Murder in the Balcony Read online

  Praise for the Movie Palace Mystery Series

  “Edgy enough to push a timeworn formula from the basement up to the balcony. Dumas adds just enough zany to her mix to have readers lining up for more.”

  – Kirkus Reviews

  “Murder at the Palace has great characters, including Trixie. It’s a delightful book, and…the movie summaries just add to the appeal.”

  – Library Journal

  “Murder at the Palace is a downright hoot. Fans of classic films will love this smart tale of travail starring Nora Paige…Rest assured that although the films involved are old, the story is witty and fresh. Especially enjoyable is watching the thoroughly modern Nora attempt to explain computer passwords to ghostly Trixie, whose idea of modern is a Duesenberg Model X Boattail Roadster.”

  – Mystery Scene Magazine

  “This story immediately grabbed my attention…I could not put this book down…And Trixie…oh my goodness, I love her and…had me laughing on the subway…boy I’m excited for the next book in this delightful entertaining debut series.”

  – Dru’s Book Musings

  “Old movie buffs, fans of San Francisco, and lovers of well-done mystery series debuts will shout huzzah and encore at author Margaret Dumas.”

  – Criminal Element

  “Stands with the best modern cozy mysteries and reminded me a lot of the Lily Ivory series by Juliet Blackwell. I’m adding this to my list of must-read series. Recommended.”

  – It’s All About The Book

  The Movie Palace Mystery Series

  by Margaret Dumas

  MURDER AT THE PALACE (#1)

  MURDER IN THE BALCONY (#2)

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  Copyright

  MURDER IN THE BALCONY

  A Movie Palace Mystery

  Part of the Henery Press Mystery Collection

  First Edition | September 2019

  Henery Press, LLC

  www.henerypress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including internet usage, without written permission from Henery Press, LLC, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright © 2019 by Margaret Dumas

  Author photograph by Robin Clark

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-535-2

  Digital epub ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-536-9

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-537-6

  Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-63511-538-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Dolores and Marge,

  The Glamorous Salviola Sisters

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One of the best things about writing this series is all the wonderful conversations I’ve had with people about classic movies since the first book came out. Thanks to everyone who cares enough about their favorite movie to tell me about it!

  Many thanks to the amazing team at Henery Press, especially Maria Edwards, Art Molinares, Christina Rogers, Kendel Lynn, and a bunch of people I still haven’t met who create art I could only dream of.

  Huge thanks to trusted first readers Denise Lee, Erick Vera, and Anne Dickson for your insightful comments and encouragement, to Martha Paley Francescato for your great catches, and to Claire M. Johnson and Michael J. Cooper for your let’s-try-for-every-other-week critiques and support.

  I owe a lot to a multitude of film scholars and critics who have written brilliant books and made gorgeous documentaries about classic films. Particular thanks to Mick LaSalle, whose Complicated Women: Sex and Power in Pre-Code Hollywood was essential reading.

  My very first film scholars were my family. This series owes a lot to Dolores, Keith, Richard, and John. So do I.

  Author’s Note: Spoilers Ahead!

  When someone loves classic movies, and loves talking about them, they’re bound to eventually share some spoilers about them. The characters in this book are gleefully guilty of that.

  If you don’t want spoilers, you may need to avert your gaze when the following movies come up: The Divorcee, The Women, Roman Holiday, The Letter, Mildred Pierce, Born Yesterday, Mata Hari, Born to Dance, and Now, Voyager.

  Look away if you must, but you could also solve the spoiler problem by watching the movies. I’m just saying…

  “Haunted! How perfectly fascinating!”

  The Ghost and Mrs. Muir

  Chapter 1

  “I’ve been ghosted!”

  This announcement got my attention. It was hardly proclaimed with the bold theatricality of Bette Davis telling the room to buckle up for a bumpy night, but still. Coming from Callie Gee, the film student who worked for me at the Palace movie theater, it was an unexpected greeting.

  The lobby door closed behind her, cutting off the blast of chilly wet-pavement scented air coming in from outside. Her hair, normally a mass of dark tangled curls, was even wilder than usual due to the drizzling rain. Her voice was a mixture of disbelief and indignation as she made her statement, underscoring it with the implied this doesn’t happen to me.

  So, yes, it got my attention.

  It also got the ghost’s.

  Trixie’s blonde curls bounced under her jaunty little gold-trimmed cap as she switched her gaze from me to Callie and back again. “She saw a ghost? Where?”

  “That’s not what she means,” I murmured. I didn’t speak too loudly because I didn’t want to be locked up as a delusional lunatic, something that would not be out of the question if it became general knowledge that the ghost of an usherette who died in 1937 was keeping me company while I refreshed the stock of licorice whips in the candy counter.

