Movie Palace Cozy Mystery Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Margaret Dumas

  Abby was at the Potent Flower when I got there just before noon. She was deep in conversation with a customer at the same tall display table in the back corner where I’d met her the first time.

  Abby was too involved with her customer to notice me, so I went over, out of her eyeline but hovering close enough to hear her conversation.

  “Ragweed,” she was saying. “That’s very common. Do you know you should avoid chamomile tea if you’re allergic to ragweed?”

  The customer, a middle-aged woman who seemed a little overwhelmed by the whole Potent Flower experience, shook her head.

  “They’re in the same family,” Abby told her. “Stay away from it when you’re choosing your herbal teas. Here, I think this will be perfect for you.” She plucked a tiny bottle topped with an eyedropper from the displayed assortment on the table and handed it to the woman.

  I winced. I’d totally forgotten about the similar tiny bottle Abby had given me on the night of the séance. It was probably still in my jeans pocket, at home in my laundry basket.

  The customer thanked her and moved away, and Abby looked around the shop for someone else to help.

  “Abby? Hi!” I tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped when she saw it was me.

  “Nora!” she put a hand to her chest. “I didn’t see you there. How are you?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Just fine. Your tincture worked marvels.” I hadn’t tried her tincture, but it seemed like the polite thing to say, especially when she was trying to sell more.

  “Did it?” she blinked. “Good. I’m so glad. I knew it would. Are you here for Monica?”

  I nodded. “We’re going to visit Kristy at the hospital. But I wanted to talk to you. Have you got a minute?”

  A short heavyset man in his forties joined us at the table. “Excuse me,” he said. “They told me you do custom blends of some sort?”

  Abby gave me an apologetic look. “Can we talk when you get back?”

  Just then the door to the lounge opened and Monica emerged. “That sounds perfect,” I said to Abby. “See you then.”

  Once we were out on the sidewalk, Monica gave me an appraising look. “Why do you need to talk to Abby? I’ve never known you to be interested in cannabis.”

  “Really?” I said innocently.

  “What I have known you to be interested in is murder investigations. What do you think Abby knows?”

  “Maybe nothing,” I said. “Or maybe something that she thinks is nothing.”

  “Does Detective Jackson know you’re asking questions?”

  “We’ve come to an understanding,” I said breezily. “Forged in cookies.”

  “Uh huh,” Monica said. “Just be careful. I don’t want to have to visit you in the hospital next.”

  “It’s fine,” I told her. “I’m just going to talk to her about the other day to see if it jogs either of our memories.”

  But I didn’t, because when we got back to the Potent Flower after visiting Kristy, Abby had packed up her things and gone.

  “How’s the kid?” Marty asked when I got back to the theater. I knew by “the kid” he meant Kristy.

  “Still no change,” I told him. “But the doctors say that could be a good sign. Why are you down here?”

  Marty hardly ever ventured out of his lair once customers started showing up at the Palace. He might actually have to talk to them or something. But now not only was he in the lobby, he was behind the candy counter, as if he might actually wait on someone.

  “Albert was feeling tired, so he left. I don’t know what you and Callie did to wear him out so much this morning. You two need to remember he’s frailer than he looks.”

  “Marty, you’re very sweet to look out for him, but I promise Callie and I didn’t take advantage. Did you see all the photos?”

  He harrumphed, turning away from me and fiddling with the soda machine. He hated it when I called him sweet, which is why I did so at the slightest provocation. “Of course I saw the photos,” he said. “I think I might have spotted Mel Blanc in one of them.”

  “Mel Blanc? As in Bugs Bunny Mel Blanc?” The actor had voiced practically all of Warner Brothers’ most famous cartoon characters.

  “He grew up in San Francisco.” Marty’s tone said any fool would know that.

  “Huh. I wonder if he ever came to the movies here? That could be another thing we could do with an app.” I came around the counter to see what he was doing with the soda machine. It was making a disturbing and not unfamiliar clanking sound, and I now saw Marty had an array of wrenches and screwdrivers lined up next to it. “Famous visitors to the Palace, returning as AR holograms.”

