“Cool,” Monica said again.
“I’ll still take a movie any day.” I popped the lid off my coffee. “But I may be alone in that. Last I checked, there are over twelve million people playing.”
“Twelve million and one.” Monica was tapping on her phone. “Hey, it’s free.” She looked up. “How does Tommy make money from this?”
“By watching every move you make and selling your information to the highest bidder,” I told her.
“Plus, you can buy things in the game,” Lisa said, apparently unphased by the auctioning off of her personal data. “You don’t have to, but you can go faster if you buy a key to open a door instead of solving a puzzle to do it. Things like that.”
“That’s kind of genius,” Monica said. “Not the horrifying bit about collecting and selling user data,” she nodded to me. “But charging real money for virtual stuff? Genius.” She picked up her mug. “Why aren’t we all making apps?”
“Profit margins would soar,” Lisa agreed. “Think how much I’d save on ingredients if I sold virtual cookies.”
“Market them as gluten free,” I advised her. “You’ll be a zillionaire in no time. Meanwhile, do you have some cookies for me?” Theoretically, the reason I’d come to the café was to pick up our order. We’d started selling Lisa’s baked goods in a pop-up stand at the Palace while her shop had been closed for repairs. Her giant cookies had been so popular we’d decided to keep selling them at the concessions stand after the café reopened. “Non-virtual cookies, so we can both make some non-virtual money?”
“That’s my favorite kind,” Monica said, without looking up from the game.
“Why don’t we have an app?”
I’d been thinking about it all day and now asked Callie and Albert. The seven-thirty was in progress and I’d found them with their heads together over some paperwork in the break room.
They both looked up at me, Albert with a slight squint behind his little round glasses, and Callie with a distracted glance. “I mean, because we’re movie people?” she suggested.
I took a chair at the table with them. “So why don’t we have a movie people app? Why don’t we do some of that AR stuff around here? Think about it—what if you could look down the balcony stairs and see Clark Gable looking up at you like Rhett Butler looked at Scarlett?”
Albert’s raised his eyebrows.
“Or while you’re waiting for the movie to start you could see Busby Berkeley dancers on the stage, or Fred Astaire in a top hat and tails…we could do whatever we wanted. At least, whatever we could get the rights to.”
“Errol Flynn?” Albert suggested. “As Robin Hood, standing on the balcony railing like it was a tree in Sherwood forest?”
“Exactly,” I nodded. “That would be cool, right?”
“I’d certainly enjoy it,” he said. “I believe you know how I feel about Errol Flynn.”
“I believe I do.” I knew that Captain Blood (1935, Errol Flynn and Olivia de Havilland, wearing very similar wigs) was the first movie he’d ever seen at the Palace.
“I mean, okay,” Callie said. “Let’s get an app.”
“I just have to figure out how we can make money with it,” I mused.
Albert nodded. “Yes, perhaps that would be a logical first step. And then you might find someone to make it?”
I waved that detail away. “This is San Francisco. You can’t throw a rock in this town without hitting an app developer.” Hector’s cousin Gabriela was a computer engineer and a regular at the Palace. She could probably point me in the right direction.
I took a closer look at the papers spread out on the table. “What are you two working on? Is that a script?”
They exchanged a glance. “Callie, dear,” Albert said, “I think it’s time we shared our little project, don’t you?”
The last time Albert had told me about a little project, it had been his plan to write a book about the Palace. A memoir about what the theater meant to him, to his family, and to the neighborhood where he’d lived his whole life. He hadn’t mentioned it in a while, and I’d wondered if it had gotten to be too much for him. He was over ninety, after all.
“We’re making a documentary,” Callie announced. “We’re using Albert’s notes for his book and turning it into a film.” She gave me a look that dared me to make fun of her. “I’m submitting it as my master’s thesis.”
I blinked. “That’s brilliant.”
“Do you really think so?” Albert asked. “I know we discussed a book.”
“A movie is so much better,” I said. “It makes so much more sense for the Palace.”
“That’s what I thought,” Callie said. “And, I mean, I think it’s going to be good, Nora. I think it’s going to be, like, really good.”
“I have no doubt,” I told them. “How much have you done? Where are you starting? Tell me everything.”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Albert said.
“There are just so many stories.” Callie gathered the scattered pages together. “We need to find the thru-line that will take us from the early days of silents up to everything that’s happening now.”
“Well, not everything,” Albert cautioned. “I don’t think we should mention that fellow dying onscreen yesterday.”
“Agreed,” I said. “I’d stick to the murders that actually took place here.” Not that there had been that many. Hardly any, really. Just a few. “What happened with S had nothing to do with us.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d said that, but it would probably be the last. Because right after I said it my phone pinged with an incoming message.
Tommy May had just been arrested for murder.
Chapter 8
“Detective Jackson!” I waved at him from across the crowded restaurant, working my way past the crush at the bar. “Imagine meeting you here,” I said when I got to the table.
“Yes, imagine.” Marty folded his arms and glowered at me.
