Murder in the Balcony

by Margaret Dumas

  “I would hope,” I said.

  “His name is Picante—the dog’s. And she has two nieces and a nephew who are obsessed with Harry Potter.”

  “You got all of this from her social media?” Monica asked.

  “And tons more. I know she’d be a Hufflepuff from one quiz and that she’s Carrie Bradshaw on another. She’s lived in her place for a year and just painted her bathroom a super dark shade of blue.”

  “This is getting scary,” Monica said. “You don’t even know a person and you can know all this.”

  “She’s had her job at the bank for about two years. She volunteered with AmeriCorps for a few years after she graduated. So she’s literally a perfect person. Did I mention that she bakes? And she’s a Carrie?”

  “Again, stop it,” I told her. “Is this bank in the Financial District?”

  “Yeah, it’s—wait.” Callie stared at me. “Why? Do you think she was there that night?”

  I thought about it. “At the rate Warren and his friends were posting selfies and live streaming, anyone would have been able to find him at that bar. And if it was near where Ingrid works…”

  Callie was already on her phone. “She works at Chase,” she said. “It’s just a couple blocks from the bar.” She looked up at me. “What if she was there?”

  It was possible, but...“We didn’t see another woman in the pictures from that night,” I reminded her. I’d been looking for something incriminating in Warren’s interactions with tall blonde Sam when we’d looked, so I was pretty sure I’d have noticed anything incriminating with this tall blonde Ingrid. “I don’t think Warren was getting cozy with anyone after you left. At least not on camera.”

  Monica didn’t let that detail get in the way of a good theory. She jumped up. “But Ingrid might have been there! She might have seen Warren with you! What if that’s how she found out he was seeing someone else?” She turned to me. “What if she saw him with Callie and hung back, watching? What if she stayed out of sight until everyone taking pictures left, then went home with Warren? What if they argued and she killed him!” She seemed a little breathless.

  “In a fit of jealous rage.” I couldn’t help myself from saying it.

  “I mean, that would make it my fault, wouldn’t it?” Callie said, looking stricken. “That would mean Ingrid killed Warren over me.”

  “Warren’s still a two-timing dog,” Monica reminded her. “He has only himself to blame.”

  “Sure, but he didn’t deserve to get killed over that. I mean, I wouldn’t have killed him over Ingrid. I’d have wanted to, for a minute, but…oh.” Her eyes widened.

  “Right,” I said. “A minute is all it would take in the right circumstances.”

  “Like being wasted and furious and having a blunt object close at hand?” Monica said.

  We all sat with that for a moment. Then Callie spoke again. “But she seems so nice. Online, I mean.”

  “Bakers have killed before,” I said. I couldn’t think of any offhand, but they must have.

  Monica held up a finger. “If Ingrid did it, what does that real estate guy have to do with anything?”

  “That’s a different theory,” I said. “That’s the Warren-saw-McMillan-up-to-no-good-and-had-to-be-silenced theory.” That was still my favorite.

  “I mean, I hope it’s that one,” Callie said. “Just because I’m not in it anywhere.”

  “And who knows?” Monica offered. “It could be something we haven’t even thought about yet.”

  “True,” I said. But I didn’t think it was. I thought either Other Girlfriend Ingrid had something to do with Warren’s death or Evil Snake McMillan did.

  And the evil snake would be in the theater tomorrow.

  Born Yesterday

  1950

  If you learn nothing else from this movie, learn these two things. One: Judy Holliday was a comic genius who should be worshiped on a regular basis just for what she could do while she was humming. And Two: if William Holden gave us all personal civic lessons, voter participation in this country would soar.

  This is a movie about America and politics and corruption and toxic masculinity and entitlement and bullying, and also about overcoming all of the bad stuff because you realize you deserve the good stuff. Like information and education and the god-given right to wear glasses if you need them. This is a movie about redemption.

  Judy Holliday plays Billie Dawn, a former chorus girl who is now employed as the long-suffering girlfriend of the horrible Harry Brock (Broderick Crawford), a guy who made a fortune in junk and now wants to buy a few politicians so he can get even more of whatever he wants.

  Brock, Billie, and their entourage are first seen checking into a plush Washington D.C. hotel. Billie casually throws a pile of furs at the bellboy. She has more. These are vulgar people, with Brock an obnoxious blowhard who constantly tells anyone who’ll listen how much everything costs.

  Once they’re in their hotel suite Brock’s lawyer shows up (played by Howard St. John, who communicates in every gesture that he knows he’s sold his soul.) He warns Brock that a journalist is coming up to interview him. An intellectual. Someone who could be trouble. The lawyer’s advice? “Take him in, then he doesn’t go poking.” Because Brock has a lot of shady things to hide, and of course the journalist, like everyone, will have a price.

  Not so! Because the journalist in question, Paul Verrall, is played by the eternally stalwart William Holden, looking bookish and sexy in a tweed sports coat and glasses. (Why William Holden isn’t on every advertisement for glasses in existence is a mystery to me.) Paul is smart and he’s dreamy, and the instant he meets Billie we see that he is also kind.

