MY FAIR LATTE Read online

  “Chill out. Things couldn’t be going better. I heard a bunch of people talking about how much they were looking forward to the movie, and how awesome the theater looks,” Kendra said.

  Marco poured some champagne for us.

  We chinked our champagne flutes. The bubbly must have tickled Kendra’s nose because she let out two rapid-fire sneezes.”

  “Bless you,” I said in unison with Trudy.

  “Thank you,” Kendra said, followed by a hiccup.

  Maybe I should keep tabs on her alcohol intake.

  Bart joined us. “We’ve got almost a sell-out crowd,” he announced, beaming.

  “Wow. Here, Bart, have some champagne,” I said.

  He lifted his glass and said, “Cheers to the new impresario of Utopia Springs.”

  I may have blushed just a little.

  As soon as the intermission card went up on the screen, customers streamed into the lobby. I had pretty steady business with coffee orders, but Marco was definitely getting more customers—especially for the champagne.

  Most people were making their way back into the theater when George stepped behind the bar and said he needed to have a word with me.

  “We have a problem,” George said in a hushed tone.

  “What is it?”

  “During intermission I did a walk-through of the auditorium to see if there were any spills that needed cleaning up. This one guy was asleep in his chair with his head tilted back. He didn’t move, even when a couple of people crawled over him to get back to their seats, so I went to check on him, thinking he had passed out drunk. I shook him, and even gave him a discreet little slap, but he didn’t respond.”

  “Should we call a doctor?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t help. He doesn’t have a pulse.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I called 911 and George said he’d go back in the theater to discreetly make sure no one disturbed the bod—um, indisposed customer until the police arrived. I ran up to the projection room to explain our situation to Delores and tell her and not to start the film. To stall until the police arrived, I told a little white lie, and announced we were having some issues with the projector and asked customers for their patience.

  Within minutes, one uniformed officer along with a plainclothes detective arrived, and an ambulance with flashing lights, but no sirens, pulled up behind them. The detective and one of the EMTs slipped into the auditorium. I told them George Mayfield could point out the deceased. After confirming the man was dead, the detective came back into the lobby.

  “I’ll go to the stage down front and make an announcement,” he said. Then he instructed the uniformed officer: “You make sure no one leaves the building, and call for back-up. We’ll need it to take statements.”

  The uniformed officer was Susie Stoneface, the one who had been remarkably unhelpful when I reported the green spray paint assault on the theater.

  I stood in the back of the auditorium, waiting, as my nerves evolved into nausea. People turned and looked questioningly up at the projector window.

  In a moment their heads turned to the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please. I’m Detective Stedman with the Utopia Springs Police Department. I’m sorry to have to interrupt your movie, but unfortunately a member of the audience has died.”

  A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd.

  “Most likely it was natural causes, but until we can establish what happened I need your cooperation. For the moment, I’d like everyone to stay in their seats, except for people in the last three rows on this side,” he said motioning. “If folks in those rows would please make your way to the lobby, officers will begin taking statements. If any of you sitting elsewhere in the theater saw anything that struck you as unusual, please make your way to the lobby, as well. For the rest of you, we will be passing around clipboards to get your name and contact information. Thank you.”

  Additional cops soon arrived and snapped a few photos. The deceased, who had been loaded onto a gurney by the EMTs, was rolled out of the theater, covered by a sheet. They stopped in the lobby just before exiting through the front doors. I saw a gloved officer check the man’s pockets, collecting a wallet and keys and other small items, and dropping them into a bag, before the paramedics took him out to the ambulance and presumably on to the morgue.

  “Should we offer refunds since people didn’t get to watch the second half?” I asked.

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Marco said. “Offer rain checks instead of refunds.”

  “Smart thinking,” George said.

  I walked over to the lobby seating area and loitered in Detective Stedman’s peripheral vision. He finished his conversation and turned to me.

  “What is it Ms. Greer?”

  “Are the people in the theater free to leave after they’ve written their information on the clipboard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I’m going to announce that customers can pick up a rain check for a free show on their way out.”

  After I made the announcement I hurried back to the ticket booth and grabbed a roll of green tickets and took them to the bar.

  “Here, everyone, take some of these and write ‘ON’ on them for ‘opening night.’ We’re going to hand these out as rain checks to anyone who asks, along with our apologies.”

  People began leaving as the officers checked off their names on the list from each row. I’d guess less than half of the customers requested a rain check. But that’s likely because the others weren’t going to be in Utopia Springs for very long.

  After the cops had finished with statements from anyone who had something to say, Officer Stone and another cop came over and asked Trudy and Kendra to come with them.

  “Ms. Greer, do you have an office or someplace you and I can have a chat?” Detective Stedman asked.

  “Sure, the office is right this way,” I said.

  “Mr. Mayfield and Mr. Carvello I’d like to talk with each of you next,” he said.

