Murder in the Balcony

by Margaret Dumas

  “I’m a friend of Nora’s.” Hector answered.

  “Uh huh,” Jackson said. “Friends wait in the lobby. Someone will take your statement.”

  Hector looked like he was about to object, but I intervened. “Can you find Albert?” I asked him. “He was already tired out, and all this…”

  I could tell he didn’t like being sidelined, but he nodded. “I’ll see to him.”

  Following Jackson through the crowded lobby I wished it were just as easy to ask someone to look after Trixie. I couldn’t get the image of her agonized face out of my mind.

  In the auditorium, the crime scene people were hard at work. The area where Sam had fallen was taped off. Jackson led me past it to the front of the theater, so we could look up at the balcony where more specialists were measuring, dusting, and taking samples of everything.

  “Tell me what happened.” Jackson said.

  So I did, which didn’t take long.

  “You didn’t look up into the balcony before you heard the scream?” he asked when I’d finished.

  I shook my head. “Even if I had, you can’t see up there from the stage when the lights are on,” I explained. “There could have been a dozen people up there. But I never even looked. Callie and her crew were the only ones who were supposed to be using the balcony today, and they were already down on the stage.”

  “Show me,” Jackson said. I took him up the stairs to the stage. He shielded his eyes, looking toward the balcony, but the spotlights were all still on, and I knew the glare would keep him from seeing anything.

  “When was the last time you saw the victim before the incident?” he asked.

  I perched on the arm of one of the red chairs on the stage, thinking. “I know she was sitting at June’s table on the balcony landing before I went to the break room,” I said. “And, yes, she and June and Cora were still at the table when I came back down.” How long had I been talking to Ingrid in the basement? Not long. “It couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes before…”

  He’d called it “the incident,” which was noncommittal in that maddening police way of his. He didn’t say “the accident” or “the attack.” I didn’t know if he thought it had been an attempt at murder.

  “You have to think someone pushed her,” I said, because I couldn’t not say it. “Sam is the same Samantha Beach who was one of the last to leave the bar the night Warren was killed. This has to be connected.”

  Jackson didn’t say anything.

  I stood. “There’s nothing wrong with the balcony railing,” I told him. “I’m up there every day. It’s fine. And you can’t tell me you think—”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” Jackson interrupted. “That’s not how this works, remember?” He gave me a practiced homicide-detective look.

  I took a deep breath, but I didn’t give up. “She had to have been pushed.”

  Jackson paused, then nodded. “Okay. Who do you think pushed her?”

  I answered without hesitation. “Stan McMillan.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Any particular reason?”

  “Didn’t you get the picture I sent? McMillan was at the bar that night too!”

  He nodded. “Which isn’t proof that he killed anyone.”

  “But I saw him up in the balcony right after Sam was pushed!”

  “Right after?” he asked. “You’ve just proven that you couldn’t see the balcony from the stage.”

  Maddening! “Okay, not right after, but as soon as I got to Sam.” That wasn’t quite true, I realized. “I felt for her pulse and looked up right after I realized she was alive.”

  “And you saw McMillan at the balcony railing. Was he the only one there?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Who else did you see?”

  I wanted to scream in frustration, but I kept it together. I tried to visualize the crowd looking over the balcony railing. “June and Cora, the three guys who were with McMillan all day. Maybe Ingrid Barnes—or someone else wearing pink—and a couple others whose names I don’t know.” Plus Trixie, I didn’t add.

  He nodded. “Any of whom could have pushed Sam just as easily as McMillan.”

  “Sure, but he’s…”

  Jackson waited to see how I would finish.

  “…Awful.”

  Even I knew that wasn’t exactly evidence that would hold up in court.

  “What did June say?” I challenged him. “Was McMillan already in the balcony when she and Cora got there?”

  “You know I can’t share other witness’s statements with you.”

  “But she must have said McMillan was there first! She must have!”

  “Nora.” Jackson used his rich, deep voice to full effect. “You need to take a beat.” He nodded in the direction of the crime scene teams. “All these people are gathering evidence. A whole bunch of other people are gathering statements. I’m personally going to talk to anyone who saw anything. We’re going to get to the truth here.”

  I was just about to hit him with a pithy answer when his phone rang. He gave me one last look before walking out of earshot to take it.

  I was dismissed.

  I stormed up the back stairs to the break room. I’d never felt so frustrated. I knew McMillan had pushed Sam off the balcony. And I knew I had a witness. Trixie. She’d been glued to her target all day. She must have been with him in the balcony. She must have seen everything.

  But that was exactly the problem. She’d seen everything. She’d seen a young woman get pushed from the same balcony she herself had been pushed from on the night she died. How horrible it must have been for her, like watching her own death again. Incapable of stopping it again. No wonder she’d been so traumatized she’d vanished.

  My heart went out to her. She was my friend and there was nothing I could do to comfort her. I had no idea how long it would take her to recover. If she’d be able to recover. I had no idea when I’d ever see her again. Or if.

  I’d never wanted to see her more.

