Movie Palace Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Margaret Dumas

  “Oh, Nora, you don’t look so hot.”

  Trixie was waiting for me as I let myself into the lobby and turned off the alarm. I looked at my reflection in the glass doors and had to admit she wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t even bothered to pull my hair into a ponytail, and there were dark purplish craters under my eyes.

  “If anybody ever offers you caramel chocolate baby cake for breakfast after you had wine for dinner,” I advised her, “say no.” I put the box with our daily order of cookies from Lisa’s shop on the glass top of the concessions stand.

  “Gee,” she blinked. “Can I do anything for you?”

  “Unless you’ve got a working time machine, probably not. But how about if you keep me company?” I said. “We can read all about Tommy’s murder.”

  “Ooh! Are we going to investigate?” She scampered up the stairs beside me.

  “Let’s start with reading and take it from there.”

  “Why, anybody can get arsenic,” Trixie said breezily. “Ask at the pharmacy. They don’t keep it out on the shelves, but they have it behind the counter. Or you could just go to the five and dime and buy rat poison. That has arsenic in it.”

  We’d just spent an hour or so on the computer in my office, pouring over all the online reports about Tommy’s death. The facts seemed clear: There were high levels of arsenic in the orange juice that Tommy drank in his car. At such a concentrated dose it would have taken effect almost immediately, resulting in the quick and dramatic death I’d witnessed. Where the arsenic came from, and how it had gotten into the juice, were unknown.

  Which is why we were discussing where to get arsenic. Apparently in Trixie’s day it had been easy as pie to pick up a little deadly toxin while running errands. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there hadn’t been a five and dime in the neighborhood for fifty years.

  “Rules have gotten tighter about that sort of thing,” I said instead. “But I’ve seen people get it in old movies. Didn’t you have to sign a poison book or something, so there would be a record?”

  “Sure,” she nodded. “Just in case you were planning on taking care of your husband instead of the rats.”

  “Right,” I said, thinking of my husband the rat. “It isn’t that easy to get anymore.”

  She blinked. “Then how do you kill rats?”

  “Um…traps?” I really didn’t know. Maybe there just weren’t as many these days. Maybe all the other poisons of modern life kept the population down.

  “Talking of arsenic reminds me of my sister Betty,” Trixie said, perching on the arm of the couch. “Isn’t that funny?”

  “You’re not about to tell me your sister was a poisoner?”

  “No, silly, she was a seamstress. And she never liked to work with green fabric because it was supposed to be bad luck. But that’s because in the olden days—the Victorian times, you know—they used to use arsenic to color the fabric this really pretty green. Girls who worked in the mills used to die all the time from it, and it poisoned the ladies who wore green dresses and gloves, but they didn’t even know why. Isn’t that sad?”

  “It’s awful.” I forgot, sometimes, how far removed Trixie’s living years had been from mine. She was closer to the Victorians in their poisoned dresses than she was to the millennials who made popcorn at the Palace.

  “Gee, I haven’t thought about Betty in ages,” Trixie said wistfully. Then, right about when my heart was aching for her, she shook herself and smiled brightly. “Anyway, I’m sure there’s some arsenic around here somewhere. Why, we used to use it all the time for rats and mice.”

  “I sincerely hope it’s long gone,” I told her. Particularly if the police still suspected me of having anything to do with the murders. I’d hate to be caught with a cupboardful of vintage poison just lying around. Did arsenic go bad? That was probably another question I shouldn’t have in my browser history.

  We were just about to take a look at what wild stories the gamer blogs were spinning about Tommy’s death when my phone pinged with an incoming message. It was from Callie.

  Hey, Nora. I’m down in the prop room. Anything you want to tell me about this rack of fabulous gowns?

  I looked up at Trixie. “Um, I’m going to need a minute.”

  “What do you mean you forgot all about them?”

  I’d just told Callie how six famous gowns had found their way into our prop room last Thursday. And how that had slipped my mind.

  “How could you forget you had Marilyn Monroe’s ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’ gown hanging in the prop room?” she demanded.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I bristled. “Little things like witnessing murders and being questioned by the police tend to be somewhat distracting.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Except Marilyn Monroe’s gowns!”

  I saw her point.

  “What about all the rest of it?” she asked, looking at the mess I’d made of unpacking all my other possessions the other day. “It looks like a tornado hit Saks Fifth Avenue.”

  Again, I saw her point. “I need to figure that out.”

  “You think?”

  I perched on a table and took it all in. “I can’t believe it’s come to this.”

  Callie sat next to me. “Look. Your husband is shady AF, and it literally sucks that he took all your money, but…damn. Those are some gorgeous gowns.”

  “Gorgeous gowns I can’t do a thing with,” I told her. “I can’t sell them, I can’t even exhibit them, without proof of authenticity.”

  “And Ted didn’t send that?” she asked.

  “He just sent a note, saying he needs me,” I said darkly.

  “Oh,” she said, then “Oooooh,” as if she suddenly understood.

  “Oh, what?”