I hadn’t needed Big Data to figure out where Marty would be meeting his boyfriend the detective for a late date after closing down the Palace. I’d overheard him on his phone in the break room.
“Nora.” Jackson slid his wineglass over to make room at the table as I pulled up a chair. “This is quite a coincidence.”
“I happened to be in the neighborhood.” I happened to be there after telling the rideshare driver where to take me, but the detective didn’t need that detail. The restaurant, Beretta on Valencia Street, was dark, busy, and—most importantly—open past midnight. “Have you ordered yet?”
“You’re not staying.” Marty moved his beer glass over to take up the space on the table that Jackson had made.
The detective put a hand on his arm. “I don’t think Nora’s here for the pizza.” He gave me a look that saw right through me. The detective was in his forties, tall and heavyset, with dark brown skin and a goatee so perfect it almost looked painted on. He exuded authority, and he was exuding it in my direction. “I can’t tell you anything about the case.”
Marty glared at me. “You are not ruining pizza night just so you can obsess over a murder that you yourself said doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
“Maybe it didn’t before, but now they’ve arrested Tommy for murder,” I told him. “That puts it at our doorstep.”
Marty’s eyes narrowed.
I appealed to the detective. “Jackson, please. You must know something.”
“It’s not my case,” he reminded me. “It’s not even in my city, and I don’t have a buddy on the Palo Alto PD.” He cut me off before I could ask him exactly that question. “I’ve seen the same news you have. S Banks was poisoned, and they’ve arrested Thomas May in connection with the death.” He shrugged his substantial shoulders.
I opened my mouth with a question, but Marty got there first. “Why?�
� he asked. “What’s May’s motive? How do they think he did it?”
Jackson regarded him. “I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”
“I didn’t want you to talk about it with her.” Marty nodded his head in my direction.
“Thanks.” I took a sip of his beer. “So did Tommy do it?” I asked Jackson. “Was it about money?”
“Why would you think that?” the detective asked.
“I’m just wondering if Tommy has as much money as we all think he does,” I said. “What if he doesn’t? What if it’s all a front and he’s actually drowning in debt or something?”
“Is he?” Marty asked. “That would serve him right. Maybe Banks found out and Tommy had to shut him up before word got out among the rest of the tech billionaires. They might not have invited him to their next oligarch soiree.” He sniffed.
The detective ignored him, focusing on me. “Why do you think he’s got money troubles?”
Oops. I wasn’t planning to let Marty or the rest of the gang know about Tommy’s threats in the owners’ meeting. I gave him a look. “Don’t freak out.”
“Great.” He grabbed his beer and took a long gulp. “What fresh hell are you bringing to pizza night?”
“Tommy’s just bent out of shape because profits at the Palace are down,” I told them. “He, um, made quite a point of it the other day. It got me wondering why someone who’s supposed to be so rich would care so much about what I assume is an insignificant part of his income.”
Marty freaked out. “How bent out of shape?” he demanded. “What, exactly, did he say? What’s he planning? I never trusted that guy.”
“Calm down, he hasn’t done anything yet.”
“Done anything?” This just freaked him out more. “What’s he going to do?”
“Nothing,” I assured him. “I’m not going to let him do anything. And neither is Robbie and neither is Monica.”
Marty looked deeply suspicious. “If you three are circling the wagons it must be a serious threat. Is he talking about closing the Palace?”
Something in my eyes must have told him the truth. He slapped the table. “I knew it!”
“He’s not going to do anything,” I said again. “Especially now that he’s been arrested for murder.”
“I’d like to murder him,” Marty said darkly.
“Nice talk in front of the cops,” I said, nodding toward Detective Jackson in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I admit I wanted to kill Tommy myself the other day, but there’s a time and place…”
“There is indeed,” Jackson said. “And here’s a tip: The more experienced criminals tend not to shout about their plans in crowded restaurants.”
Marty rolled his eyes and finished his beer.
I turned to Jackson. “What do you think? Did Tommy kill S?”
He tapped the rim of his wineglass. “I think…it’s not my case.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet. “What evidence is there against Tommy?” I asked. “Do they know what kind of poison it was? Or how he—”
“Are you staying for pizza?” Jackson interrupted. “If so I think we should split an order of calamari first. It’s so good here.” He gave me a look. “And then, if you like, we might talk about Alec Guinness poisoning his relatives, or Gene Tierney poisoning herself, but we will not talk about Tommy May, or any other person or persons unknown, poisoning S Banks.”
His voice changed from lighthearted to no-nonsense during the course of his invitation. I’d hit his wall of professionalism, and I’d done so often enough in the past to know there was no getting around it. At least not right away, so I might as well have some calamari.
I sat back as the detective motioned to the waiter.
“We are one hundred percent going to talk about this later,” Marty muttered.
“I know,” I muttered back. “Meanwhile, nice work with Alec Guinness and Gene Tierney.” Alec Guinness had played an aristocrat hilariously killing everyone in his family who stood between him and his title in Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949, Guinness as every member of the ill-fated D’Ascoyne family) and Gene Tierney had played a narcissist nightmare who’d poisoned herself to frame her sister in Leave Her to Heaven (1945, Tierney and a largely clueless Cornel Wilde).