  Clearly George and Marco and I were getting special attention.

  Inside the office, the detective sat down in my desk chair and invited me to take a seat in the smaller side chair. He obviously wanted to assume the superior position.

  Does the name Vince Dalton ring any bells to you?”

  “No, I don’t remember anyone by that name. Why?”

  He ignored my question and moved on.

  He showed me a driver’s license photo. “Ms. Greer, do you recall ever seeing the deceased before tonight?”

  “No, but I haven’t lived in Utopia Springs very long. And I’ve been spending almost all my time inside the theater the last few weeks getting things ready for opening night.”

  “Do you remember if he ordered any food or drink from the bar?”

  “I don’t recall serving him, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t. It was really busy.”

  “I see. Did anyone lodge a complaint with you tonight—about anything?”

  “No. Wait, yes. One lady informed us that one of the stalls in the ladies’ room was out of toilet paper. Trudy went in and refilled it.”

  “Did you have any more vandalism after the broken window and spray paint incident?”

  “No. If we had, I would have reported it. Not that the police seemed very concerned the first time.”

  “I assure you the department is concerned about vandalism, thefts, or any crimes committed in Utopia Springs. There isn’t always a lot we can do about it.”

  “Anything else you can think of you’d like to tell me, or that you should tell me, Ms. Greer?”

  He stared at me as if he thought his eyes were lie detectors. I stared back as if I thought he was a jerk.

  After a long moment I replied, “N
o.”

  “Ask George Mayfield to join me, please,” he said, dismissing me.

  I relayed the message to George. Officer Stoneface was interviewing Trudy, and another cop was talking to Kendra. Marco was behind the bar, cleaning up. Bart and Joe, who had already been interviewed, were handing out rain checks to the last of the customers.

  Trudy finished her interview and joined me at the bar. A moment later, George walked back into the lobby, and Marco headed to the office for his interview.

  When Kendra had finished her interview, she came over to me. Joe was just a few steps behind her.

  “Halley, I know you’re bummed out about opening night getting shut down. But none of the customers can blame you for some guy dying, even if it was inconvenient,” Kendra said.

  “Right,” Joe chimed in. “And the good news is, most of the people were tourists who will be gone in a couple of days. Next weekend we’ll have a whole new crop of tourists and they won’t know anything about what happened tonight.”

  “Good point. Thanks.”

  Marco rejoined us at the bar, the detective strolled in behind him, flipping through his little notebook and scanning over his notes. He stopped beside the coffee bar.

  “Goodnight. I’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

  He and the other cops left, and I locked the door behind them. My shoulders slumped forward as I leaned my back against the door and let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Hey, does anyone know if Delores is still upstairs?” I asked, worried what effect the stress of a dead customer might have on my elderly projectionist.

  “No, she gave her statement and asked the detective if she could go ahead and leave,” George said.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” I said.

  I looked at my beautiful band of friends, feeling much gratitude. It had been a doozy of a night, and Delores was the only one getting paid.

  “Guys, it turned out to be a rough night due to circumstances beyond our control. But y’all were amazing. Opening night, and with a big crowd, but everyone here played their parts beautifully. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And Joe pointed out that by next weekend most of tonight’s customers will have gone back to wherever they came from and we’ll have a new crop of tourists with no knowledge of tonight’s proceedings. It’s getting late, why don’t all of you go home and I’ll finish cleaning up in the morning.”

  “Why don’t we all stay and drink some of this champagne we didn’t get to enjoy during intermission,” Trudy said.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Bart added as he grabbed a bottle and started filling flutes while Marco lined them up on the counter. They were plastic, disposable champagne flutes I’d purchased for opening night. But they were still festive, as well as practical.

  We took our champagne and plopped down on the loveseats and plump chairs in the lounge area of the lobby.

  “The detective asked if I remembered serving the dead guy, as if I could remember everyone who ordered tonight in a theater full of people,” I said.

  “I always remember people who spend a lot of money in the gallery. Their faces look like Benjamin Franklins to me,” George said.

  “Do you know if the dead guy was a local or a tourist?” I asked.

  They collectively agreed they didn’t recognize him.

  “I don’t remember seeing him. Probably a tourist,” George said.

  “Good,” I said, heaving a short sigh of relief.

  “Why is that good?” George asked.

  “Since most people are killed by someone they know, it makes it less likely that it’s foul play and less chance that the cops will suspect any of us,” Kendra chimed in.

  “She likes to watch those true crime shows on The History Channel,” Bart explained.

  “Most likely he just had a heart attack,” George said. “We didn’t hear or see anything weird happen in the theater, and I got up close and personal with the guy and didn’t see any signs of injury.”

  “Wait. Kendra mentioned that most people are killed by someone they know. Even if he’s a tourist, he could have been killed by his family or whoever he’s traveling with,” Bart pointed out.