  About that meeting. Brock bellows for Billie to join the men and she enters wearing a floaty dressing gown with a shy smile and does a little almost-curtsy thing that tells you that this dumb blonde is also sweet and a bit self-conscious and just plain endearing. And then she opens her mouth. All of Brooklyn is in her voice, and the loud raspy grating of it in contrast to her wide-eyed bombshell looks is everything.

  It’s here that Brock reveals himself. He yells at Billie in front of everyone. “Do what I’m tellin’ ya!” (This is something he yells a lot.) Humiliated, Billie leaves with exaggerated dignity. The lawyer says something, and Brock literally pushes him around. Paul the journalist observes it all. He’s seen bullies before.

  Because all movies need a plot, Brock hires Paul to give Billie a little educational polish. He’s afraid she’ll embarrass him in his meetings with crooked politicians and their judgy wives. Ever look in a mirror, Brock? No? Okay, moving on.

  Now we have a chance for Paul to teach Billie (and us) everything that’s wonderful and unique and problematic and inspiring about America. Not that she’s really up for it, at first. She’s happy being dumb. She has everything she wants. “As long as I know how to get what I want, I’m happy.” Sure, Paul agrees. “As long as you know what you want.” Got it. She’s not going to be happy with mink coats much longer.

  Paul takes her to monuments, he answers her questions, they talk and talk and talk and eventually her questions aren’t that dumb anymore. He gives her books, and more importantly, he gives her glasses. And when she starts to see what’s going on things gets really, really good.

  Speaking of really, really, good, I can’t say enough about what Holliday does with this role. She goes from dumb blonde punching bag to righteously defiant heroine without missing one single beat along the way. There is so much detail in her performance, from the way she hums to herself while playing solitaire to the actual sparks we see lighting in her as she realizes, to her own amazement, that she’s got the smarts and the power and the right to see Brock for what he is and take him down.

  “Hey, you think we can find somebody to make her dumb again?” Brock eventually asks. But no. That’s the thing about a little learning. Once yo
u understand the world you’re actually living in there’s no going back.

  There’s No Describing Comedy:

  If you’ve never seen what Judy Holliday could do with physical comedy, I can’t explain it to you. It’s just brilliant, but you have to see it yourself. For a master class, I encourage you to search online for the gin rummy scene from Born Yesterday. I could tell you how she puts out her cigarette, adjusts her jewelry, arranges and re-arranges her cards, and does a dozen other little things, but you really owe it to yourself to see it. Please!

  Judy, Judy, Judy:

  Judy was also a singer. If you haven’t seen Bells Are Ringing, you have such a treat in store. Why am I even talking about Born Yesterday when Bells Are Ringing is out there? In any case, she sings—both with and without Dean Martin. She even released an album of torch songs, titled Trouble is a Man. The next time you’re up at three in the morning killing a bottle of wine and wondering how you can have been such a fool for some guy (or is that just me?) just throw on “I Got Lost in His Arms” and know you’re not alone.

  Movies My Friends Should Watch

  Sally Lee

  Chapter 20

  “What about Fried Green Tomatoes?” Monica offered.

  She’d been right about a little of her chocolate going a long way. We were now back to listing movies with badass women and skunk men, and Monica was trying her best. “Or, what’s the one where Angela Basset sets her husband’s stuff on fire?”

  “Waiting to Exhale,” Callie and I answered in unison.

  “I mean, I see where you’re going,” Callie told her. “It’s just that they’re so…new.”

  “1991 and 1995, respectively,” I said. I blamed the chocolate for the fact that I couldn’t remember who had starred in Fried Green Tomatoes.

  “Right. I forgot you guys don’t like anything made within living memory,” Monica said.

  “Kathy Bates!” I called triumphantly.

  They both looked at me.

  “From the movie,” I explained. “Fried…hey, didn’t we order a pizza?”

  Which for some reason they thought was hilarious.

  “Maybe we should start selling pizza at the concessions stand,” I mused.

  “No.” Callie shook her head. “I don’t want the Palace to smell like pepperoni.”

  “Good point. I don’t either.” But I had to figure out some way to generate more income. Without the promise of a settlement in the foreseeable future I didn’t have hope of being able to perk up the Palace finances, let alone buy Tommy’s share and keep it out of McMillan’s evil clutches. “Maybe I should get a job.”

  Monica glanced around the empty theater. “Don’t you have one?”

  “Sure, but right now I’m costing the Palace.” I wasn’t costing it much, but that hadn’t been an issue so far. “If I got a real job, I might make the kind of money I could put to use around here.”

  “That’s crazy,” Callie said. “You shouldn’t put your own money into it.”

  “Not unless you’re an owner.” Monica gave me a thoughtful look.

  “Besides, what could you do?” Callie asked. “For a job, I mean.”

  “Ouch,” I said. “What does anyone do?”

  We thought about it.

  “Joan Blondell would get a job on Broadway as a chorus girl,” Callie suggested.

  “That’s helpful. But we’re nowhere near Broadway. Lana Turner would flip burgers at a hash house.”

  “What language are you guys speaking?” Monica asked.

  “You don’t want to flip burgers,” Callie said. “Think of your complexion. Greer Garson would become a secretary.”

