Movie Palace Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Margaret Dumas

  “I told you they were crazy,” Callie said, scrolling furiously on her phone.

  “Why should I be worried?” I asked Brandon. “You said I should be worried, but I can’t believe anyone would take this seriously.”

  “Well, not if they stop to think about it,” he agreed. “The thing is—”

  “They’re crazy,” Callie said again, not looking up from her screen.

  Brandon pointed at her. “That,” he gulped. “What she said.”

  I looked at Callie. “Has it gone mainstream?”

  She glanced up and shook her head. “It’s all just on the gamer blogs. It hasn’t migrated to social media yet.”

  “I suppose that’s something.” I hadn’t gone viral. Yet.

  “You should lay low,” she advised. “Don’t go to any of the gamer forums—they’ll track your identity in a hot minute. And don’t try to defend yourself.”

  Brandon nodded vehemently. “Anything you say will just be twisted around. You’ll just fan the flames.”

  “I’m supposed to just let them say whatever they want about me?”

  “Let it burn itself out,” Callie urged. “By this afternoon they’ll be on to someone else.”

  I sat back, feeling queasy. “Remember what I said the other day about the wisdom of the crowd?” I asked them.

  They looked at me.

  “The crowd is crazy.”

  By mid-afternoon I couldn’t take it anymore. I felt like every single person who came into the theater was looking at me like I was a murderer. Never mind that the senior citizens who brought their grandchildren in for classic films didn’t exactly fit the profile of rabid gamer fanboys. I still felt notorious.

  Ultimately I pulled my hair into a ponytail, put on a baseball cap, and stopped off at the ticket booth to tell Callie I needed a walk.

  “Nice disguise,” she said. “What about sunglasses?”

  I took them from my bag and put them on.

  “Perfect.”

  I walked toward downtown, wanting to tire myself out with as many hills as possible. Walking was my therapy. It was how I got my head straight, and I had a lot to get straight. I turned left at Filmore and went uphill and down until I found myself at the marina, looking out over the bay.

  I wasn’t the only one walking the city. The first few times I saw them, I didn’t really pay attention to the clumps of young people wandering around together, intent on their phones. But by about the third time I’d been bumped into, I figured it out.

  They were playing the game.

  Once I realized what was happening, I looked at the groups more closely. Mostly clusters of four or five players, some as large as a dozen, each concentrating on their screen, looking at the world around them through their cameras, seeing who knows what kind of AR everywhere.

  I sat on a bench at the Marina Green, my back to the sparkling bay. I was more interested in the gamers drifting around on the jogging paths and open grassy field. There were at least three groups of players meandering within eyesight. I watched them, fascinated.

  They formed loose circles, each one facing out in a different direction, so among them they had a three-sixty view of the world. Occasionally someone would shout, and they’d all point their phones in the same direction, oohing and ahhing and arguing about what they were seeing and what it might mean. They wandered into the paths of oncoming joggers and cyclists, and didn’t seem to notice. I thought about the rumors of people stumbling into traffic, oblivious, when playing S’s last game. Watching these players, it seemed entirely plausible. Inevitable. I wondered how many of them might get hurt. I wondered how many of them frequented the gamer forums.

  Eventually they all wandered off, presumably following more clues, and other groups came. It was pretty clear by then, at least to me, that no virtual gold coin worth millions lurked on the Green.

  Watching them, I thought things over. The Internet—or at least some weird offramps of it—thought I was a killer. Meanwhile, there was an actual killer running around poisoning people. If I figured out who that was, would the Internet leave me alone? I had no idea. But I took out my phone and jotted down notes of what I did know, hoping some obvious clue would leap out at me.

  S was poisoned with bee pollen.

  Tommy was poisoned with arsenic.

  They were together the day before the webcast, at least for part of the day at Monica’s shop.

  S bought a lot of weed that day and was a regular user. He seemed high onstage even before he got sick.

  Tommy and S argued the morning of the webcast.

  The bee pollen may have been in the energy drink S drank onstage.

  The arsenic was in the orange juice Tommy drank in his car.

  Nothing leapt out at me, probably because I didn’t know enough about either victim to know who would have wanted them both dead.

  I found myself wondering who else had been with Tommy and S the morning of the webcast in Palo Alto. Did either of them have an entourage? Assistants? Someone close enough to S to know if he was allergic to bees? Someone close enough to Tommy to know he’d been staying at the Four Seasons? Someone with access to both bee pollen and arsenic? Did either of them have a girlfriend who might have been with them? No, that wouldn’t fit. Why would one girlfriend want both men dead?

  Then I remembered Kristy. Abby had told Monica and me that S had spent a lot of time with her in the shop that day. I had no idea if he might have told her anything meaningful, but I couldn’t think of anything better to do, so I got off the bench and headed for the Potent Flower.

  “Ohmygod he was amazing,” Kristy said.

  We were talking in the lounge in Monica’s shop, Monica having given permission for her sales assistant to take a break. There were a few other patrons in the room, talking among themselves on the low benches that lined the walls, or working on their laptops at the central table. We kept our voices down.