  Chapter 26

  My office was crowded. Callie, Marty, and Brandon had assembled and were exchanging notes on what they’d heard from the police.

  “Are you guys okay?” I asked. “Where’s Albert?”

  “He and Hector are just finishing up with the cops,” Callie said. “Then Hector’s going to give him a ride home.”

  “Good.” I sank into the chair at my desk. Callie and Brandon were on the couch. Marty was pacing like a caged yeti.

  “They shouldn’t even be talking to Albert,” Marty said. “We were both in the break room when we heard the scream. I went looking to see what the hell was happening, but Albert stayed behind. They should just let him go home.”

  “I’m sure they will.”

  My attempt at soothing words earned me a glare.

  “What have you heard?” I asked the others. “Did any of you see anything?”

  “I just got here,” Brandon volunteered. “The police weren’t even going to let me in, but Detective Jackson said it was okay.”

  “The cops wouldn’t tell me anything,” Callie said. “But everybody’s saying, like, the balcony railing gave way.”

  “Like hell it did!” Marty fumed, at the same time I protested, “It did not!”

  “Somebody pushed her,” I told them. “They must have. Callie, when did you first look up to the balcony? Who did you see there?”

  “That’s exactly what the cops wanted to know.” She scrunched her forehead. “But I wasn’t really paying attention.” She made a face. “I’m, like, the worst. I was just looking at my setup and thinking those idiots were going to break all my equipment.”

  Her production station had been in the front aisle at the center of the balcony. From the position of Sam’s body, she must have been just next to it when she was pushed.


  “Which idiots?” I asked her. “Did you notice anyone in particular?”

  “I mean, that guy,” she said, thinking. “The one who was yelling at everyone.”

  “Stan McMillan,” I nodded. “Was he alone when you looked up? Was he the first one there?”

  She concentrated. “I don’t know. There were a bunch of people. June, for sure, I saw her streak of white hair. And some more people I don’t know.”

  “What about Ingrid?” I asked. “Pink tweed suit?”

  “I don’t think so.” Callie looked distressed. “Honestly, I kind of forgot about Ingrid. Is it wrong that I don’t want to go downstairs and, like, find her after all of this?”

  “Of course not,” I told her.

  “Attempted murder trumps boyfriend issues,” Marty agreed. Then he unhelpfully added, “Even dead boyfriend issues.”

  “I talked to her,” I told Callie. “Ingrid. She seemed…nice.”

  Callie winced. “I was, like, afraid of that.”

  Marty cleared his throat. “If we could get back to the attempted murder?” He turned to me. “What about you? Who did you see when you looked up to the balcony?”

  “It seemed like there were dozens,” I said. “But, honestly, the only people I know I saw were June and Cora and McMillan. And those three guys who seem to be permanently attached to McMillan.”

  “His bodyguards,” Marty said.

  “His what?” I turned to him.

  “At least one of them is a bodyguard. Sam told me when we were watching him from the booth. McMillan’s had some death threats over some project he’s doing in North Beach.” He flung himself into a chair, biting his thumbnail. “I could understand it if he’d been pushed from the balcony. Thousands would cheer.”

  “What else did Sam say?” I asked Marty. He’d spent the most time with her that morning, bonding in the projection booth. “Anything else about McMillan? Was she afraid of him?”

  “She thought he was a tool,” he said. “My word, not hers. She clearly despised him, but I don’t think she was afraid of him.”

  But he’d been afraid of someone. Afraid enough to hire a bodyguard. Who?

  “If Sam hated him so much, maybe she did try to push him from the balcony,” Callie suggested. “I mean, they could have argued, she could have shoved him, he could have shoved back…?”

  “Where was the bodyguard during all this shoving?” I wondered. “Marty, when you came out to the landing, were McMillan’s guys still at the table?”

  He shrugged. “The entire building was filled with white guys in suits. Who can tell them apart?”

  He could have told them apart if they were Alan Ladd and Glen Ford. Or even if they were bit players like Donald Crisp or Fred Clark. But as these white guys in suits were real people in the real world, they had Marty flummoxed.

  “Did David tell you anything?” I asked him.

  Another glare. “Our relationship does not make me privy to any information.”

  I assumed that was a direct quote from Detective Jackson. Which was fine and honorable and everything, but if you weren’t going to get good information, what was the point in dating a cop?

  The cop in question chose that moment to knock briskly on the open door. We all turned to him.

  “Nora,” he said. “A word?”

  I stood, but Marty protested. “Oh, come on. Whatever it is, she’s just going to tell us anyway.”

  Jackson looked at me and I shrugged. “Odds are,” I agreed.

  He sighed. “While a preliminary examination doesn’t reveal any obvious structural flaws, the balcony will need to pass a city safety inspection. That’s after it and the area below are cleared by the techs as an active crime scene.”

  I sank back down into the chair again as Marty stood. “You’ve got to be kidding me. David—”

  “It’s not my call,” Jackson said firmly. “It’s procedure.”

  “What does that mean?” Brandon turned his stare from the detective to me. “Do we have to keep the balcony closed?”

