “Your son will be fine,” the doctor said. “You should get some rest.”

  “He’s not—” I began to protest, but she’d already moved on.

  Son? Ouch. I realized that at thirty-nine I was technically old enough to be a teenager’s mother, but still.

  Brandon snickered. “They think you’re my mom.” His eyes widened. “Do we have to tell my mom? She’s going to kill me.”

  “She’ll probably figure it out when she sees the cast,” I said. “Plus she’ll be here any minute.” I’d used his phone to call her as soon as we’d gotten to the hospital.

  “You’re way hotter than my mom,” he mumbled. Then the small part of his brain that wasn’t soaked in painkillers realized what he’d just said, and his face flushed its familiar shade of crimson.

  “I’m going out to the waiting room,” I told him. “And we will never speak of this again.”

  He nodded.

  I had to go to the waiting room because I had to make some calls, and cell phone use was forbidden in the ER.

  Marty answered on the first ring. “How’s the kid?”

  “He’ll be okay,” I said. “He was lucky.”

  I knew Brandon’s fall could have been much worse.

  “What does Jackson think?” I asked Marty.

  “That someone sabotaged that door with an intent to kill someone,” he said. “Which seems like a completely insane way to plan a murder. How would you know who’d fall?”

  “Maybe they didn’t care,” I said.

  “What do you mean? Are we talking psychopath? Because I could one hundred percent get behind that idea. I have a few contenders.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean.” I’d had time to think about it while waiting for Brandon’s results. “What if the point wasn’t to kill someone specific? What if it was just to cause another “accident” at the Palace? Maybe the point was to promote the whole idea that the theater is unsafe.”

  Marty paused, then he swore. Elaborately. And at length.

  “I think it was McMillan,” I said when he paused for a breath. “He’s trying to drive down the price before he swoops in to snatch it.”

  “What do you mean, snatch it?”

  “He’s made an offer for Tommy May’s quarter share.”

  There was a strangling sort of sound, then, “I’ll kill him,” Marty said. “That—”

  “You really shouldn’t threaten murder in front of your boyfriend the homicide detective.”

  “He’s not—oh, fine. He wants to talk to you.”

  Marty passed the phone to Detective Jackson.

  “Nora. How’s Brandon?”

  “Worried that his mom will kill him,” I said. “What do you think about the door?”

  “Obviously someone deliberately tampered with it,” he said. “When did you last see it secured with planks?”

  “I’m not sure. I was in and out of the prop room on Sunday and Monday, getting things ready for the event,” I said. “But I don’t know if I actually looked up.” Then something occurred to me. “Hang on. The trapdoor must have still been secured on Sunday, because I put something on it when Callie and I were setting up. If it had already been sabotaged, the backdrop would have fallen through.” And so would I, I realized with a shiver.

  “We’ll need to talk to everyone to find out who had access on Sunday or Monday,” Jackson said.

  “It had to have been Monday,” I told him.

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s when Stan McMillan was in the theater.” I filled the detective in on my theory about McMillian using criminal tactics to get the Palace at a bargain price.

  He heard me out before replying. “I don’t suppose you have any evidence to support that?”

  I’d already thought of that. “Would he have to file plans?” I asked. “If he wanted this block? Is that something that would be on file with the city? And would you be able to subpoena it or something?”

  “Even if he did, I couldn’t get a court order without a shred of evidence. But I appreciate you thinking I might have some small part to play in solving this series of violent crimes.”

  I took a breath. “Okay, sarcasm noted. But I’ll bet you anything that you’ll find McMillan’s fingerprints all around that trapdoor. Or at least his henchman’s.”

  “Henchman,” he said. “Uh huh. I’m handing you back to Marty.”

  “Are you on your way here?” Marty asked when he got the phone back.

  “Not right away,” I told him. “There’s something I have to do here first.”

  I needed to go back to Brandon and make sure his mom had arrived. But first I needed to visit Sam. According to the news, I was at the hospital where she’d been taken yesterday.

  A helpful volunteer told me I should ask at the desk on the fourth floor and pointed me to the elevator, which let me out near the intensive care waiting area. The first person I saw was June’s assistant Cora.

  She was absorbed in her phone, texting rapidly. I crossed over to her, looking around for June, but Cora was alone.

  “Cora?” I wasn’t sure she’d remember who I was. “I’m glad to see you. Do you know—”

  But I didn’t have to finish. Because the tears streaming down her face when she turned to me told me everything before she said the words.