  I shuddered. “Too many paper cuts. How about—”

  But whatever brainstorm I was about to have was cut off by the sound of a loud banging coming from the lobby.

  “The pizza!” Callie said. “That must be the delivery guy.”

  “I’ll go,” I stood quickly. Which perhaps wasn’t the best of all possible ideas. “I can still afford to pay for a pizza.”

  I left them on the stage and went up the aisle of the darkened auditorium. When I opened the lobby door, I saw a figure silhouetted at the glass double doors to the street.

  I paused. When Ted had come roaring back into my life he’d shown up silhouetted at those doors. Why had I ever let him in? Oh, right, because I’m an idiot.

  I crossed the lobby, realizing that I couldn’t actually pay for the pizza after all. I’d left my purse in my office. I’d have to run up and get it after I let the pizza guy in.

  “I’m so sorry, but—” I opened the door and stared. There was a guy holding a pizza, but he wasn’t the pizza guy. He was an unbelievably attractive guy, with dark eyes and thick lashes. Also, his hair was perfect.

  I don’t know how long we would have stood there staring at each other. My excuse was the wine and Monica’s chocolate. I don’t know what his was.

  In any case, the spell was broken by a delighted squeal from behind me. Trixie’s unmistakable voice. “Nora, it’s the dishy Latin Lover!”

  Yes it was.

  “Hi, Hector.”

  “Let him in, Nora!” Trixie looked from Hector to me in confusion. “What’s the matter? I thought we liked him.”

  I held up a “one minute” finger to Hector and closed the door in his face. Then I turned my back to him.

  “Trixie, I’m really glad to see you, but can you do me a favor and let me talk to Hector by myself?” I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to know I was in no condition to keep up a conversation with a very observant man and a very chatty ghost at the same time.

  Trixie dimpled. “Sure, honey,” she said. “I get it. You want to be alone with Ramone Navarro here.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Good luck, honey. I always did like this one better than that phony husband of yours.” She vanished.

  Great. Even Trixie had seen Ted was a phony.

  There was a tapping from behind me, and I turned to see Hector, pizza still in hand, giving me raised eyebrows. I opened the door.

  “You should know that I’m not in the habit of waiting patiently for a woman after she’s closed the door in my face,” he informed me. “Particularly when I’ve just tipped a delivery boy rather extravagantly to let me deliver her pizza.”

  I looked at him. “You should know that I have a bad history of letting the wrong man into this lobby in the middle of the night.”

  “I am not the wrong man.”

  “Time will tell.”

  He handed me the pizza. “May I come in?”

  I’d forgotten that his words weren’t so much accented as spiced with South American inflections. I looked up at him. He looked good. His hair was very slightly longer but still fell just right. His skin was a little darker, no doubt from all that South American sunshine. Which for some reason made me wonder about tan lines.

  I looked away as a flash of something behind him caught my eye. The tiled walkway leading from the lobby doors to the sidewalk was lit dimly by streetlights. But something brighter flared briefly across the street. The glass door of Café Madeline had just closed.

  That was weird. I blinked, straining to see. There was another light, coming from inside the café. A dull orange glow.

  I looked back to Hector, who was gazing at me with an amused expression. “I don’t usually have this effect—”

  “Call 911.” I shoved the pizza back into his arms and moved past him to the sidewalk.

  “Nora?”

  “Call 911!” I yelled again. Because I could see it clearly now. The café was on fire.

  I ran across the street and wrenched at the door handle. It was locked.

  “Nora!” Hector yelled. I looked around for something to break the glass. The fire was still small, in the open kitchen area behin
d the counter. If I could get to it quickly…

  “Move!” Hector shoved me out of his way. He’d taken off his leather jacket and wrapped it around his right hand. Now he punched at the glass door, shielding his eyes with his other arm.

  The glass broke and he reached in to unlock the door. I hoped our breaking and entering would set off an alarm and summon help.

  The fire was growing, smoke filling the room, billowing along the ceiling. Hector ran straight to the fire and began beating at it with his jacket.

  “Hector, no!” I yelled.

  “Get out!” He thrashed at the growing fire. I couldn’t tell if he was making any progress. I ran to the other side of the counter, to the hallway leading back to the restrooms. Mounted on the wall was a fire extinguisher. I hadn’t spent every morning at the café for the past three months without noticing something. I unlatched it from its mount and pulled the pin as I raced back around the counter.

  Hector was backing away from the growing flames, still beating at them with his now-singed jacket.

  “Hector, move!” I pointed the extinguisher at the heart of the fire. I pulled the handle and was knocked back a step by the force of the foam shooting out the nozzle. But it did it. It put the fire out.

  I kept shooting foam until the extinguisher was empty. Then I kept shooting air until Hector took the thing out of my shaking hands. He dropped it to the floor and put his arm around my shoulders, leading me back through the café to the street.

  We were both coughing, covered in soot and splattered with foam. Hector still held his smoldering jacket. I knocked it out of his hand and stomped on it until the embers were out. We both turned to the sound of approaching sirens.

  “I will say this for you, Nora.” He slung his arm around my shoulders again. I glanced up at him. His hair was still perfect. “It’s never dull with you.”