Marty looked slightly mollified. “When I met him he didn’t know who Gene Tierney was,” he said. “Now look at him.”
“All grown up and spewing references,” I agreed. “Next thing you know he’ll be quoting Bogart.”
“What are you two muttering about?” Jackson handed me a menu.
“Not a thing,” I told him. “Definitely not murder.”
I didn’t get home until after one in the morning. “Home” was the minimalist guest cottage behind Robbie’s San Francisco vacation house, a few blocks from the Palace.
Before Ted hid all our money I’d planned to buy a place of my own. Because before Ted hid all our money I’d had an expectation of a fairly sizable settlement. I’d not only been his wife for the decade that had seen him rise from obscurity to international stardom, I’d been his unpaid manager and agent along the way.
Any expectations I’d had were shattered when I found out the money was gone. Ted had invested it in a film production that had gone bankrupt. Or so the world believed. I knew different. And I knew different because of Otis Hampton, a man who hated Ted enough to attempt an alliance with me.
I pulled my phone out of my bag as I locked the door and kicked off my shoes, sinking into the couch that took up most of the living room. Otis had sent a flood of texts as I’d shared a pizza with Marty and Detective Jackson. (No matter how often he told me to call him David, he would always be Detective Jackson to me.) I’d ignored them all. If there was one thing I was exceptionally good at, it was ignoring texts.
I got comfortable on the couch. Otis was a Hollywood studio head and media mogul with wild ideas and a bad case of insomnia. Reading all his messages might take a while.
Nora. My sources tell me that Ted and Priya are planning a small, secret wedding in early September in Venice. They’ll be there for the film festival and hope the press won’t catch on to the wedding until it’s over. Meaning he wants the news leaked so every camera in Italy will be there. I can only assume that Ted believes his divorce from you will be final before then. I again urge you strongly not to sign anything until we can recover the money and prove Ted is guilty of financial misconduct. Please confirm this is your intention.
Otis had been dating the breathtaking actress Priya Sharma when she and my husband had fallen truly, madly, and adulterously in love. Otis had found out about their madcap affair the same way I had, by seeing it all over the blogs while Ted and Priya were filming on location. My reaction had been to leave LA and start over again in San Francisco. Otis, a powerful man not used to being denied anything he wanted, had chosen a different path. He’d made it his mission to win Priya back. And the fastest way to do that, he felt, was by getting Ted out of the way.
Otis was convinced that he could prove Ted had hidden our money and lied about the bankrupt film to avoid paying me a settlement. He thought the truth, when he exposed it, would do two things: ruin Ted’s shiny likable movie-star reputation, and force Ted to pay me what I’m owed. After that Ted wouldn’t be in quite the same tax bracket. Which is when Otis, with his piles of money, would swoop in and woo Priya back. At least that was his plan. It was slightly insane and very convoluted, much like Otis. But the part of it that included finding the money Ted had hidden and paying me my share had a very strong appeal. Which is why I still paid attention to Otis’s texts.
I scrolled through five more messages, all along the same lines as the first, and I told myself to focus on the fact that Otis seemed to be spiraling and not on the fact that Ted was planning his wedding to someone else.
A small, secret we
dding. Somehow I doubted it would be as small and secret as ours had been. We’d stopped in Vegas on our way out to LA to become famous. Small—yes. Secret—who would have cared? It had been sweet, really. Just the two of us. Because we knew that was all we’d ever need. We were already best friends. Already in love. Becoming husband and wife was inevitable. There was only one way to face the future. Together.
I realized I wasn’t paying attention to Otis’s texts anymore. I blinked and looked at the last one.
I heard Tommy May has been arrested. If that puts the Palace in any financial difficulties you know you can count on me to help.
Right. But I wouldn’t. I was already in Otis’s debt from the last time he’d helped, by buying the Tesla that Ted had given me. I’d been grateful for the quick cash at a time when the Palace needed urgent repairs, but now dealing with Otis was feeling more and more like getting trapped in something sticky and web-like.
He was plotting. That much I knew. What I didn’t fully know was what role he’d assigned to me.
Chapter 9
I was up in my office the next morning, hours before the first show, when I heard someone banging on the lobby doors. In my experience, someone banging on the lobby doors seldom led to anything good, so I made my way down with caution.
A moving van was parked in the loading zone, and a guy wearing shorts and carrying a clipboard stood next to an enormous box at the door.
I unlocked and opened the door. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
“Is there another Palace theater around here?” He thrust the clipboard at me. “Sign here.”
One box, the invoice said. From an address in LA. Ted’s address.
“Ooh! What is it?”
I jumped about a foot as I heard Trixie’s excited voice behind me. The delivery guy looked at me like I’d lost my marbles. Fair enough. I turned around and gave Trixie a “just a minute” look.
“What is it?” I turned back to ask the guy.
Movie Palace Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3 Page 54