  “Sam’s dead.”

  I sank down next to Cora on the waiting room couch, not quite believing what she’d said.

  “She died of her
injuries.” Cora wiped her face with her sleeve. “She never woke up.”

  I couldn’t take it in. I knew how badly Sam had been hurt. I knew that Trixie had died falling from the same balcony. But I’d thought once Sam made it to the hospital, they’d be able to save her.

  “Even if she had woken up, she never would have walked again.” Cora’s voice sounded artificial, like one of those robots on the telephone. She looked at me, with something like desperation in her eyes. “June says Sam wouldn’t have wanted to live like that. Do you think that’s true?”

  I thought it was an awful thing to say. My mind flashed to Hector’s cousin Gabriela in her wheelchair. Smart, successful Gabriela who certainly wanted to live “like that.”

  I looked away from Cora. “Is June here?”

  “She went back to the office,” Carla’s robot voice answered. “She has to message everyone, tell them what happened before they see it on the news.”

  The news. I knew I should care about it being on the news. I just couldn’t yet.

  “When did it happen?” I asked.

  Cora blinked. She looked at her watch. “About half an hour ago.”

  I’d been downstairs with Brandon.

  “June brought her flowers.” Cora was still speaking. “I told her I could take care of it, but she wanted to bring them herself. She wanted Sam to have something nice to wake up to.” She turned to me. “She stayed with Sam all night. Sam’s family is all on the east coast, and June didn’t want her to be alone. I had to beg her to leave this morning to get some rest, but she came back with those flowers.” She blinked. “At least Sam wasn’t alone when she...” Her voice trailed off.

  “Let me give you a ride home,” I said.

  She shook her head. “I’m waiting for Sam’s family. They’re due in soon, and June had to go, but she wanted someone from the office, someone who knew Sam, to be here for them when they found out.”

  I swallowed.

  Samantha Beach was dead. She’d been murdered in my theater. And every instinct I had told me I knew who had killed her.

  Chapter 29

  “I’m here to see Stan McMillan,” I told the receptionist.

  It was mid-morning the next day. I’d spent a sleepless night thinking about Sam, about Warren, and about everything that had happened since the night of Warren’s party. Then I did what I should have done before meeting McMillan on Monday. I wrote a script.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The polished young woman gave me half-raised brows of polite inquisitiveness. She fit right in with the gleaming minimalism of everything else in the lobby. What didn’t fit in was the guy in the dark gray suit standing not-quite-at-attention to the left of the desk. Henchman Number Two, I labeled him. Not the same one I’d seen coming out of the city planning offices, but he’d been at the Palace on Monday.

  I smiled at the receptionist. “No, but please tell him it’s Nora Bishop. I think he’ll see me.”

  I deliberately used Ted’s name, my married name, and it registered with her. I could tell by the way she reassessed me as she spoke in hushed tones into the microphone of her headset. Henchman Number Two also flicked an appraising eye over me.

  That was fine. I’d dressed for the part of Nora Bishop. Instead of my usual comfy jeans and a sweater, today I wore the Hollywood Wives equivalent of a power suit: designer jeans, an ivory silk blouse, murderous Valentino heels, and a buttery soft burgundy leather jacket. I’d borrowed most of it from Robbie’s closet in her main house. I was sure she’d approve. I also carried one of her handbags. A really, really, good one.

  I couldn’t count on McMillan making time to see Nora Paige, the financially strapped theater manager he’d met two days ago, but I was willing to gamble that he’d have time for Ted Bishop’s soon-to-be-ex-wife. Particularly if he, like June, assumed that a hefty divorce settlement was in my near future. I still hated the way the Palace had been in the news since Sam’s death, but at least it meant McMillan would probably know who I was by now.

  I was right. It took roughly forty-five seconds for McMillan to appear in the lobby. “Nora! It’s so good to see you again.”

  At the theater on Monday I hadn’t been the recipient of his full-wattage charm. But today teeth flashed, eyes sparkled, and his entire demeanor told a story of him being thrilled beyond words to have me show up unannounced. He took my freshly-manicured hand in both of his and, without taking his eyes off me, spoke to the receptionist.

  “Cat, go ahead and cancel my next meeting. I have a feeling Mrs. Bishop has something important to talk about.” He gave my hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Now, Nora. How about we get you a coffee and you can tell me what brings you here today?”

