Chapter 2

The doors opened to release the scent of magic. Or at least the scent of ninety-odd years’ worth of popcorn, spilled sodas, dust, sweat, and dreams. It was the scent of the movies and I took a deep breath.

I loved old movies. I have since I was a kid, watching them with my mom. That love was one of the first things Ted and I shared together, way back before he got famous. I loved the black and white and silver of the images. I loved the strong, struggling characters from the golden age of Women’s Pictures—the Joan Crawford and Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck characters who didn’t let anything from murderous offspring to brain tumors get in their way. I needed to channel those women now as I started my life over. I needed to be as strong as they were. And, standing in the dim glory of the Palace lobby, I wanted to believe I felt their strength.

“It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” Albert had slipped behind me to open a small metal panel on the wall next to the door. “Just wait.” He punched a code into a keypad and flipped a few switches to bring the Palace to life.

Lights came on inside the long wood and glass counter of the concession stand, illuminating the display of everything from gumdrops to chocolate truffles. Then, the star-shaped pendants above the counter winked on, lighting the vintage popcorn maker and the wall of shelves behind the counter. Next, wall sconces lit the way up the sweeping staircase to the balcony, and finally a chandelier sprang to sparkling life in the center of the ceiling, turning the lobby into something much grander and more beautiful than Robbie had ever led me to expect.

I turned around, looking up at the elaborately carved ceiling, down at the carpet—deep blue with a pattern of tiny gold stars—taking it all in. Then I caught Albert’s eye.

“I think I’m in love,” I told him quite seriously.

“That can happen,” he nodded gravely. “I give you fair warning. You may never want to leave.”

  

An hour later, having toured the main auditorium with its 800 seats, the vast backstage area behind the screen—the theater having been built when vaudeville acts still sometimes shared the bill with movies—and the not-at-all glamorous basement, a warren of rooms containing everything from old advertising paraphernalia to heating and electrical equipment, I collapsed with Albert in the front row of the balcony.

“It’s amazing,” I said. “How has it lasted all these years?”

“By hook or by crook,” he said. “Since 1927. The same year I was born.”

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like back then.” I leaned back in my seat and regarded the filigreed ceiling, trying to see it as it had been when the gold leaf had gleamed and the proscenium arch had been draped with plush velvet curtains.

The velvet currently covering the seats was decidedly not plush. It was, in fact, quite threadbare in places. I ran my hand over the seat next to me. “How do you manage the upkeep on a place like this?” I wondered aloud.

Albert cleared his throat delicately. “I think that will be up to you from now on.”

Oh. Right. The word “manager” suddenly took on new and terrifying dimensions, and with perfect timing, a light above the aisle began to dim and sputter alarmingly.

Albert and I glanced up in unison as the light gave one last flicker and died.

“Is there a maintenance crew?” I asked with faint hope.

“A handyman,” Albert answered. “One day a month. Kate kept a punch list of things for him to do.” He shot me a glance, his sparse white hair a fluffy nimbus around his head. “I used to help with what I could, but I fear I’m not up to anything very strenuous anymore.”

“Oh, of course…” The last thing I meant to suggest was that the ninety-some-year-old Albert should start scampering up ladders.

“I’ve been coming here all my life,” he said with some pride. “Some of the most meaningful events of my life have taken place within these walls. My grandfather brought me to see Captain Blood here on my eighth birthday. Later I brought my children and grandchildren here, and when I retired twenty-one years ago I knew I wanted to spend as much time as I have left here, surrounded by my memories.”

I was touched by Albert’s words, which raised a dozen questions, but before I had a chance to pursue any of them I jumped at an insanely loud rat-a-tat-tat of drums followed by the triumphant fanfare of horns announcing the beginning of a 20th Century Fox movie.

“What was that?” I put a hand on my racing heart. It was still at least an hour before the first show, so a movie shouldn’t have been starting. And anyway, there was no light coming from the projection booth, and nothing followed the blast of music.

“That was Marty,” Albert said. “Our projectionist. He’s an incredibly valuable asset to the Palace, but he can also be—if you will pardon my language—a complete ass.”