  “The app,” he repeated derisively. “Are you still on that?” He took up a wrench.

  “I’m still on anything that might make us money. What’s wrong with—” But before I could finish asking, the soda machine belched and a spray of syrup spewed all over. Marty leapt away, catching only a little of it, but I was immediately drenched in sticky brown liquid.

  I turned to him, dripping, and was about to launch into an indignant tirade when he stopped me cold.

  “I suppose this isn’t the best time to mention it,” he said. “But Otis Hampton is waiting for you in your office.”

  Chapter 30

  I stared at Marty. “What?”

  “Otis Hampton,” he said, wiping the soda into his flannel shirt. “The producer. He got here about half an hour ago. I told him I didn’t know when you’d be back, but he said he’d wait.”

  “And you didn’t think maybe you should send me a text? Or at the very least tell me as soon as I got here?”

  He sniffed. “I assumed you had an appointment. I don’t know what you get up to with those big fancy Hollywood types.”

  “Marty!” I looked down at myself. My sweatshirt and jeans were ruined, not that they’d been great to begin with. “Do I look like I was expecting a big fancy Hollywood type today?”

  “Do I pay attention to how you dress?” he countered. “Why don’t you keep a spare shirt or something here?”

  “Why? I…I…” I was sputtering incoherently. Luckily, someone else was capable of rational thought.

  “I mean, you have all those clothes downstairs.”

  I whirled around to see that Callie had come in from the ticket booth. So had several people who were presumably customers for the two-thirty show. They were all staring at me.

  I took a breath. Then I turned on Marty. “You, go upstairs and tell Otis to wait. And get him out of my office. I don’t want him snooping around. You—” I pointed to Callie. “Get these lovely people anything they want besides soda and meet me downstairs the minute Brandon shows up to take over up here.”

  I sprinted for the stairs to the basement.

  “I mean, wow.”

  This was Callie’s reaction when she joined me in the prop room fifteen minutes later.

  “Have you seen Otis?” I asked her. “Where is he?”

  “Marty put him in the balcony,” she said. “He’s watching Silk Stockings. You look amazing. Is that Chanel?”

  She meant my jacket. “It is,” I said. “I figured if I was going to put on my battle gear I might as well put on the best.”

  I’d chosen a pair of black jeans that did magical things to my butt, a white silk shirt that had cost more than it would take to get the soda machine repaired, and a black-and-white speckled Chanel jacket that took the whole thing to the next level.

  “I mean, you have to wear these booties,” Callie said, pulling a black stiletto Louboutin from a pile.

  “They hurt like a—”

  “Otis Hampton,” Callie stopped me. “He’s one of the biggest guys in the business and you’re a former screenwriter who ran away from Hollywood. The least you should do is be taller than him.”

  I blinked. “You’
re right. See if you can find a lipstick somewhere.”

  “I’m on it,” she said. “And then, like it or not, I’m going to give you a messy bun. What do you think he wants?”

  “Something insane to do with Ted, no doubt,” I told her. “I’m just trying to figure out how to leverage that into getting Ted the part he wants in that movie.”

  I turned to find her staring at me, boots in one hand and a makeup bag in the other. “You’re helping Ted? The Ted who left you? The Ted who stole all your money? You’re—”

  I took the makeup from her. “I’m only helping Ted because he’s holding the paperwork on those gowns hostage. And if this goes the way I think it will, I’m really not doing him any favors.”

  “He’s using you,” Callie said.

  “Yup.” I rummaged around in the bag for a lipstick or mascara or something. “He’s using me to manage Otis, and Otis is no doubt here to use me against Ted. I just have to figure out how I can use them both to get what I want.”

  “What do you want?” Callie asked.

  “Both of them out of my life.”

  “Otis.” I came around from my desk. “I had no idea you were in town. Why didn’t you let me know?”

