Murder in the Balcony

by Margaret Dumas

  I stared at my phone for a while after hanging up. I thought about getting all “How dare Ted decide what’s mine and what isn’t?” about it, but honestly, I didn’t have the energy. In the vast scheme of “How dare Ted?” behavior, this wasn’t that monumental. I was mulling that sad fact over when someone spoke, startling me half out of my chair.

  “Nora? Don’t be alarmed. It’s just me.”

  Hector.

  He stood at the open doorway, hands up. I should know better than to expect locked doors and a burglar alarm to keep him out.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little…”

  “I am a little.” I waved him in. “How’s Albert?”

  “Home, drinking tea by the fire with a book.”

  “Wow, does that sound good.”

  He sat in the chair opposite my desk. “It could be arranged.”

  I smiled. “How was your chat with the police?”

  “Not my favorite activity, but it had the advantage of being brief.”

  “Did you see anything? Where were you when it all happened?”

  He ran a hand over his stubbled face. “I knew you’d be busy until after the lunch break, so I went across the street. I wanted to check something out at the café.”

  “Right. The other crime scene.” Had the fire just been the night before? “Did you find anything?”

  He frowned. “Remember when the police asked me how many locks I’d undone when we broke in to put out the fire? I only had to unlatch the door handle, which would have locked the door automatically when it was closed. But I saw today that there were other locks, deadbolts. They weren’t damaged, except for the smoke, and they can only be bolted from the inside.”

  I sat up. “Lisa usually locks up and then leaves by the back door,” I said.

  “Right, but our arsonist set the fire in the back. They had to leave by the front door.”

  “It was the front door opening and closing that caught my eye.”

  He nodded. “It seems we can conclude that the arsonist, if they were trying to make it look like an accident, miscalculated by leaving those bolts unlocked.”

  “So maybe it was someone who wasn’t familiar with the store?”

  “Or they assumed the whole building would burn down and it wouldn’t matter. In any case, I was over there poking around when I heard the sirens coming up the street and cursed myself for having left you.” He grimaced, but even a grimace looked good on him. “By the time I got back over here it was a madhouse. Everyone was saying someone had fallen to her death from the balcony.” He met my eyes. “I thought it was you.”

  I couldn’t look away. “I’m fine.”

  “This time. But the fact remains that I left you alone with your prime suspect in a murder and an arson. That won’t happen again.”

  I blinked. I couldn’t tell if his promise made me feel protected or stalked. “Okay,” I said slowly. “Three things: I wasn’t exactly alone, it’s not your job to take care of me, and I can take care of myself.”

  “All good points,” he said. “Nevertheless.” Something flashed in his eyes. “And now, if you’re finished here, we should get you something to eat before I take you home to that cup of tea by the fire that I know you won’t have.”

  I stood. “You’re always trying to feed me.”

  He shrugged. “I have to do something, and you won’t let me kill your husband.”

  Okay, then. Dinner it was.

  Chapter 27

  The next morning I woke to find the Palace all over the news.

  “A near-catastrophe at the landmark Palace Theater yesterday when a moviegoer fell from a faulty balcony…”

  What? I stared at the Channel Five newscaster in horror.

  “A local realtor is in critical condition today after plunging from the faulty balcony of the historic Palace Theater…”

  No!

  It was the same on every channel. I dove for my laptop and checked the San Francisco Chronicle online.

  The historic Palace Theater is closed today, following an accident yesterday in which local realtor Samantha Beach was critically injured in a fall from the ninety-year-old theater’s balcony.

  It went on from there, not as accusatory as the TV news had been, but also not raising for a moment the possibility that Sam had been pushed. Until I got to the comments section after the article.

  She was a realtor? Somebody probably did us all a favor and pushed her.

  OMG everyone knows that place is haunted! The ghost did it!

  HaHa right! The ghost pushed her. Woo!

  My phone rang and I grabbed it, seeing Callie on the caller ID.

  “Nora, it’s all over Insta. It’s literally everywhere!”

  I hadn’t checked social media. “What are they saying?”

  “That the ghost is back at the Palace,” Callie said. “And she’s, like, super pissed.”

  I was super pissed. I shouldn’t have been surprised that the hive mind of the Internet would grab on to the legend of the ghostly usherette and run with it. I felt horrible for Trixie, but she had the distinct advantage of being on an alternate plane of existence, presumably with no Wi-Fi access. She was spared hearing what they were saying about her, at least until she came back. Now I was kind of hoping she’d stay “away” until it all died down.

  But what I was really furious about was the way the supposed-to-be-professional journalists had all piled on to the notion that the balcony railing had given way. The Palace could recover from stupid social media blather about a vengeful ghost. That would probably even increase attendance, at least for a while, at least from gawkers, before naturally fading away. But a rumor reported as fact in the legitimate press? One that declared the building structurally unsafe? That could really hurt us.

  And I couldn’t think of a damn thing I could do about it.