  “What happened?” I asked Callie.

  She crossed the lobby, unwrapping herself from a lengthy scarf and shaking droplets onto the worn blue carpeting. “Warren.”

  The level of revulsion in that one word called to mind the way Humphrey Bogart had shudderingly said “leeches” in The African Queen (1951, Bogey and Katharine Hepburn.) Whatever Warren had done must have been bad.

  “He hasn’t answered a text in three days.” She tossed her scarf and backpack on the ticket-taker’s stool. “Or called or anything. I mean, how messed up is that? He gets his license and then ghosts me? I’m good enough for him while he’s a lowly intern, but now that he’s all Mister Real Estate he disappears?”

  “Ooh!” Trixie hopped off the counter and followed Callie as she went to the coffee machine beside the popcorn maker. “That makes me so mad! What kind of a fella would do something like that? And I thought he was so nice. Didn’t he seem nice?”

  This last was directed at me. Callie, of course, didn’t hear any of it, as Trixie only appeared to me.

  “He seems so nice,” I said to Callie.

  This earned me one of her more withering glances. “Seemed.” She tilted her head up and took a breath, regarding the enormous chandelier that graced the high ceiling, a glittering reminder of the long-distant glory days of the Palace. “He’s dead to me.”

  The lobb
y was huge, and at the moment empty except for the two (or three) of us. A grand staircase swept up to the balcony on one side, and the vintage concessions counter stretched along the back wall, entrances to the main auditorium on either side of it. The carved wooden details everywhere were ornate and original, and the gold stars that patterned the carpet were based on the theater’s 1927 designs. But on a drizzly January day, with the lights at half power to save on the electricity bill, I had to admit to a certain eau de shabby.

  I’d made some progress since I’d taken charge, but I still couldn’t describe the Palace as thriving.

  “You’ll hear from him.” I slid the counter door closed and turned my attention to the popcorn machine. I’d been managing the place for almost three months, but I still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of the antique beast. “Trust me, he’ll show up with flowers and a million apologies.”

  I knew a little something about men showing up full of apologies. My wandering husband had done just that not too long ago.

  “You bet he will,” Trixie agreed. “Why, he’d be crazy not to.”

  “He better be in the hospital,” Callie mused. “Or somebody better be dead.”

  “That’s the spirit. Have you asked June?”

  June Howard was my realtor. Warren was an intern at her firm, learning the business while studying for the state exam to get his license. Callie had only met him because he’d been shadowing June when she’d come to the theater to show me some listings back around Thanksgiving. When Callie had glanced up from her phone to point the way to my office, the world had stood still. The heavens had opened, and choirs of angels had sung. Or, as Callie put it, “I died. I literally died.”

  Now she looked at me like I was deranged. “I can’t ask his boss. It’s like asking his mommy.”

  I was sure June would beg to differ, but there you go.

  “He’ll call,” I assured Callie. “Or text. The guy’s crazy about you.”

  “Right?” she said. “I mean, he quit Tinder and everything. We both did.”

  “Well, then.”

  “What’s Tinder?” Trixie asked. “Is it like reefer?”

  I laughed and turned it into a cough when Callie looked over at me.

  “Something in my throat,” I said, shooting Trixie a glance. She shrugged and hopped back on the counter again. I’d explain later.

  “Do you think he actually is in the hospital?” A tiny line appeared between Callie’s brows. “He’s been offline for days. Even his Insta.”

  “Which means he hasn’t just ghosted you,” I said. “He’s probably taking a phone break.”

  “What? Why?” She clasped her phone to her chest.

  “People do,” I told her.

  “Not normal people.” The phone in question chirped and Callie instantly focused on it.

  “I’d love to get my hands on one of those thingamajigs.” Trixie eyed Callie’s phone wistfully. “’Course, I’d like to get my hands on just about anything.” She swooshed her manicured fingertips through the top of the cash register to make her point.

  When I’d first met Trixie, after getting conked on the head by a faulty light in the balcony back in October, the whole swooshing through objects thing had admittedly freaked me out. She looked so solid, like any other young woman. Or at least, any other petite blonde bombshell in a vintage usherette’s uniform, complete with gold braid, wide-legged trousers, and row upon row of gleaming buttons. But now that I knew her better it just broke my heart a little. How frustrating it must be for her to never be able to touch anything.

  That wasn’t quite true. If she concentrated very hard and made a superhuman effort, she could occasionally knock something over or even make herself seen. I owed my life to that ability. But it took all her energy, and she couldn’t do it often.

  Callie had fallen silent. I glanced up from the popcorn maker. She was immersed in her phone.

  “Anything?” I asked.

  “Nothing from my man.” She held up the screen so I could see it. “But I just got something about yours.”