  I’d taken the back stairs to my office, asking Callie to bring Otis to me. When he arrived I specifically didn’t apologize for keeping him waiting.

  “Nora.” He air kissed me on both cheeks and then stepped back to give me the kind of appraising head-to-toe sweep that I was sure many lawyers had told him never to subject a woman to again. Ugh.

  Otis himself was nothing special to look at. Not as tall as he thought he was, or as fit. He was well into his fifties and tended to go a little overboard with the Botox. He wore the muted tones of casual Hollywood. His teeth were blindingly white.

  “You look amazing,” he said. “I heard you were letting yourself go. I’ll have to defend your honor the next time anyone says anything.”

  Ah ha. That’s why he was here. He was afraid his plot to make it look like Glen Hendricks and I were dating would fall flat if I hadn’t kept up my hair color or if, God forbid, I’d gained six pounds.

  “San Francisco agrees with me,” I told him. “Have a seat. What brings you here?”

  I’d maneuvered him to one of the guest chairs. I took a seat behind the desk. Any little edge I could have would help.

  “Can’t a friend just stop by to say hello?” he asked, the picture of innocence.

  “Sure,” I said. “But that usually doesn’t involve getting on a plane.”

  He grinned. “Okay, you caught me. I was on my way to my ranch in Montana and I had a craving for dim sum,” he said. “I told them to re-route through San Francisco.”

  Sure. That sounded plausible. Even whimsical, in a billionaire-with-a-private-jet sort of way. “We do have good dim sum,” I allowed.

  “The best!” he enthused. “I’m just sorry I didn’t think to ask you to join me. But when we were leaving the restaurant and I realized how close we were to this place…well.” He smiled one of those Hollywood smiles that I really didn’t miss.

  “Well,” I agreed and leaned forward, my tone becoming chummy, “as a matter of fact, Otis, I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Really?” He gave me a sharp look. “Because when we last spoke I got the impression you were cooling on our plan.” He paused for effect. “That’s not something you want to do.”

  I bit back a comment about there being no such thing as “our” plan, and overlooked his implied threat. I didn’t have time for either.

  “The truth is, I’m concerned,” I said instead. “After all, the Venice Film Festival is months away. I want to finalize my divorce, and that means finalizing the settlement, and that means finding the money Ted stole. I don’t want to wait months for that.”

  “Sure,” Otis agreed. His phone buzzed and he took it from his pocket, reading a text while he talked to me. “Don’t worry about that. I’ve got my guys working on the money angle.”

  Now that he was confident in my cooperation again he’d clearly lost interest. He read another text, frowning.

  “Otis, I have a better idea.”

  “Yeah? Great. Listen, why don’t you email it to me? I’ve got a plane to catch…” Still looking at his phone, he moved to stand.

  “Your plane will wait,” I said.

  Something about my tone got his attention.

  “We need to do something about Ted sooner rather than later,” I told him. “Put down your phone and listen. I’ve got a plan.”

  I fixed him with the kind of look I hadn’t had much use for since coming to the Palace. But apparently I still had it, because he pocketed the phone, his faintly amused look telling me he was intrigued enough to humor me for a minute—but just a minute.

  “You’ve bought in as a producer on that new Scandinavian franchise,” I said quickly. “And Ted wants the lead.”

  “I’ve bought in as a producer on every deal in town that Ted could possibly want,” Otis said smugly, a glint of something dangerous in his eye. “Just to make sure he doesn’t get it. We’ll just see how much Priya wants to be with a has-been. Once he’s been black-balled—”

  “Sure,” I cut him off. “But I want you to give it to him. The Scandinavian thing.”

  He sat back, a look of distrust crossing his face. “Nora, if you’re going soft on me—”

  “If you give him that part, you own him.” I said impatiently. “You’re his boss. You control where the location shoots are, and how long he has to be off on some frozen fjord. You control his schedule, which means you control his life. And you control his career. Make sure the franchise tanks and he won’t be nearly so attractive to Priya.”