“No worries,” I told him, recovering. “After a decade in Hollywood, if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to handle an ass.”

That came out wrong, but it didn’t matter. Albert was already on his way downstairs.

  

Three people were gathered in the lobby. A young woman looking at her phone, an even younger man gazing at her worshipfully, and a fortyish guy wearing faded jeans, a once-red t-shirt, and an unzipped gray hoodie.

“Nora,” Albert said. “May I present Marty Abrams, our projectionist and the perpetrator of the daily assault on our ears.”

The hoodie guy glared at me. He had dark shaggy hair and a salt-and-pepper stubble and looked like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in years. “I like an overture,” he said. “Do you have a problem with that? Do you have a problem with me continuing to start my day the way I’ve been starting it for the past seven years at this theater? Do you? Because Kate didn’t.” He crossed his arms, still glaring.

Right. I’d seen people lead with aggression before. It was more or less the default setting for many of the agents and producers I’d worked with on Ted’s behalf. I’d learned it was usually best to treat them like toddlers throwing tantrums. Respond to the words, not the tone.

“I liked it,” I told him. “It seems like a fun way to start the day.”

He blinked, momentarily thrown, I thought, before he responded. “Fun? It isn’t fun. It’s a call to greatness—it’s a call to arms!”

The young woman sighed theatrically. This was probably directed at Marty, although she hadn’t looked up from her phone so it was a little hard to be sure.

Marty pointed a finger at her. “Do not start with me.” Then he turned back to me. “And do not waltz in here thinking you know anything about anything just because you saw Some Like It Hot once on Turner Classic Movies.” He held up a hand. “Do not start with me on Turner Classic Movies, and do not get me started on Ben Mankowitz!”

He seemed to expect an answer to this. I didn’t give him one. Although part of me was dying to know what the charming movie host Ben Mankowitz had ever done to deserve this level of hostility.

“He knows what he did,” Marty said meaningfully.

I raised my eyebrows and he sniffed in satisfaction. “I’ll be in the projection booth,” he announced. And with one last fierce look he stormed up the staircase.

“He’s not as bad as he seems.” This was claimed by the teenager, who blushed bright pink to the roots of his ginger hair as soon as I turned to him.

“Brandon Dunbar,” Albert introduced him. “Our latest addition to the Palace family. Brandon will be manning the concession stand today.”

“Marty’s just been angrier than usual since Kate died,” the teenager explained. “We’ve all…I mean…” He flushed ever more deeply as he trailed off.

“I get it,” I told him. “Robbie told me how close you all were to Kate. How much she really was the Palace. Believe me, I know I’m not Kate. And I’m not here to try to replace her. My biggest regret is that I didn’t ever meet her.”

“Cool.” The college-aged woman now finally looked up from her phone. “But I kind of thought your biggest regret might be letting your man-slut of a husband go off on location with the most beautiful actress on the planet.” The expression on her face was one of flat disinterest.

“Calandria Gee!” Albert looked appalled at the girl’s words.

“Callie,” she corrected, looking at me with studied boredom. She was strikingly pretty, with wild dark curls surrounding the impassive face of a Renaissance Madonna. A Renaissance Madonna who kept up on all the gossip blogs, apparently.

This was exactly the sort of conversation I’d fled LA to avoid.

“Is he stupid?” Callie tilted her head and considered me. “Because anyone who knows anything about Priya Sharma knows it won’t last.”

I hated myself for the surge of ridiculous hope that shot through me, which I immediately squashed. “Look—Callie, is it?” I had some half-formed notion of telling her off, but she continued as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Maybe he is stupid,” she mused. “I mean, Priya Sharma has the brain power of, like, an unripe kumquat, and you’ve been kind of your husband’s unpaid manager or whatever since you gave up writing. So he’s kind of an idiot for dumping you for her, right? I mean, aside from him having to hire someone to replace you, you must know tons of stuff that could, like, totally screw him over if you wanted.”

I blinked. Albert cleared his throat. Brandon looked between Callie and me like he was waiting for a grenade to explode.