  Wait. Yes, I could. I knew half a dozen public relations specialists in LA. The kind of people who made a celebrity’s stint in rehab or inconvenient DUI disappear from the press, or—even better—turn into an inspiring redemption story rather than a public flogging. Why couldn’t they protect the reputation of the Palace the same way they did the latest Real Housewife?

  Of course, hiring someone like that would be excruciatingly expensive, but if word hadn’t gotten out about how Ted had stolen all my money (and he probably paid just such a PR flack to ensure that it hadn’t, as it might make him look bad) the general assumption that I had access to millions should still be in place. I should be able to hire someone now and worry about paying them later.

  I made a few calls.

  Then, because I had to fight the battle to save the Palace on all fronts, I summoned a rideshare to take me down to City Hall.

  Okay, so the Department of Building Inspection wasn’t at City Hall. It was about a mile away, in a generic office building on Mission. The Inspection Services department was on the third floor, and I followed the signs to the office where they handled Special Inspections. The Palace, in this context as in all others, was Special.

  I told the guy handling walk-ins what I was there for, and he pointed me to a hard plastic chair where I could wait.

  The room was a hellscape of bureaucracy lit with energy-efficient bulbs. I had plenty of time to take it in because I waited four and a half hours, draining my phone’s battery as I obsessively checked what was being said online about the Palace. Finally I was handed off to a middle manager named Alice who appeared to have been sapped of any visible will to live quite some time ago. She told me that an inspector would be probably be available in three- or four-weeks’ time.

  But I hadn’t spent the past decade negotiating contracts on behalf of my undeserving husband for nothing. I looked Alice in the eye, and I explained, then I cajoled, then I wheedled. Then I agreed to take a look at her son’s screenpla
y and get it to the right Hollywood agent. By the time I left I had an appointment with an inspector for the following Friday afternoon.

  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: everybody has a screenplay.

  Back in the elevator I resisted the urge to collapse into a puddle of exhaustion. Which was just as well, because the elevator stopped on the second floor and a guy in a well-cut suit got in. He was quite obviously not in his happy place. He was glowering. He fired up his phone immediately and indulged in a string of profanities the likes of which I’d only heard from thwarted paparazzi. Apparently, whatever he’d been working on was caught up in the machinery of local government.

  Which was only interesting because the guy in question was one of McMillan’s henchman.

  Once we hit the ground floor, he stormed out the door and climbed into a waiting SUV. I watched him leave, still ranting into his phone. He hadn’t once looked over toward me. I went to the building directory by the elevator doors.

  The second floor, where he’d been, was home to Plan Review Services.

  So what plan of McMillan’s had just been denied?

  “I don’t know,” I told Lisa. “But here’s hoping it was the plan for tearing down the neighborhood.”

  I was back at the Palace, and I’d called Lisa to tell her what I’d seen. I wanted to believe it meant that her café and my theater were both safe. At least for a while.

  “That would be so amazing,” she said.

  “It would, but we can’t count on it,” I cautioned her. “The guy probably has half a dozen projects at the planning stage. We don’t know which one has been denied.”

  “I just want to believe there’s hope,” she said. “All I can think about is rebuilding. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to get everything back up and running just to be forced to sell it to that snake McMillan.”

  I didn’t tell her he was more of a shark. To each their own.

  Around three that afternoon I was down in the lobby with a clipboard, making an inventory of all the little tasks we could take care of while the Palace was closed. Areas that needed touch-up paint, or a thorough cleaning, or a minor repair.

  The list was not short.

  I was interrupted by a rap at the glass lobby doors. It was Brandon, waving and grinning hopefully.

  “I thought you’d be here,” he said when I opened the door. I was alone in the theater, so I’d kept everything locked up.

  “And I thought I told you guys not to bother coming in until tomorrow.”

  He shrugged. “It’s on my way home from school. I just thought I’d ask if there was anything you needed help with.” He glanced around the lobby. “Anyone else here?”

  The penny dropped. “Callie isn’t in,” I told him.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean…um…” He tried to cover, but the rising flush on his face confirmed that he’d come here looking for the object of his infatuation.

  I gave him a look and he abandoned his pretense with a sigh and a shrug. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” he said plaintively.

  “So I’ve been told. Come on. There is something you can do for me as long as you’re here.”

  I put clipboard and pen down on the candy counter and crossed the lobby to the auditorium doors. “The furniture rental people will be here first thing in the morning to pick up the chairs and the podium. You can help me wrap them back up in their plastic and blankets and take them downstairs to the back alley door.”

  “Cool.” Once in the auditorium, he shrugged off his jacket as he followed me down the darkened aisle to the stage. “Um, the police are okay with us moving things?”

  “As long as it’s not in the taped-off area.” I’d checked. I went up the steps and flipped on the stage lights. The screen was still raised from the day before, which reminded me I had to try something out.

  “Brandon, there’s something else you can do after we get the chairs out of the way. I want to see if I can hear someone talking from the balcony while the screen is coming down.”