  “Why would you go on vacation with somebody you wanted to kill?” George said.

  “Maybe they didn’t want to kill him before they left on vacation,” I offered. “We had some family road trips where I know my dad had to be having murderous thoughts, what with my mom’s constant complaining.”

  “In this case, I think George is right. It was most likely a heart attack or aneurysm or something like that,” Trudy said.

  After a final toast to the continued success of the Star Movie Palace, Kendra and Bart left to help Simon close up at the escape rooms. Joe took off to check on closing at the restaurant, and Marco said his goodnights, as well.

  “Halley, I know I gave you some flack about it, but you made a wise decision going with just the Saturday night opener and forgoing the Sunday matinee this first weekend,” George said.

  “Thanks, George. I wanted to have time to regroup and fix any problems or technical glitches we might encounter with the first run. I never imagined this kind of problem coming up.”

  “You handled everything like a pro,” Trudy said, leaning over and wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “The coffee and wine service went smoothly. And it was a sharp public relations move to offer rain checks, even though events were clearly out of your control.”

  “Leon woulda been proud of you, kid,” George said.

  A couple of stray tears may have escaped despite my best efforts to hold them back.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sunday morning, I got busy with the less than glamorous, but necessary job of cleaning the ladies’ room of the Star Movie Palace. After wiping down the toilet seats and swishing the bowls with cleanser, I mopped my way out of the lavatory and sat down for a minute in the adjoining ladies’ lounge, a throwback to a more glamorous era. The only thing this area required during renovations was to replace a cracked mirror and lay new carpet. The gold and cream vinyl upholstery on the padded high-back seats lining one side of the lounge was in near-mint condition. Opposite this seating area, a counter lined with lighted mirrors served as a perfect spot for women to check their hairdo and put on a fresh coat of lipstick. When the theater opened in the 1920s, no doubt the counter would have been stocked with Bakelite ashtrays.

  I yawned. It had been a late night by the time the police finished questioning us and the ambulance had taken our recently deceased patron away. Maybe I should’ve accepted Kendra’s or George and Trudy’s offer to sleep on their sofa. But I certainly wasn’t afraid to sleep in my own apartment because some guy had a heart attack in the theater.

  I guess it was selfish of me, but it would’ve been nice if he had waited until he got home to drop dead. His untimely death had cast a pall on what had been shaping up to be a fabulous opening night for the Star Movie Palace. I figured I was entitled to treat myself to at least a modest pity party.

  After cleaning the men’s room—cleaning urinals was a new experience—and vacuuming the lobby, I walked to the deli down the street and purchased a club sandwich and a bottled water to go. On the way back to the theater, I passed a newspaper rack and noticed the word “theater” emblazoned on the front of the local paper. I dropped some of the change I’d just received at the deli in the coin slot and retrieved a copy of the Sunday edition of the Utopia Springs Sentinel—all eight pages of it.

  The headline read, “Man Found Dead in Theater on Opening Night.”

  I wondered how they’d managed to get this story in the morning paper when it just happened last night. Apparently, a random death is stop-the-presses kind of news in Utopia Springs.

  Great. Just the kind of publicity I don’t need.

  I was considering buying some ice cream for my newly-revived pity party when
I spotted a photograph in the story.

  It was a picture of the deceased, Vince Dalton. But it wasn’t the tiny driver’s license photo the detective had shown me, which like most DMV photos, looked nothing like him. I hadn’t seen the victim last night, except when he was rolled through the lobby on a gurney with a sheet covering him.

  However, I did recognize the picture on the front page of the newspaper. It was the same man I’d seen staring at me through the front doors earlier on the night the theater was vandalized.

  I quickly read to the end of the not-so-well-written news story. They had buried the lead.

  The last paragraph stated, “A source close to the investigation, on the condition of anonymity, told the Sentinel that police have reason to suspect the victim did not die of natural causes.”

  I dragged myself up to the apartment and stuck the club sandwich in the fridge, having just lost my appetite and developed a headache in its place. I washed an aspirin down with the bottled water.

  I read through the story again, thinking there must be some mistake. It implied he had been murdered, but no one could have killed a man in a crowded theater without being noticed. And George would’ve seen any obvious wounds. Maybe the newspaper reporter was just making up the anonymous source thing to spice up his Page One story. I was about to call George and ask him what he thought, when my phone rang. It was Sergeant somebody or other asking very nicely if I’d come down to the station to answer a few questions.

  The polite invitation to the police station was the last cordial word I heard for the next three hours.

  After they finally said I could leave, I walked home and went straight upstairs, grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, collapsed in the recliner and gazed up at the deer head, who offered no comfort. I wished Eartha Kitty was around to cuddle, but her comings and goings were strictly on her own terms.

  After a few swigs I checked my cell phone and listened to a voicemail from Trudy asking if I’d seen the newspaper.