Chapter 13

“So, one employee thinks I’m so old I’m from another era, and another thinks it’s just a waiting game until I abandon ship and leave him to his rightful place as manager.”

I was on the phone with Robbie, sunk deep into the cushions of the couch in her guest house. And yes, I was drinking her wine.

“Okay, one,” she responded. “Millennials think anyone who didn’t grow up worshiping Hannah Montana is ancient. Just ask my beloved daughter. For all practical purposes, you are from another era. So am I. And I’m assuming you’re talking about the bitter projectionist wanting to be manager?”

“I think of him more as the hostile projectionist,” I said. “And to think, earlier in the day I called him a big old softie.”

“To his face? You’re a braver woman than I am,” she laughed. “But you’re right. Plus he’d do anything for the Palace and knows literally everything about it. If he weren’t so completely antisocial he might make a decent manager. He loves the place. If the ghost of a showgirl really were running around, he’d probably want to marry her.”

I didn’t know about the ghost of a showgirl. I only knew about the ghost of an usherette. And I didn’t think Marty was Trixie’s type. Or vice versa.

“On paper you two should be friends,” Robbie said. “He knows almost as much about classic films as I do, which means he knows maybe half as much as you do. Why don’t you just stick to talking about movies for a while?”

“He doesn’t think I know anything about movies,” I told her. “Classic or otherwise.”

There was a pause. “Okay, that’s hilarious. Does he know who you are?”

“He thinks he does.” I drained my glass. “That’s the problem. Hey, Robbie, tell me something. Were you and your partners ever thinking of turning the Palace into a first-run theater again?”

“Of course not. Why would we do that?”

“It was just a thought. I’m trying to figure out why Kate bought some of the equipment she did.”

“Oh! That reminds me, Naveen called this afternoon. He said there was something off with the books.”

I sat up. “Did he say what?”

“No. It was just a voicemail. I’ll call him back tomorrow.”

“Who actually managed the Palace finances?” I asked. “Did Kate have an accountant or a tax person that we should call in?”

“She handled everything herself,” Robbie said. “I guess that’s something else we need to take care of. I’ve got a conference call with the other owners set up for next week.”

“How often do you all talk?”

“Hardly ever. Most everything is over email. There are three other investors, but I haven’t even met the newest. We’ve all got crazy schedules, and none of us are involved in the day-to-day of running the theater. Speaking for myself, I just collect my quarterly profits and enjoy the free popcorn whenever I’m up in San Francisco. Kate took care of all the actual work.”

Once again I realized what an enormous void her death had left.

“And the other owners are all that hands-off too? How can you be in partnership with someone you’ve never met?”

“It’s just sort of worked out that way. The ownership is split into four equal parts. I bought my fourth a couple years ago when one of the original guys needed cash to finance some project. Then about a year ago another of the owners decided to retire and sold his fourth to a woman up there in the Bay Area. There’s been an owner’s meeting since, over video conference, but I was off on location at the time so Jason covered it for me.” Jason was Robbie’s ninja-like assistant. “I suppose we’d all have gone to Kate’s funeral, but she’d left instructions that she didn’t want one.”

“Didn’t you have to clear it with them when you sent me up here?”

“I sent them all an email floating the idea before I said anything to you. They were just happy to have someone step in, even if it’s only temporary.”

Was it only temporary? Of course it was. Just until I felt like myself again. Still, I felt a weird pang when she said so.

Robbie was still talking. “I think, when we meet next week, I’ll recommend hiring Naveen to take over the financial stuff. That’s once he figures out where we stand.”

“Let me know what he thinks,” I said. “Maybe Kate had some weird system I don’t understand, but the numbers just didn’t make sense to me.”

“Sure. And, um…” Robbie became uncharacteristically hesitant. “Naveen wasn’t the only person I heard from today.” She took a breath. “I got a call from Ted.”

I poured another glass of wine, hating the jolt of electricity that shot through my system.

“He asked me to tell you he misses you.”

“Misses me or misses the hundred thousand things a day I did for him?” I kept my voice dry as my traitorous pulse pounded.

“’Atta girl,” Robbie said, sounding relieved. “Stay strong.”

“Of course I will,” I told her. “I have very few other options.”

  

The next day I met Albert outside the theater. He was chatting with Marty, who was once again up on the ladder changing the marquee to the new lineup.

“Mad scientists,” I said by way of general greeting.

“Oh, Nora!” Albert was typically warm in his welcome. “I was just telling Marty that I seem to recall a poster for Dr. Jekyll in the archive. Perhaps it’s time to switch out Karloff and friends?” He nodded toward the Frankenstein and other monster posters currently lining the tiled walkway to the lobby doors.

“Great idea. I’ll help,” I said. “Morning, Marty,” I called up to him.

“Sure,” he said.

So, that went well.

After dropping our things upstairs in the office (where Trixie was not in residence—at least not visibly) Albert and I took the back stairs all the way down to the basement. The stairwell couldn’t have been more different from the sweeping grandeur of the lobby stairs. The walls were exposed brick, the railing was iron with a layer of peeling green paint, and the stairs themselves were bare concrete.

We clattered to the bottom and I saw that we were just a short distance away from the equipment room and alley door, both still sealed off with crime scene tape.

“I should call that detective,” I said. “And ask him when they’re going to be finished with the room.” I could also ask him if he’d found a connection between Raul and Kate, and if they’d figured out exactly when Raul had gone on ice, and any number of other things that he undoubtedly wouldn’t tell me.

“The prop room is this way,” Albert said, leading me around a corner, then around several more, and down a long hallway to a room I barely remembered from my first day tour.