  “Oh, he’s holding you hostage,” she explained. “Or he’s holding the gowns hostage.” She waved her hands. “Either way. He said he needs you, right? I bet what he means is he needs you to do something for him. And I bet the receipts or whatever he has for the dresses are his leverage. You do him the favor and he gives you the stuff you need to be able to sell them, if that’s what you want.”

  I stared at her. “You’re right.” How had I not seen it? “That rat! Why hasn’t he told me what he wants?”

  She shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he just give you the money he owes you? Your man is shady.”

  “He’s not my man.” I reminded her as I pulled out my phone to send him a text. Then I changed my mind. Ted needed something from me. Something worth a substantial investment in Hollywood couture. Let him stew.

  “Meanwhile…” Callie said.

  I looked at the glittering rack. “Right. Meanwhile, I have no idea what to do with the gowns.”

  “The gorgeous, historically important, incredible gowns?” Callie said.

  “Right, those.” I’d swathed them in a clean sheet the other day before abandoning them, but Callie had removed it when she’d discovered them. They shimmered and glinted, winking at me. “Robbie told me I should call a museum.”

  “Never mind a museum.” Callie typed something into her phone. “I’ll ask my mom.”

  “Your mom? Is she a collector?” Nothing about Lillian Gee would surprise me.

  “She’s more of, like, a wearer, but I know she gets her furs stored somewhere in the summertime.” Realizing how that sounded, Callie shot me a look. “Yes, I said her furs. She lives in California and has furs. Do you have something to say about that?”

  I gave her wide eyes. “Not a thing.”

  “That’s right you don’t.” Callie nodded and went back to her phone. “I make her donate to PETA every year when she gets them out, but I can’t stand it when other people, like, judge her.”

  “Mothers are complicated,” I said, hoping to sound supportive.

  “Don’t let mine see these gowns,” she warned. “She would l
iterally insist on trying them on.” She tapped something on her phone. “Done.” My phone chimed with an incoming text. It was the address and phone number of a professional garment storage facility located South of Market.

  “I should come to you with all my problems,” I said. “Oh, can you ask your father if he knows an allergist, or where to get arsenic?”

  She stared at me. “I’m going to need you to, like, explain a little.”

  I nodded. “S Banks died from bee pollen. I was thinking an allergist might be able to say how common that is, and how allergic a person would have to be to actually die from it, or how much pollen they’d have to be exposed to.”

  “Uh huh,” Callie said, her face blank. “And the, um, arsenic thing?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Tommy was poisoned with arsenic in his orange juice.”

  She nodded, but her phone pinged with a text before she could answer. She read it, swore, then stood and faced me. “Don’t freak out.”

  I’d have to remember how counterproductive those words were the next time I used them. “What’s going on?”

  “I mean, it’s no big deal, but you might want to, like, take a step back from the murders for a while.”

  I had a very bad feeling about this. “What was in that text, Callie?”

  “I mean, it’s just Brandon. He’s upstairs looking for you.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Um…because people are, like, saying you killed Tommy?”

  “Oh, that.” I waved my hand, relieved. “I told you Detective Jackson just had to ask me a few questions. He doesn’t seriously think—”

  “I don’t mean Detective Jackson,” Callie interrupted. “I mean, like, people.”

  I looked at her. “What people?”

  She held up her phone. “People, people.”

  She meant the Internet. The Internet thought I was a murderer.

  Blog Post: Notorious

  1946

  Why am I telling you to watch Notorious, out of all the Alfred Hitchcock movies out there? Ingrid Bergman, people. The glory that is Ingrid Bergman.

  Bergman plays disgraced socialite Alicia Huberman, whom we meet outside the courtroom where her unrepentant father has just been convicted of treason. It’s 1946 and he still thinks the Nazis were great guys. So, yeah, he’s totally guilty. Alicia is as well, by association. At least that’s what the world thinks.

  And if the world is going to cast her as bad, she’s going to live up to every bad thing it says about her. For example, on the night of her father’s trial she throws a party, wearing an amazing midriff-bearing striped top and drinking to forget. She’s sailing tomorrow, heading to Havana where with enough rum and the right parties she can forget it all.

  But…there’s a mysterious man. We see him only from behind. He stays late, drinking, and by the time the other guests have left we realize two things: She’s hopelessly broken and he’s Cary Grant.

  Cary is a government man by the name of Devlin. Just Devlin. And when Alicia wakes up hungover the next morning, he tells her why he’s there. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  It seems there are Nazis in post-war Rio. Since they worked with her father they’ll assume she shares his sympathies and welcome her (because it would never dawn on them that a woman could form her own opinions).

  Faced with a choice between a yacht to Havana and a spy gig in Rio, she chooses Rio. She chooses America. Honestly, she chooses Cary Grant. And I ask you, who wouldn’t? If a guy like that believes in you when nobody else does, you’re going to do things for him. Dangerous things.

  Once in Rio, Alicia gets an apartment and cuts back on her drinking. Eight days have passed and she’s clearly trying to prove herself to Devlin. But she knows what he’s thinking: “Once a tramp, always a tramp.”

  And she’s right, because here’s the thing—he believes she’s a patriot, but he also believes she’s a tramp. And this is going to play out for the rest of the movie. He admires her. He may even love her. But mostly, he judges her.