  “He was a genius,” Kristy said, the dim light of the lounge giving her long lavender hair a hazy sort of glow. “If you told me he was an enlightened being from another world, or another dimension, I would totally believe you. I mean, just look!”

  She pointed at the giant video screen on the wall. It took me a minute to realize what I was looking at. “Is that the game?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Thirty-second live streams from player’s phones all over the world.”

  One half of the screen showed wobbly hand-held videos while the other half had scrolling text that looked like comments players were making. The videos were of streets, buildings, parks, and anywhere else on the planet people were playing the game, occasionally including one of the AR effects. I got a glimpse of what looked like a CGI chimney sweep on someone’s roof, and then a fortune teller sitting on a building’s front steps.

  “It’s a whole world,” Kristy said, transfixed. “He built a whole beautiful world, and they killed him.”

  It looked like the same old world to me, with the random addition of the AR characters, which I had to admit did look pretty cool.

  “What do you mean, ‘they’ killed him?” I asked her.

  She didn’t take her eyes off the screen. “His enemies,” she shrugged.

  “He told you about his enemies?” That sounded promising.

  “He didn’t have to. I saw what he was going through. You should have heard the way that other guy yelled at him, and right before he went onstage. So disrespectful! Like he could have done anything without S.”

  “Wait—are you talking about Tommy? Are you saying you were there in Palo Alto? The day of the launch?”

  “Sure.” She looked surprised that this wasn’t common knowledge. “S and I really connected, you know? He hung out here in the lounge after we met that day. And then we went out, and then back to his place, and when the car came to take him to the venue in t
he morning, he just assumed I’d come along, so I did.” She glanced at me. “We were soulmates. We both knew it.”

  “Right,” I said, my mind racing with questions. “Did you notice when S started feeling sick? Was it before he went onstage, or just after he took that drink? Did you see who took the bottle from him? Or if anyone had it before he took it onstage?”

  She finally turned her attention away from the screen, fixing me with a look. “Isn’t it obvious what happened?” she asked. “That guy Tommy poisoned S, and then when he realized that he couldn’t run the game without him, he killed himself.” She shrugged. “Simple.”

  I blinked, not quite knowing how to respond. I was spared the need to when there was suddenly a blinding flash of light from the screen. Music blared, and the image of a giant gold coin appeared, rotating and sending off sparks. Everyone in the lounge started murmuring, then yelling in excitement.

  Kristy leapt up, clapping and whooping. “They found one!” she yelled joyfully. “They found the first coin!”

  Chapter 19

  A few moments later the lounge was swarming with people, all of them shouting with excitement, drawn in from the shop to see what was going on. The giant video screen blared the news that the game’s first virtual coin, worth six million dollars, had been found in a small town in Germany. I saw Monica making her way to me.

  “I guess this means Tommy’s company won’t be pulling the game,” she said.

  I looked at the fevered crowd around us. “There would be rioting in the streets.”

  I realized Kristy had disappeared in all the excitement. “Did you know Kristy was at the event in Palo Alto the day S died?” I asked Monica, raising my voice above all the noise.

  She stared at me. “No! What?”

  “She and S were soulmates,” I said, managing not to roll my eyes. I scanned the room for her. “Where’d she go?”

  “There,” Monica said with some relief, pointing to the far end of the room. Kristy and the other employees were moving through the crowd, gently but insistently getting the patrons out of the lounge and back into the shop. Monica’s employees reminded me of sheepdogs, if all the sheep were high.

  “Listen, I should get back to—” Monica began.

  “Go,” I told her. “This is crazy.”

  “Call me later if you want to play the game after all,” she said with a smile as she headed out of the lounge. “It looks like it might be worth it.”

  “Kristy,” I approached the sales associate once order had been somewhat restored. She was still radiant with excitement. “We need to talk.”

  “Sure,” she said. “But not right now. I’ve got to go. My shift is over in five, and my squad is gathering to play. There are more coins out there.”

  “Wait.” I put my hand on her arm as she turned to go. “What about S?”

  A flash of impatience crossed her face. “I told you what happened,” she said. “Tommy killed him. I saw him throw that bottle at S when they were fighting. He’s the only one who could have poisoned it. It had to have been Tommy.”

  “I really didn’t think Tommy did it,” I said to Trixie. “But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he just played me.”

  We were in the break room. I was making a pot of terrible coffee and telling her everything Kristy had said.

  “Do you think that girl told the police what she saw?” Trixie asked. “Is that why they arrested Tommy in the first place?”

  “He didn’t say anything about there being a witness,” I said doubtfully. “But, then, he wouldn’t.”

  She perched on the table, her petite shoes on a chair, biting her lip in concentration.

  “Well, let’s just think it through,” she said. “Why…?” She scrunched her face. “No, but how…” she tapped her forehead. “No, who!” She beamed. “That’s the question—if Tommy killed that other fella, then who killed Tommy?”

  “And why?” I asked. “Who and why?”

  “At least we know how,” Trixie offered helpfully.