  I waited a moment for that to sink in. When he blinked I knew I had him.

  “Give Ted what he thinks he wants,” I said. “And then make his life hell.”

  He leaned forward. “I’m not the only producer on the project. They won’t just let me tank the whole—”

  “Buy them out,” I said. “You’ve got the money. Spend it on what you really want. And that isn’t another ranch in Montana.”

  He hesitated. “What’s in it for you?”

  This was a rare show business negotiation in which honesty was the best policy. “Short term, I’ve done him a favor by getting you to see he’s right for the part,” I said. “Which means he’ll give me something in return. But long term…”

  Otis was all attention.

  “If I know you at all, you’re going to make him miserable on that shoot,” I said. “Maybe so miserable that after a few weeks he’ll come to you, offering to do whatever it takes to get out of his contract. You’ll tell him what it will take.”

  “He has to leave Priya,” Otis said.

  “No. That’s not what you want.”

  He looked startled.

  “You want Priya to leave him.”

  Otis blinked. His face became grim. “Yes,” he said roughly. “Yes, I do.”

  “Then this is your play,” I told him. “Your price for letting Ted out of his contract will be him miraculously recovering the money he stole from me and agreeing to a settlement.”

  “Leaving him broke,” Otis said.

  “Leaving him a multimillionaire movie star,” I said dryly. “But closer to broke than he was. Then you recast Ted’s part and make that movie the biggest grossing blockbuster of the summer. Without him.”

  “He’ll look like a fool.” An ugly smile spread across Otis’s face. “And that’s when Priya will leave him.”

  I felt a moment’s sympathy for Priya. Then I stood, looking at my watch. “Now, you said something about a plane to catch?”

  Blog Post: All About Eve

  1950

  Let’s talk about a scheming woman. Let’s talk about a woman who manipulates, and plots, a
nd plays a long game of using whoever she can to get what she wants. Let’s talk about Eve Harrington. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about Margo Channing.

  Bette Davis plays Margo, and some would argue that the brilliant, insecure, ageing stage actress is the role of her career. Margo is a firestorm of willfulness, passion, and ego. In short, she’s glorious.

  The story begins at a theatrical awards banquet, and we’re immediately in the excellent hands of our narrator Addison DeWitt. He’s a theater critic, played by George Saunders at his most unctuous, which is saying something. He delivers every line like an aristocratic cat who just finished a particularly delicious bowl of cream.

  At the banquet, DeWitt introduces us to the playwright Lloyd Richards (Hugh Marlowe), his wife Karen (Celeste Holm), and ultimately, Margot Channing. The camera moves to Bette Davis, lighting her own cigarette, pouring her own drink, and very clearly bored with the proceedings. She is, DeWitt informs us, “A great star, a true star. She never was or will be anything else or anything less.” Damn right.

  But Margo isn’t getting the award. No, that’s going to another actress. A younger, fresher actress—Eve Harrington (Anne Baxter.) And the rest of the movie is going to tell us all about Eve.

  Flashback! Karen the playwright’s wife has noticed a mousy young woman standing outside the stage door every night as Margo stars in her husband’s hit play. One night she invites the poor waif inside to meet her idol Margo. The great actress is covered in cold cream and being attended to by her dresser Birdie (Thelma Ritter! Oh, how I love the skeptical, practical joy that is Thelma Ritter.)

  Eve immediately ingratiates herself to Margo, spinning a heartbreaking tale that leaves not a dry eye in the dressing room. (Except Birdie’s, of course.) The mood is broken when they’re joined by Margo’s director and beau Bill Simpson. (Gary Merrill, who divorced his wife to marry Bette Davis soon after they made this movie. She’s that good.)

  Bill is about to leave Broadway to go to Hollywood, a betrayal of the theater of the highest order, and something that makes Margo nakedly insecure. She’s of a certain age, and he’s going to the land of starlets. “Am I going to lose you, Bill?” It doesn’t look that way to me, but then there’s the Eve factor.