It was large and windowless, and if I’d kept my bearings correctly, it was directly underneath the stage upstairs.

Miscellaneous piles of junk revealed themselves to be not entirely miscellaneous on a second look. A rack of shabby costumes was in one corner, surrounded by accessories ranging from tap shoes to umbrellas. Another area had furniture—beat-up chairs and tables stacked with random odds and ends.

Albert went straight to the only new-looking piece of furniture in the place, and even that looked like it had been scavenged from some office in the eighties. It was a tall gray metal file cabinet with very wide, very shallow drawers. I’d seen cabinets like it in art departments. Albert pulled out one of the drawers, labeled “D-G” and sighed.

“Gorgeous.”

I peeked over his shoulder. He was regarding a sultry Rita Hayworth trailing cigarette smoke as Gilda (1946, Hayworth and Glenn Ford) and whether he was talking about the actress or the poster itself, I had to agree. Gorgeous.

“Is that an original?” It certainly looked like one to me. But it also looked brand new. There were no pin holes in the corners or other signs of the rough usage it would have seen when the movie was first in theaters.

“No, but Kate found a supplier that does amazing reproductions. You should see some of these. Careful.”

He slid Rita down a bit to reveal a sheet of archival paper covering the next poster. Gaslight (1944, Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer). Again, the quality of the reproduction was extraordinary.

“Should we bring that one up?” I suggested. “It’s part of the ‘Ladykillers’ slate that starts Friday.”

“Good idea,” Albert said, pulling it carefully from the stack and holding it by the top corners. “Oh. Could you…” he nodded to a nearby desktop. I quickly moved everything on it to one corner. “There’s paper in the top drawer,” Albert said. I opened the drawer to find sheets of poster-sized archival paper in a neat stack. I took one and placed it on the table. Albert put Gaslight on top of it.

“It’s probably silly to take such care, but Kate was very particular about the posters. When she started acquiring the high-quality reproductions she made sure everyone handled them as respectfully as if they’d been originals—that’s when we handled them at all. She preferred to take care of them herself. She even switched to magnets in the display frames, instead of pushpins, to avoid damage.”

“I wonder how much an original Gaslight would be worth,” I said.

“Probably more than I am,” Albert grinned.

“You’re wrong there, Albert,” I told him, carefully looking through the rest of the stack. “I have the feeling you’re priceless.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yes. Well. We’ll see if you still think that when you know me better.” He gave me a sly grin and came back to the “D-G” drawer. “Dr. Jekyll should be near the bottom.”

It was, and so was Dial M for Murder (1954, Grace Kelly and Ray Milland) which was also part of the ‘Ladykillers’ lineup. There were four display frames in the walkway to the lobby doors, but we didn’t have posters for any of the other upcoming films, so we decided to use the three we’d found and leave Frankenstein where he was until after Halloween.

I spotted a notebook in the top drawer next to the archival paper. “That’s the catalogue,” Albert said when he saw me pick it up. “Obviously we don’t have art for every film we show, but we have well over a hundred posters. You’ll find the ledger has them listed alphabetically, along with where they were sourced and when we’ve displayed them. Kate started the system when she found her new printer. We’d better jot down that we’re putting these up and taking three of the Universal monsters down.”

“Right,” I agreed, holding the book. “I think I’ll take this up to the office with me. I’d like to see what other treasures are hidden away in these drawers.” I was getting a tingly feeling. It started when Albert said, “new printer.” I knew he meant the new supplier Kate had found for the reproductions, but what if there hadn’t been a new supplier? What if there had really been a new printer? Kate had bought a large-format high-end laser printer a while ago. It was a crazy half-formed thought, but I couldn’t help being excited by it. What if forged movie posters had been the source of the inexplicable money Kate had been spending?

“Oh, the treasures of the Palace,” Albert’s teasing voice brought me back from my fevered speculation. “Once you start looking you’ll find they’re all around you.”

“I have no doubt of it.” I took another look around the room as Albert carefully closed the last drawer. This time I glanced up at the ceiling. “Are those trap doors?”

“Yes! There used to be magic acts back in the Vaudeville days,” Albert said, his face lighting up. “There was a time when this room was filled with stage sets and backgrounds and all kinds of wonderful things. Back when she first started, Kate arranged an auction and one of the old magician’s cabinets turned out to be quite valuable. I believe she used the money to restore the lobby chandelier.” He looked at the piles of junk fondly.

“Isn’t there a story about a showgirl from back in those days?” I asked. “A knife thrower’s assistant who was killed onstage? Isn’t she one of the Palace’s ghosts?” I kept my eye out for Trixie, thinking a conversation about ghosts might conjure her somehow. I was starting to get worried about her. Can something happen to a ghost?

Albert gave me a considering look. “There was a showgirl who died, but not onstage. She choked on a chicken sandwich between shows and was rushed to the hospital. She died there, not here, and no, she isn’t one of the Palace’s ghosts.”

“Oh.” I felt a little bit let down. “I guess getting killed onstage by a knife thrower is a better story than choking on a chicken sandwich.”

Albert smiled. “Yes. And what is the Palace about, if not telling stories?”

Right. Although there was one ghost story that I knew to be true.

“Although there is one ghost story that I know to be true,” Albert said, uncannily.

I stared at him.

“An usherette died here in 1937,” he said.

I blinked. “I heard about that.” I cleared my throat. “Do you think that one’s true?”

“Oh, I know it is,” he said. “I was there that night. And what’s more, I’ve seen her ghost.”