  Mata Hari, I told myself. My script called for a dazzling smile at this point, so that’s what he got. “Why, Stan, I’d love to.”

  McMillan’s real estate office couldn’t have been more different from June’s. Hers was a neighborhood storefront, crowded but comfortable, a warren of small rooms that had been retrofitted inside a rambling Victorian house. Stan McMillan’s place of business was a vast expanse of cold modern spaces on the forty-second floor of a new glass tower. The floor-to-ceiling windows of his office looked out over the Bay Bridge and waterfront. Everything was calculated to impress.

  I’d just taken a seat in one of his low-slung guest chairs when there was a rap on the door, followed by the entrance of a ruthlessly groomed young woman carrying a tray laden with coffee and pastries. The sleek pitchers and cups could have been displayed at the Museum of Modern Art. The pastry didn’t look half as good as what I got daily at Café Madeline, the business that I assumed the man sitting across from me had tried to burn down.

  I took a croissant I had no intention of tasting. “Yum.”

  He smiled his shark smile. “Things ended so abruptly on Monday. I didn’t get a chance to really talk with you. I didn’t even realize who you were until after…well…after everything.”

  After Sam was pushed from the balcony, he meant. After he or one of his henchmen had pushed her. They guy I’d just passed in the lobby?

  “It was a terrible thing,” I said.

  “Terrible,” he agreed, then he swept past Sam’s death. “But, as I say, I didn’t know who you were until one of the news stories mentioned it.” He gave me the kind of elaborately sincere look that it takes years of practice to perfect. “I was so sorry to hear about your marriage. But I’m sure a beautiful woman like you will be just fine. And, please, don’t hesitate to call on me if there’s anything I can do to help. I know you’re new in town and I’d love it if you considered me your friend.”

  Okay, first…yuck. But I couldn’t focus on how obvious or patronizing he was. I had to focus on the offer he’d just made. Because that offer triggered the next part of my script.

  “Well, this is a little delicate,” I told him, wiping my fingers on a linen napkin embroidered with his company’s logo. “You know I’m working with June on finding a house here in the city?”

  “She mentioned something about that, yes.” A touch of greed infiltrated his smile. He thought I was about to trade June in.

  “Of course, I’d never think of leaving her,” I said, popping that particular bubble. “But since we met the other day, I’ve been doing a little research on you.” Pause for eye contact. “I’ve heard you’re the man to see if I’m looking to invest in commercial development.” Sip coffee. “If I’m looking to invest substantially.”

  There’s a phrase that one of my screenwriting mentors used to describe the moment when an audience becomes fully invested in your story. The moment when they’re hooked. When you know you’ve got them for the rest of the movie—as long as you don’t screw it up. This moment, she’d said, was when the audience was all aboard your train.

  With the words “invest substantially,” Stan McMillan was all aboard. “You heard right,” h
e smirked. “I’m definitely the man.”

  Ugh. Smile. “I’m so glad. Because a little birdie told me that you’re planning something in my neighborhood?”

  He leaned forward, legs apart, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. “Well, now, I don’t know who your little birdie is,” he began, “but I’m planning a lot of things in a lot of neighborhoods.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I said smoothly. “But you understand why I’m particularly interested in mine. In fact, I have it on fairly good authority that you’re planning something for the Palace.”

  He blinked, then cleared his throat strenuously. If this were a comedy, I’d have timed it so he did a spit-take with his coffee. But this was very much not a comedy. He eyed me, recalculating.

  I held his gaze, doing my best to channel Rosalind Russell in any one of her smarter-than-any-man-in-the-room roles. Eyebrow a little arched, keen gleam in the eye, chin raised expectantly.

  He finally answered me. “Nora, I’m sure you’re aware that if I was interested in the Palace, there are four owners I’d have to convince to sell.”

  “Three, really,” I shrugged. “Probably two if you played your cards right. And I suspect you always play your cards right. I assume I’m correct in thinking you’ve already approached Tommy May?”

  I spoke quickly, intending to keep him off guard. I was rewarded with a flash of surprise on his face, followed by a resigned grin. “Well, I suppose I haven’t been as discreet as I should have been.” He tried for a look of sheepish bad boy, which he’d probably put to good use in his younger days. But he’d aged out of its effectiveness. At least on me.

  “Nobody is ever as discreet as they should have been,” I told him, because it was my turn to be patronizing. I’d just won. I’d gotten confirmation that he was after the Palace.