  “There’s that,” I agreed. “I have to talk to Kristy again. She said she saw Tommy throw the bottle at S. Did she see him open it? Did she actually see him tamper with it?” I shook my head. “Never mind why he’d just happen to have a lethal dose of bee pollen on him.”

  “Don’t worry,” Trixie said. “You can talk to her again tomorrow, can’t you?”

  I gave her a blank look.

  “At the séance, silly!”

  Oh, dear lord. I’d forgotten about the séance. Again.

  I spent most of the day Monday in my office on the laptop, playing what felt like several rounds of whack-a-mole with lawyers.

  First I set out to find Tommy’s personal lawyer. The latest news was full of information about his criminal defense team, but I assumed they were not the same bunch who would have handled his will. I kept sleuthing until, in an online profile from a few years back, I saw the name Marc Picco mentioned as Tommy’s longtime attorney. I found Picco’s website and sent him an email asking who the ownership of Tommy’s one quarter of the Palace would pass to now that he was dead. The lawyer might not tell me, but least I’d find out if he was the right guy to ask, and I’d be able to tell the other owners who they should get in touch with.

  After that I searched through the small print of Tommy’s company website, looking for the name of his corporate law firm. I hoped they could answer the big question about Tommy’s presumed motive for killing S: With S out of the way, would Tommy make more money? I had no expectation that these lawyers would tell me anything about anything—why would they? So instead of asking them, I wrote to my very expensive team of lawyers down in LA and told them to find out whatever they could, hoping that a little attorney-on-attorney action might yield some information. You never knew.

  And as long as I was writing to my lawyers, I took the opportunity to inform them that my supposedly bankrupt, almost-ex-husband Ted had enough money to buy a fortune in Hollywood memorabilia, in the form of famous movie gowns. Where had he come up with that money? And when, when, would I be free of him for good?

  I did not send a text to Ted, asking what he needed me to do so much that he’d attempted to bribe me into doing it.

  I did not send a text to Otis Hampton, asking whether his team of private investigators had come up with any leads on where Ted had stashed our life’s savings.

  I did not send a text to Hector.

  Lillian Gee, noted fashionista and amateur spiritual medium, showed up for Monday night’s séance fully looking the part. She wore a flowing black lace dress, ropes upon ropes of black jet beads, and tiny black silk roses in her thick wavy hair.

  “If you say one word to mock her,” Callie greeted me in the lobby. She and her mother, as well as Albert, were already at the Palace when I got back from the walk I’d taken in an attempt to get into a séance-y mood.

  “Never in a million years,” I promised. “What’s all this?” I looked at the half-dozen high-tech bags and crates surrounding her on the floor. “Spectrographs? Ectoplasm detectors? Ghostly voice recorders? And, by the way, I’m not mocking your mother. I’m mocking you. I didn’t even think you were coming.”

  Lillian was out of earshot, talking animatedly with Albert on the far side of the lobby. I could tell the aged devotee of the Palace was almost as enthusiastic as Callie’s mom was.

  Callie gave me a dark look. “It’s my camera equipment. I’m filming it. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Nobody told me anything.” Aside from Trixie, that is. But it was probably a little early in the proceedings for me to bring up my conversations with the Palace’s famous ghost.

  Oddly enough, I hadn’t seen Trixie all day. I’d been in and out of the theater setting things up and banging out emails with not a peep from her. I hoped that her excitement over the séance hadn’t been too much for her. When things got to be too much
for her, she had a habit of going poof—simply disappearing for some indeterminate length of time.

  “Nora!” Lillian opened her arms and floated across the lobby when she spotted me talking to Callie. “I’m so excited! I can just feel the energy—can’t you?”

  “I feel something,” I said, returning her hug. “Hi, Albert.”

  “Nora,” he said with a smile. “I have a feeling this will be a night to remember.”

  “We can only hope.” I knew Albert had seen Trixie. He’d known her in life, when he was just a ten-year-old kid and she was a bombshell usherette he and his friends had all crushed on. But he’d once told me that he’d also seen her since then, just glimpses over the years. I had a feeling the aged Albert was still half in love with her. And I had a feeling he suspected I knew more about her than I was saying.

  “I put a table and chairs on the stage,” I told them. “How many are coming?”

  “Well,” Lillian clasped her hands together. “The four of us, and your friend Monica is bringing friends.”

  “Abby and Kristy,” I nodded.

  “So that’s seven.” She turned to her daughter. “Calandria, dear, what about your colleagues?”

  “Brandon’s off playing that game,” she said. “And I banned Marty from the building. I figured you wouldn’t want his negativity.”

  “Exactly right,” she said, nodding sagely. “The spirits can sense an unbeliever.”

  I knew one spirit who made it a habit to watch a movie from the projection booth with her favorite unbeliever at least once a week, but I wasn’t the expert here.

  “Gabriela said she was coming,” I said. “With Hector.” I felt self-conscious saying his name, as if everyone would be able to sense something had happened just by the way the word “Hector” left my lips.