  He gave me a doubtful look. “Are we allowed in the balcony?”

  For a self-confessed stalker and boyfriend spy, the kid was a stickler for the rules.

  “Not strictly speaking, but I won’t tell if you don’t. Let’s take care of the furniture first.”

  “I’m on it. Where’s all the wrapping?”

  “In a pile behind the backdrop, unless somebody’s moved it.” I started for the podium. I’d have to take the microphone off and pack that up as well. The audio equipment had been rented from yet a different vendor.

  “Have you heard anything about how that lady is doing?” Brandon asked. “The one who fell?”

  “Just on the news,” I told him. “This morning they said she was still in critical condition. I texted June earlier, but she hasn’t gotten back to me.” Looping the microphone cord around my arm, I glanced over at him.

  “Who do you think—”

  But the rest of his question was cut off with a yelp of surprise as the floor went out from under him and he plunged through the stage into darkness.

  Chapter 28

  “Brandon!” I ran to the hole that had appeared in the floor. One of the ancient trapdoors had given way. I peered over the rim to the dark room below. “Brandon, are you okay?”

  “Callie?” I heard him say, sounding dazed.

  I felt a rush of relief. “It’s Nora,” I yelled. “Don’t move. I’ll be right there!”

  I dialed 911 as I raced for the stairs. I should have put them on speed dial.

  Brandon had broken his leg. That much was clear when I got downstairs and found him on the floor of the prop room beneath the stage.

  “Nora, hey,” he greeted me when I flipped on the lights. “I’m sorry. I think I fell.”

  He was dazed, but he didn’t seem to be in the kind of pain I’d expect from the very wrong angle his left leg was in. Maybe he’d hit his head. Maybe he was in shock.

  “You’ll be okay,” I told him, hoping it was true.

  His face scrunched in concentration. “I think I hurt something.” He struggled to get up, but I restrained him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t try to move.” Aside from the fact that his neck or spine might be injured, I didn’t think it was the best idea for him to see his leg like that. I heard the faint wail of sirens. “I’ll be right back.”

  I ran back up the stairs to let the professionals in.

  The EMT team included the good-looking young man who’d taken Callie home the night of the fire. He grinned as I opened the door. “This is getting to be a habit.”

  “You’re hilarious,” I told him. “We’re going to the basement.”

  The pain had hit by the time we got back downstairs to Brandon. He was completely drained of color, his eyelids fluttering.

  “What happened?” he asked me as the medics assessed his injuries.

  “The trapdoor gave way,” I told him. “Which should have been impossible. It’s been nailed shut for years. Somebody did this deliberately.”

  It was right above us, and one look revealed that, while the other trapdoor was still boarded over and nailed securely shut, the one that now gaped open had damage all around it where the nails had been pulled out.

  “Who would do something like that?” the EMT asked.

  His partner glanced up at the open trap. “Maybe it’s the ghost again.”

  “There is no ghost,” I said forcefully. Which wasn’t true. What I meant was that the ghost hadn’t done this.

  “There’s a murderer,” Brandon said. Then he passed out.

  They let me ride along in the ambulance for the few blocks to the hospital. Brandon came around once the truck began moving. He looked at me, his eyes wide. “Don’t tell Callie I fainted,” he begged.

  “Never.” I squeezed his hand.

  “
How is Callie?” the EMT asked. Whereupon Brandon looked from him to me in a stricken sort of way and I changed the subject.

  “Are the police on their way?”

  “They should be,” the EMT said.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Marty.

  I need you to call David and get to the Palace. Now.

  Because Brandon was right. Someone had deliberately opened that trapdoor. Someone whose intention was murder.

  “A clean break to both tibia and fibula, a sprained wrist, and a mild concussion.” This is what a doctor told us a while later. I was standing by Brandon’s bed in the ER, and whatever drugs they’d given him were very much working. “We’ve set the leg, but we’ll leave it in a splint for a while to let the swelling go down before we get him into cast.”

  Brandon gave her a thumbs up. His eyes were glassy.

  “Your son will be fine,” the doctor said. “You should get some rest.”

  “He’s not—” I began to protest, but she’d already moved on.

  Son? Ouch. I realized that at thirty-nine I was technically old enough to be a teenager’s mother, but still.

  Brandon snickered. “They think you’re my mom.” His eyes widened. “Do we have to tell my mom? She’s going to kill me.”

  “She’ll probably figure it out when she sees the cast,” I said. “Plus she’ll be here any minute.” I’d used his phone to call her as soon as we’d gotten to the hospital.

  “You’re way hotter than my mom,” he mumbled. Then the small part of his brain that wasn’t soaked in painkillers realized what he’d just said, and his face flushed its familiar shade of crimson.

  “I’m going out to the waiting room,” I told him. “And we will never speak of this again.”

  He nodded.

  I had to go to the waiting room because I had to make some calls, and cell phone use was forbidden in the ER.