  It kills Alicia that Devlin can’t see how much she’s trying to change. Finally, on a windswept hilltop, she confronts him. “You’re sore because you’ve fallen for a little drunk you tailed in Miami, and you don’t like it. It makes you sick all over, doesn’t it?” He does the only thing he can think of to stop her (accurate) accusations. He takes her in his arms and kisses her. I get the feeling we missed a lot in those eight days.

  But while these two crazy kids are trying to work things out, a room full of old white men back at Spy Headquarters are making plans to pimp her out. They don’t just want Alicia to join the fun Nazi social whirl, they want her to seduce one guy in particular. And since she’s already damaged goods, she shouldn’t have a problem with that, right? Ugh.

  Enter Alex Sebastian (Claude Raines, being his deliciously oily self). He’s a German, working to build the Nazi war machine up again. Also, he has the hots for Alicia from the old days (In Casablanca, maybe…? Sorry! Sometimes I can’t help myself.)

  Anyhoo, being a Nazi has its perks, as Alicia finds when Sebastian invites her to a dinner party with the gang. He lives in a mansion with a sweeping staircase and a Teutonic mother. Played by Leopoldine Konstantin, she has a light accent, a Heidi braided crown, and distinct aura of evil. She’ll be trouble, mark my words.

  Each tuxedoed Nazi at the party is more odious than the last. Central casting must have had a field day (“Send in the Arians!”). Alicia observes all. Sebastian is putty in her hands.

  It goes on from there, but I’ve already said too much. Let me just tease you with the prospects of a wedding, Devlin crashing a Nazi cocktail party, some truly cold-blooded shit from Sebastian’s Wagnerian mother, and poison! You’ve got classic Hitchcock camerawork on that mansion’s marble staircase, Cary Grant in a tux, and hot and cold running Nazis—something for everyone.

  What you don’t have is the Cary Grant you know from every other movie he’s ever been in. There’s no amused glint in his eye, no barely suppressed glee. Instead, aside from one or two moments, he’s cold, hard, and detached. He may love Alicia, but he’s also jealous, frustrated, and cruel. And why? Because Alicia did exactly what he asked her to do. That doesn’t sound like Cary, does it? You know who it sounds like? Hitchcock. I’m just saying.

  Killer line

  When Sebastian finds out Alicia is a spy, he has to keep it from his fellow Nazis. He knows they’ll kill him if they find out. His terrifying mother tells him not to worry. “You are protected by the enormity of your stupidity.” I’ve spent half my life waiting to use that line on someone.

  More!

  If you want to see Cary Grant lying to Ingrid Bergman in a completely different context, I can’t recommend their later film, Indiscreet, enough. It’s a frothy comedy with perfect timing and absolutely sparkling dialog. Plus, many occasions for Ingrid to wear amazing gowns and for Cary to do what Cary does best in a tux. Watch it!

  Movies My Friends Should Watch

  Sally Lee

  Chapter 18

  “You’re notorious,” Callie said.

  “How could people think that? Why do people even know me?”

  We were taking the back stairs up to my office. When we got to the top we were met by Brandon, flushed and worried looking.

  “Have you heard?” he asked. “They think you killed S and Tommy.”

  “Both of them?” I moved down the hall. “That’s ridiculous. Why would I kill either of them? And how does anyone even know who I am?”

  “Someone put it together that Tommy owned the Palace and that you work here and that you were questioned by the police,” Brandon said.

  “One quarter of the Palace,” I said. “He only owned a quarter.”

  “Not really the point,” Callie said, following us into the office.

  I shook my head. “What, ex
actly, are they saying?” I sat at the desk and opened the laptop.

  Brandon closed it. “I don’t think you want to see it.”

  I stared at him.

  “Um, the guys on the forums, they can be a little…”

  “Crazy? Misogynistic? Disgusting?” Callie offered.

  “I was going to say ‘hotheaded,’” Brandon said. “They get a little carried away. You know, with, um, speculating.”

  “Okay.” I kept the laptop closed. “So how carried away are they? And why on earth do they think I would have killed anyone?”

  Brandon began. “They think you wanted to kill Tommy all along because you’re some sort of disgruntled employee. The most popular theory is that you poisoned something you thought Tommy would drink at the launch announcement, but that S drank it by mistake—”

  “I wasn’t even there!” I protested.

  Brandon swallowed and looked to Callie. “They’re just making things up,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Brandon made a strangled sound. I turned to him.

  “Um, I’d worry a little,” he said.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said. “How do they think I killed Tommy? Did I magically teleport myself into his car and pour arsenic in his juice?”

  “They think you were in the car with him,” Brandon said, flushing a deep crimson. “They think you, um…”

  I gaped at him. “That I spent the night with him?”

  Brandon looked up at the ceiling, turning bright pink. “Um, yeah.”

  “So let me get this straight—I’m a disgruntled employee who was in Palo Alto poisoning the wrong person even though over a hundred people saw me right here in this theater moments after S was killed, and I was also sleeping with my boss, whom I then poisoned after a night of passion at the Four Seasons even though twenty people saw me in the café and rushed out with me to help him when Tommy collapsed? Is that about it?”