“Ted Bishop is one hundred percent an idiot,” I heard Marty say from behind me. He’d come halfway down the stairs again without me noticing. “The least of his crimes is his poor choice in mistresses.” Now he looked at me. “You should ruin him professionally and financially, and you should go back to LA to do it.” He glanced at Brandon. “Get me a Coke, will you?”

Brandon jumped as if electrocuted and dashed behind the candy counter.

“Callie runs the ticket booth,” Albert said, attempting valiantly to get the introductions back on track. “She is also an independent filmmaker.”

“Documentaries,” she said, still eyeing me like I was a mildly interesting new specimen of something. “I’m studying film at SF State.”

I choked out one word. “Right.” I figured it was safer than “Who the hell do you think you are to judge me and my marriage based on the self-serving rants of those so-called ‘close friends’ on the gossip sites, even if you do seem to be weirdly on my side?” Not as satisfying, but safer.

Before anyone had the chance to voice any further opinions on my private life we were interrupted by a metallic screeching sound and an agitated yelp from Brandon. He held an extra-large cup under the ice dispenser, which clanked and shuddered before emitting a thin stream of water that continued to leak down the drain after Brandon took the cup away.

“The icemaker’s out again,” he informed us.

“Blast,” Albert muttered. “We just had it fixed last month.” He turned to me. “Never mind, we have a backup ice machine down in the basement. We can bring up buckets as we need them until we get this fixed again.”

“Or replaced,” Marty said. “I’d replace it. But then I’m not the manager.” He gave me a look and came the rest of the way down the stairs to the lobby. “I’ll haul the ice up. God knows I don’t have—”

“No!” I hadn’t meant to shout, or to sound as desperate to get away from these people as I felt. “No,” I said again. “You all have things to do. I’ll go get the ice. It’s no problem.”

I fled.

  

I wasn’t proud of myself. I’d gotten flustered, and flustered was not strong. I would have given myself a stern talking to if I hadn’t been distracted by the realization that I had no idea where the ice machine was.

Downstairs in the basement, I went past the restrooms to the farthest reaches of the maze of hallways, pulling out my phone to call Robbie and noting that, of course, there was no signal down there. I wrote a text instead.

 

A great staff?!? You said there was a great staff! You didn’t say there was a giant Muppet with anger issues who thinks he should have my job and a judgie millennial who knows everything about my personal life! What did you get me into? And where’s the damn ice machine!?

 

It wouldn’t send until I got a signal, but I felt a little better after banging it out. I wandered down a few wrong hallways, then followed an electrical humming sound to a room with a barred window high on a wall and a mismatched assortment of ancient machinery, one item of which was an old-fashioned ice maker. It was the kind that used to be in motel parking lots, where you could open the lid, reach in with a scoop and take all you needed. It was the unsanitary kind, and I told myself not to think of probable health code violations, but to focus instead on how fortunate it was that the huge old beast appeared to be plugged in, plumbed in, and operational.

As I approached it I heard the whoosh of my outgoing text, and the chime of an incoming one. The room’s window must allow enough of a signal to get through. I would have to remember that for future desperate phone calls to Robbie, of which I was sure there would be many. I glanced at the screen.

 

Baby. Where are you? I need you.

 

Not from Robbie. From Ted.

I realized I wasn’t breathing. This was a new phone. Only Robbie, my lawyer, and a handful of friends had the number. One of them had given it to Ted.

Ted had wanted to contact me so much that he’d begged someone for my new number.

Ted needed me.

I was blinking up at the light from the window, my mind leaping to a million possibilities, when the phone chimed again.

 

I can’t find the keys to the Bentley.

 

And once again I realized I was the stupidest woman on the planet. Of course Ted needed me. He needed me to run his life. He needed me to take care of the thousand little things a day that were too unimportant for him to think about until he needed them, at which point they became crucial. He needed me to make his excuses, make his decisions, make his breakfast. He needed me in a million different ways, but that hadn’t stopped him from leaving me.

“Well, guess what, Teddy,” I said out loud. “I don’t need you!”

I flung back the lid to the ice machine and screamed. Not because of Ted. Because there was a dead man in the ice.