  “It means,” I said heavily. “We can’t let anyone sit in it or below it.” I looked at each of them, Marty scowling, Callie with understanding dawning, and Brandon still in confusion.

  “It means we need to close the Palace.”

  I sent everyone home, but I stayed until the party rental crew had cleared their tables and chairs from the lobby and until every last realtor had left the Palace. Also every last cop. I knew they were all gone because after they left, I made a full sweep of the building from basement to offices. Talking to Trixie.

  I said anything I could think of to give her comfort. I told her how sorry I was, how awful it must have been for her to see Sam fall. I didn’t know if she could hear me, but it was the only possible thing I could think of to do for her.

  She didn’t answer.

  After that I finished up in my office, where I finally did what I’d been putting off all afternoon. I called Robbie to let her know what had happened. I started with the news that the theater she’d entrusted to me was being closed until further notice, and then worked backwards to the attempted murder that had happened right under my nose.

  “Wait, what?” she said. “You’re telling me there was a three-person camera crew and a hundred people in the theater and nobody saw anything?” Her voice was incredulous.

  “If they did, they aren’t talking,” I told her. “And the police took all the cameras and recordings.” Much to Callie’s dismay.

  “Okay,” she said, and I could tell from that one word that she’d switched to her this-will-not-defeat-me voice. She’d once told me that this voice was her magic superpower. It’s what enabled her to rule her TV empire. I relaxed a little. Nothing bad could happen when Robbie used her this-will-not-defeat-me voice.

  She spoke. “Let’s think of this like the writers we are and ask a character question: Who’s your gutsiest suspect? Because to do something like that, in that amount of time, with all those people around, you have to be either crazy sure of yourself or just plain crazy.”

  “First,” I said. “Thank you for putting this in fictional terms. When I think of it like that, I still have to say Stan McMillan. He’s got an ego the size of Montana. That could read as gutsy in the right circumstances.”

  “Uh huh. And he was on the balcony landing when you went past?”

  “Yes, but to be fair he wasn’t alone. In fact, I didn’t see him alone all day. He has henchmen.”

  “Henchmen?”

  “Okay, a bodyguard and two hangers-on. In any case, I don’t know if he could have shaken them.”

  “Maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe he got them to do his dirty work. I mean, henchmen. It’s what they do.”

  I blinked. “You’re a genius. I’ve been worried about how he could have gotten into the balcony unseen, but maybe he didn’t have to.”

  “Did you hear Sam arguing with anyone before she…before it happened?”

  “No.” I sat up. “And I would have. If there had been raised voices—or even normal voices—coming from the balcony, we would have heard them on the stage.” Score one for the theater’s acoustics.

  “Wait, didn’t you tell me you were raising the screen? Is that loud enough to drown out voices?”

  I blew out a breath. “Maybe,” I admitted. “Probably not enough to drown out yelling, but maybe enough to cover whispers. I’ll try a test tomorrow when someone else is here.”

  “Who’s coming in if you’re closed?” she asked.

  “Right. Well. I wanted to talk to you about that,” I said. “Everyone on the payroll is hourly, so if we’re not open, they don’t get paid.”

  “I hear that’s how work works,” she said.

  “Sure, but everyone really needs their paycheck,” I told her. “I mean, Callie’s parents are loaded, but she doesn’t liv
e off them. And I don’t know how Marty makes it in this city on what—”

  “You want to keep paying them?” Robbie asked. “Done. I can talk the other partners into that. I’ll stress that we don’t want them going off to get new jobs and then being stuck with nobody to work when we reopen. How long will it take to get the inspection, anyway?”

  I’d called the city building inspector’s office about that earlier, as soon as I’d sent the gang home. The news was not good.

  “We’re in the queue,” I told Robbie. “But they couldn’t give me an exact date.” They’d given me a range, which extended into the next month, but I didn’t share that with Robbie. I figured I’d head down to city hall and plead my case in person the next day.

  “We can pay people for a week or so,” Robbie said.

  “Thanks.” One tiny knot in my chest loosened. “And it won’t be for nothing. The theater is closed, but it’s not red tagged. We can still be in here as long as we’re not in the balcony or the taped-off area. I’ll come up with a list of chores we can catch up on until we open to the public again.” The Palace had deferred a lot of upkeep in the past few years. Coming up with a task list would not be a problem.

  “Perfect,” Robbie said. “I’ve got to go, but, um…”

  Okay, her voice had changed again. This was her I’m-about-to-say-something-I-really-don’t-want-to voice.

  “What?” I asked her. It could only be one thing. “What’s Ted done now?”

  She paused. “He’s packed up all your things.”

  I blinked. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, he sold the house, you know? So he’s packed everything up. And he’s sending you everything of yours.”

  Everything of mine. “Everything? You mean like the life I was stupid enough to think would go on happily until death us did part?”

  “More like your clothes,” she said. “And shoes and stuff.”

  “Well.” I cleared my throat. “That would be easier to pack.”

  “Oh, Nora.” This was said in her best-friend voice. Which was my favorite Robbie voice of all.