  “REUNITED!” The headline blazed over a photo of my husband—ex-husband—almost ex-husband—probably—and a woman who was not me.

  This woman was an internationally gorgeous movie star with sultry dark looks and curves for days, while I could most charitably be described as “athletic.” The only curves I had were modest and push-up assisted. At thirty-nine I was also a good decade older than her.

  I’d retreated upstairs to my office after Callie showed me the picture. The office, along with a staff break room and the projection booth, was located down a hallway accessed from a hidden door at the top of the balcony stairs. I needed a hidden refuge before I could face the article. Even Trixie tactfully disappeared.

  It was hardly an article. Just a gossipy blurb, really.

  Ted Bishop and Priya Sharma are reuniting at Sundance to promote their upcoming movie Catalyst. Last year while filming the action thriller, both stars blew up their marriages, then spectacularly split. Sharma is now linked with industry mogul Otis Hampton, and Bishop is reportedly reconciled with his wife, a former TV writer. But who knows what will happen at Sundance? It can be pretty romantic in front of a crackling fire, and friends say Sharma’s new bae won’t be on hand…

  I was the wife in question. And the reports of our reconciliation were…well, it was complicated.

  My phone rang. I didn’t need to see the caller ID to know who it was. When I hit the Answer button Robbie began talking, not even waiting for a “hello.”

  “Are you okay? I can’t believe he’s doing this. Did you know? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Robbie—Roberta Prowse—was a massively successful TV show runner and my best friend in the world. She lived in LA and was responsible for me being safely removed from the Hollywood mayhem surrounding Ted’s poor choices. She co-owned the Palace, and had sent me north to San Francisco and a haven of classic films when I’d needed a haven the most.

  “Girl, don’t tell me you’re fine.”

  “I am,” I said, and I was surprised that it was true. Mostly. “I didn’t know, but I should have. It makes sense.”

  “Nothing that fool does makes sense. Nothing except his crawling back to you.”

  “He didn’t exactly crawl.” He’d arrived in a Tesla, which he promptly gave me, along with a diamond bracelet I’d never worn and a shower of “never agains” I didn’t quite believe.

  Particularly when looking at a photo of him with his arm around Priya Sharma’s willowy waist.

  “It’s an old picture,” Robbie said, reading my mind from her LA office.

  “Yup.” I’d seen it before. The world had seen it before. But it still had the power to make my stomach heave.

  Robbie waited.

  “I told him to get a manager,” I said. “I told him to get an agent. He probably did and they probably told him this would be good for the movie. And no doubt it will be. My point is, I’m done with taking care of Ted’s career for him.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m done with taking care of him, period. And we’re not back together.”

  “Right.” Pause. “But you’re not not together, either.”

  Which pretty much summed things up.

  “Is he there?” she asked.

  It was a reasonable question. Ted had spent the last few months hanging around San Francisco whenever he wasn’t contractually obligated to be somewhere else. Hanging around in a suite at the Ritz, I should underscore. Not in the little guest house behind Robbie’s second home a few blocks from the Palace, where I was staying until I found a place of my own.

  “Here in the city? I think so. But here in the theater? No.” Only because I’d banned him. He’d spent the holidays flashing his megawatt smile at the customers and charming the staff with his movie st
ar anecdotes. I had found this enormously irritating. I already knew he was charming. But he was also a lot of other things and I didn’t need everyone looking at me like I was crazy for not instantly taking him back.

  “What are you going to do?” Robbie asked.

  “Well,” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “The first show starts in forty-five minutes. I think I’ll go make some popcorn and watch it.”

  “Good plan,” she said. “A movie is always a good idea. You can do some good thinking in the dark.”

  “Right.” Especially while watching this particular movie. From 1930, staring Robert Montgomery and a completely unleashed Norma Shearer. The Divorcee.

  Chapter 2

  I didn’t make the popcorn after all. By the time I headed back down to the lobby the rest of the Palace team had arrived and everything was humming along. Their smooth efficiency never failed to surprise me, especially since the main team, in addition to Callie, consisted of a high school student, a nonagenarian, and the grumpiest man who had ever run a projector.

  I knew the projectionist was in because he had blared his opening salvo, the drum-and-trumpet fanfare of the 20th Century Fox overture, through the sound system upon entering the theater. It was Marty’s signature, how he started every day, and the way it rattled the coffee cups didn’t bother me anymore.

  “Hey, everyone,” I greeted them from the stairs.

  “Do not start with me.” Marty was slumped on a stool behind the concessions stand, an unshaven tower of flannel and corduroy slurping down a soft drink and reading a newspaper. An actual newspaper. A paper paper. He claimed to prefer them simply on their luddite merits, but I suspected what he really liked was the ease with which he could hide behind the pages.